Page 4 of Sold to the Bratva
If I’m ever going to live the life I want, I have to stop this marriage before it starts.
2
ISAAC
Oleg Grinkov wants a meeting. I don’t know what he has planned. My men act as if my death warrant is already stamped, some even swearing their mothers will light candles for me at Mass. They’re right to be uneasy, yet I doubt Oleg would summon me just to pull the trigger. Men like him prefer a stage.
Sergei Grinkov, his father, once ordered an entire wedding party burned alive just to make a point. I shook that bastard’s hand years ago, and it took every ounce of control not to crush his bones. Now he’s gone, dead of a heart attack in his sleep. Every account calls it a peaceful passing. Cowardly, if you ask me. A man like him deserved a hail of bullets, not a warm blanket.
Oleg, the son, now occupies thepakhan’schair, and the whispers have already started. They say he’s smarter, more ambitious, maybe even deadlier than his father. Methodical to the core, he never moves without plotting five steps ahead. Whatever this meeting is, it’s strategic.
It’s a move, a test, maybe even a trap. Still, I agree because curiosity gets the better of me. After all, you can’t say no to the devil when he knocks. You can only choose how you’ll greet him.
I pour a glass of vodka and take a slow sip while I wait behind my desk. The liquor burns, though not enough. I need something stronger to get through this meeting. My shoulders bunch beneath the silk of my shirt, muscles coiled since the moment Oleg’s request landed on my desk. I don’t expect an olive branch, so I have to be ready for a fight if one breaks out.
The door swings open without a knock. Only one man has that privilege. Mikhail, my second-in-command, strolls in, loose-limbed and confident, sleeves rolled to the elbows and a grin that treats all this as mildly inconvenient rather than potentially catastrophic.
“You look like you’re preparing for war,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me.
“Aren’t I?” I ask, giving him a flat look.
“Hopefully not,” he jokes, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing that vein in your neck pop again. It’s been a while.”
I don’t smile. I don’t need to. Mikhail’s known me since we were seventeen. He can read the twitch in my jaw like a book.
“Do you trust him?” I ask.
He snorts. “Do I trust a Grinkov? That’s a stupid question. That’s like asking if I trust a rabid dog not to bite.”
“I agree,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Still, something about this feels different. I can’t explain it, but the wind has shifted.”
Mikhail studies me for a moment. “In a way, itisdifferent,” he says. “Oleg’s not Sergei, he didn’t grow up drowning puppies for fun. The guy’s calculating. When his father died, he made no move on us, no power plays, no territory grabs. That tells me he’s either playing the long game or trying something new.”
“Like peace?” I wonder.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But it could all be a ruse to set you up for something.”
I swirl the vodka in my glass. “Either way, we could be walking into something unexpected,” I say.
Mikhail nods, face suddenly serious. He pats the weapon at his hip, his favorite sidearm. “So we keep our heads down and our guns close.”
Two sharp, precise taps rattle the door. I glance at my watch. Oleg is exactly on time, neither early nor late.
“They’re here,” Mikhail says, pushing to his feet to let our guests in.
I rise, smooth out the sleeves of my jacket, and button the front. It’s not vanity, it’s armor. If I’m going to be forced into a room with men who may want to slit my throat, I’m going to make damn sure I look like the one holding the knife.
Mikhail hovers by the door, waiting for my nod of approval. “Showtime.”
My guests stride in as if they own the place. Oleg Grinkov leads, all swagger and smooth lines, his tailored suit as black as his soul. He has his father’s eyes but not his grin. When he smiles, it’s a wolfish display that shows teeth rather than charm.
Viktor Belov trails after him, quieter and more calculating. He’s the one I watch most closely. Nothing about him is loud or flashy. He’s silent, efficient, deadly, a viper ready to strike without warning. Today his posture is unusually formal.
Oleg tilts his head. “Isaac,” he says, already claiming the room. “Thank you for having us.”
I gesture to the chairs across from my desk. “I like to see trouble coming before it bites me in the ass.”
Oleg laughs as though I’ve told a joke. “Then I guess I’ll have to prove I’m not trouble anymore,” he says, his tone almost sincere. I don’t buy it for a second.
