Page 71 of Bratva Bride
Behind us, the stylists wait in uneasy silence, holding their silks and sparkles between them like shields.
Nadya finally looks away, shoulders stiff, her voice a low growl. “This isn’t over.”
“No,” I say quietly, “it’s not.”
21
NADYA
They leaveme with three rolling racks of evening gowns—satin, sequins, high-neck elegance clearly chosen to make me look safe and respectable beside the Bratva king.
Exactly what he wants.
I thumb past navy and silver until my fingers land on something that absolutely does not fit the brief—crimson silk that gleams like fresh blood, cut on the bias so it will cling to every line of my body. The neckline plunges to the base of my sternum, the back scoops low enough to bare the dimples above my hips, and one slit—high, scandalous—runs nearly to my waist. No sleeves, no bra, just thin spaghetti straps and audacity. Perfect.
The stylists trade uneasy glances, but I slip into it anyway, ignoring their murmured offers of something more modest. I add onyx stilettos with razor-thin straps and drag a tube of red-black lipstick across my mouth. When I meet my own gaze in the mirror, my pulse is hammering—part nerves, part satisfaction. If Konstantin wants a show of unity, he’s getting my version.
I step into the hallway. He’s waiting with Viktor and Maksim, already in a charcoal suit, knife-sharp. Conversation dies the instant they see me.
Konstantin’s eyes flick down—one quick, involuntary sweep that darkens with heat and irritation before he schools his features blank again. Anyone else would miss it. I don’t.
“Bold choice,” he says evenly. The muscle in his jaw betrays him.
“I thought you’d appreciate honesty,” I answer, lifting my chin.
Before the air can crack open, Mila rushes out from a side room, dress shoes tapping. He catches her hand. “You’re riding with us, malyshka.”
My stomach knots. “Konstantin, a party full of strangers isn’t?—”
“She stays where I can see her,” he interrupts, voice steel. “No safer place tonight than by my side.”
I bite back the argument.
I wonder, not for the first time, what Arman must be thinking right now. Is he worried? Has Rifat gone back to the safe house to find it empty, panic crawling up his spine? Does my father know I’ve vanished—has the news reached him yet, and if so, what will he do? Would they risk something drastic to get me back, or have I burned through the last of their patience?
The thought gnaws at me. For all our secrets and shifting loyalties, I know one thing—they won’t stand by forever. If they believe I’m in danger, they’ll make noise, draw lines, maybe even force Konstantin’s hand. I don’t know if that terrifies me more for myself, or for Mila.
Mila looks up, sensing my unease. I smooth her hair, force a small smile. “Stay close to me, okay?”
She nods, and I let Konstantin lead us out, the silk of my dress whispering with each step, daring anyone watching to underestimate me.
The car glides away from the curb, city lights flickering past, everything outside the tinted windows turning strange and far away. Mila sits quietly between us, her hand clutched tight in mine, her gaze fixed on the sparkling skyline. I keep my attention on Konstantin, refusing to let the silence grow heavy enough to smother me.
I clear my throat, keeping my tone casual but pointed. “Where are we going, exactly? What kind of party is this?”
Konstantin watches the street for a moment, jaw working. At last he turns, meets my eyes. “Penthouse ballroom of the Volkov Hotel,” he says. “Officially it’s a fundraiser—new children’s oncology wing. Unofficially it’s a gathering of every power broker who wants to measure whether I’m still the man to bet on.”
“Bratva bosses?”
“A handful. A couple of city councilors, three judges, two foreign investors, and a generous scattering of journalists who know which stories keep them breathing.” His gaze lingers on my dress. “Tonight is about optics. They need to see family unity after the mess at the pier and the whispers about Alexei’s woman.”
“So Mila and I are exhibits.”
“You’re my wife and my daughter,” he corrects, voice quiet but immovable. “Your presence says no one can reach what matters most to me. And the dress”—his mouth tilts, half-wry, half-hungry—“tells every man in the room I’m still willing to take risks they aren’t.”
I bite back a reply. Mila traces patterns on the seat between us, oblivious to the currents swirling over her head.
I smooth a hand over her curls and look at him again. “Security?”
