Page 5 of Sold to the Bratva
“I’ll believe that when you walk in without an escort.” I nod toward Viktor.
“Fair enough.” He grins. “I didn’t bring Viktor as an escort tonight, however. We have a proposition to discuss.”
Viktor sits without a word. His eyes land on me, flick to Mikhail, then settle back on Oleg. He’s a trained dog waiting for direction from his master.
Mikhail mirrors my stillness, arms loose on the chair, eyes roaming the room like a predator’s. The smile is gone. That’s his don’t-fuck-with-us face, one he’s perfected over the years.
Oleg lifts the glass of Scotch waiting for him and takes a sip. Naturally, he had the nerve to ask for drinks, and naturally, I had them poured. It’s a power dance, and we all know the steps. After a beat, he leans forward and sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“I’ll get right to it,” he says, his tone almost jovial.
I say nothing. I just wait. If this is war disguised as peace, I want to hear every lie before I draw my blade.
“I know there has been a lot of bad blood between us in recent years,” Oleg says, his voice like silk, “but after my father’s death, I’m looking to right some of his wrongs.”
He pauses, letting his words hang in the air for a moment like incense. They’re meant to soothe us into complacency, to distract from the scent of smoke beneath.
“And to do that,” he continues, not waiting for our input, “Viktor has kindly offered his daughter, Katya, to be your wife. To link our families in a way that ensures peace.”
For a full second, I think I’ve misheard him, but as the words echo in my head I realize I haven’t. He’s offering Viktor’s daughter to be my wife. Preposterous. The silence that follows is thick, almost suffocating, and for a moment I don’t know how to respond.
Mikhail’s gaze snaps to me, sharp and immediate, but I don’t return it. My focus stays on Oleg, whose smile never wavers. It’s as though he’s offered me territory or a ticket to Coney Island, not a bride. Is it really so easy for him to treat people like objects? It’s unsettling.
I set my glass down with deliberate calm and fold my hands on the desk. “You’re offering me your daughter,” I repeat flatly, looking at Viktor.
Viktor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. “She’s not a child,” Oleg answers for him, still trying to sound persuasive. “She’s twenty-two, beautiful, intelligent, loyal. Viktor has groomed her to understand this world and her place in it. She’ll make a fine wife.”
A pulse ticks in my jaw. He’s rattling off her attributes as though she’s a show dog, a product. To him she’s a bargaining chip, and I can’t help wondering whether she’s had any say in this arrangement.
What unsettles me even more is Viktor himself, sitting there composed, silent, completely at ease. Oleg used the word grooming. Viktor has raised his daughter to be some man’s possession, all to strengthen the Grinkov Bratva. That kind of blind devotion isn’t ordinary loyalty, it borders on psychosis.
“You’re serious,” I finally say, still half waiting for the punchline.
Oleg’s smile is patient. “I am.”
“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “Your solution to end years of bloodshed is marriage to a girl half my age.”
Oleg shrugs. “Sometimes the old ways are the most effective.”
“And what does Katya think about this?” I can’t help but ask.
Viktor answers without hesitation. “She understands her duty.”
Duty. That word again, a leash men like him fasten to a woman’s neck and call it honor. I want to say no. I want them out of this room before the conversation goes any further. But then the door opens, and the woman herself walks in. Every doubt I have about this arrangement crumbles to dust at my feet. Katya Belova is certainly a beauty.
Long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in soft waves, and emerald eyes glint beneath long, curled lashes. A deep burgundy silk dress clings to all the right places. But it isn’t only her stark beauty that pulls me in. There’s defiance in the way she moves, the lift of her chin, the subtle tension in her jaw. She’s furious, and she’s stunning. I’m suddenly, utterly intrigued.
For a moment, no one speaks. She doesn’t look at me, not yet. Her attention locks on her father, gaze hard and unyielding. Then her eyes glide to Oleg, and finally to me. When they do, the entire world goes quiet.
Every part of her screams,I do not want this. I will not make this easy. I am not your prize.And every part of me responds to that fire with something primal and dangerous.
This could be a setup or a honey trap. Knowing Oleg, it’s probably a ploy to earn my trust only to sink a knife between my ribs later. But my first instinct when I look at her isn’t suspicion, it’s possession and protection. I want her. I want to claim her and make her mine, to take her away from that monster of a father. And that’s a problem.
I don’t let desire drive my decisions. I never did as a young man, and I certainly haven’t in the seven years I’ve ruled the Kozlov Bratva. Still, a small voice whispers that this could be a smart move. She clearly hates her father for forcing her into this, and I could use that against him. At least that’s the excuse I cling to, pretending it’s more than lust urging me to say yes.
Katya takes three deliberate steps into the room. Her heels click against the floor in a steady rhythm of defiance. She doesn’t sit, curtsy, or offer a greeting. Instead, she looks straight at me, green eyes blazing, and says, “I’m going to make your life hell.”
Her words hit like gunfire, and I do something I haven’t done in a very long time.
