Page 1 of Bratva Bride
1
NADYA
I walkinto the room like I belong here. And maybe I do, now that I’ve lost everything that used to make me human. The stilettos help. So does the silence.
My heels strike the marble floor with deliberate force, each step echoing across the ornate hall like the tick of a bomb. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Cigars lower. I catch a glimpse of gold teeth glinting between parted lips, wide eyes behind tinted glasses. They didn’t expect me to show.
They definitely didn’t expect me to show likethis.
There are whispers. Not loud, but constant, like the scrape of knives just beneath the tablecloths.
Konstantin walks beside me, a step behind, black suit pressed sharp as the cane he leans on. His injuries aren’t enough to slow him, but the cane serves its own purpose—it tells them he was in the fire and made it out. That whatever tried to kill him failed. That he’s still dangerous, maybe even more so now.
He doesn’t say a word, not yet. His silence feels heavier than mine. Like he’s waiting for the room to breathe before he decides who gets to keep breathing.
It’s been a week since the massacre.
A week since Irina died with a knife in her chest, whispering my name through bloodied lips.
A week since Lev took three bullets trying to protect us.
A week since my wedding dress, stitched in silk and dreams, went up in flames along with the bodies of our friends.
A week since Nikolai vanished from under our noses, stolen by a ghost I can’t trace, no matter how many people I shake down or how many files Konstantin and I pore over at three in the morning, too wired to sleep, too broken to stop.
And Mila…Mila hasn’t smiled once. Her laugh, the one that used to echo through the halls like music, is gone. Replaced by silence, shadows, and the sound of her dragging her teddy bear from room to room like she’s guarding a grave.
They think this meeting is aboutorder. Aboutrebuilding.
What they don’t realize is that we didn’t come here to rebuild.
We came to burn what’s left.
Ornate chandeliers hang heavy overhead, their golden light barely softening the hard lines of the men below. The walls are hung with oil paintings of men who have long since turned to dust, their watchful eyes making promises no one here intends to keep. The table is long, wide enough for a war council, littered with cut crystal, silver trays, and bottles of vodka that glint like liquid ice.
Every seat is filled—syndicate heads, their lieutenants, the old guard in immaculate suits and younger men still eager for blood. I can feel the tension radiating from their postures.
I’m still standing behind Konstantin’s chair when a voice cuts through the low rumble—a nasal tone, edged with disapproval and just enough bravado to sound braver than it is.
“And your wife…” He doesn’t bother hiding the sneer, doesn’t look at me when he says it, as if acknowledging me directly would give me too much ground. “Is this a family gathering now? We have rules, Konstantin.”
The words hang in the air, slick with old misogyny and new threat. I can feel several pairs of eyes dart my way—some eager for a fight, some just desperate to keep the peace. I stay where I am, hands loose at my sides, letting the question rot on the table.
Konstantin doesn’t hesitate. His voice is calm but cold, a warning wrapped in velvet. “She stays.”
A flicker of tension passes around the table, but before it can settle, Malenkov leans in, voice oily and falsely sympathetic. “You’re not in a position to make demands, Konstantin. Not after what has happened.”
I feel the eyes turning, waiting for weakness, for Konstantin to back down, for me to slip.
But I step forward, refusing to let him bear the brunt of their malice alone. I let my gaze sweep over the men at the table, each of them silent now, their curiosity tangled with suspicion.
“I was there. Maybe you’d like to hear the story from someone who actually survived the night, instead of listening to rumors from men who waited it out in hiding.”
The room stills. Every face turns to me, some openly hostile, others wary, a few almost impressed.
An old man near the center—his hair thin, his jaw trembling with outrage—goes red, shaking with indignation. “Don’t,” he says, his voice cracking, as if the telling itself might shatter what little dignity this room still has.
But I ignore him. I let my words cut through the silence, careful and deliberate, refusing to look away.
