Page 10 of Bratva Bride
A flicker of surprise, then genuine warmth, crossed her features. "Yes, miss. They are. Thank you for remembering." She curtsied, a gesture so ingrained it was automatic, and slipped out of the room as quietly as she'd entered.
I took a sip of the tea, the warmth a small comfort against the cold dread of my father's demands. It was a small thing, remembering a housekeeper's grandchildren. But in a house where people were treated as assets, small acknowledgments of humanity were the only currency that mattered. I turned back tomy analysis, the quiet kindness a temporary shield against the brutality I was about to document.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, producing lies that looked like truth. Twenty-seven pages complete in forty-two minutes. The analysis my father wanted, wrapped in probability matrices and behavioral models that would make any intelligence officer weep with envy.
The Volkovs: Three brothers bound by shared trauma and mutual dependence. Alexei, the eldest, the Pakhan—controlled to the point of pathology. Every decision calculated, every move strategic. Weakness: his protective instincts toward his younger brothers. Threat to them would destabilize his judgment. Dmitry, the middle, the enforcer—brutal but predictable. Driven by rage he barely contained. Weakness: his temper made him easy to manipulate. Ivan, the youngest, the strategist—brilliant but lonely. Weakness: his isolation made him vulnerable to unexpected variables.
I'd identified fourteen pressure points my father could exploit. Their legitimate construction business that laundered their money. The federal investigation hovering at their periphery. The death of their grandmother that had fractured something in Ivan—intelligence suggested he blamed himself, though the details were unclear.
I typed faster. The Kozlovs were easier to predict—brutal, straightforward, driven by greed more than strategy. They'd use the chaos to grab territory, demand a bigger cut of the port operations, threaten violence if they didn't get it. Sergei Kozlov had the strategic intelligence of a rabid dog but the same dangerous unpredictability. He'd killed his own uncle over a perceived slight. My father would need to either buy him off or eliminate him.
The Sokolovs wanted stability. Old guard bratva who remembered when the families worked together instead oftearing each other apart. They'd push for peace, for traditional solutions. Marriage alliances. Territory agreements. The kinds of arrangements that had kept the peace for
The Beskharovs remained wild cards. New players, hungry, willing to take risks the established families wouldn't. They'd been quiet since the bombing, which meant they were planning something. Or they were responsible for it. The analysis suggested 34% probability they'd planted the bomb to destabilize the other families.
My fingers moved with mechanical precision while my mind counted down to freedom. Each paragraph brought me closer to 2:17 PM. Each perfectly crafted sentence was another step toward the maintenance gate.
"What?"
My father's voice drifted up through the air vent. His office sat directly below my bedroom—a design flaw in the hundred-year-old mansion that had become my greatest intelligence asset. I'd learned to decode his entire operation through that vent. Learned which guards were loyal and which could be bribed. Learned when shipments arrived and when bodies disappeared.
He was on the phone, speaking rapid Russian. The words were muffled but clear enough. I stopped typing. Held my breath.
"Da, the Council meeting. Noon. All five families will be there."
Silence. The other person speaking.
"The Volkovs want blood for the bombing. But I—" He paused. “Interesting. They requested that?”
More silence.
“Yes. Of course. She is. She’s a virgin.”
The words hit like physical blows. I couldn't breathe.
A virgin? Was he talking about me?
“Of course. She’ll be there. Goodbye.”
I bit down on my hand. Hard. Tasted copper as my teeth broke skin. The pain cut through the panic just enough to keepme conscious. I counted prime numbers in Russian and English simultaneously.
I looked at the go-bag hidden in the air vent. Looked at my laptop showing the nearly complete analysis. Looked at my hands, bleeding where I'd bitten down to stop the screaming trapped in my throat.
The door opened without warning.
My father filled the doorway, his gray suit immaculate, his silver hair precisely styled, his pale blue eyes assessing me with the same cold calculation he'd use on a spreadsheet. Behind him stood Yevgeny and Maksim—the guards whose shift change created my escape window.
"You're attending the Council meeting." Not a question. Never a question with him.
My hand throbbed where I'd bitten it. Blood had dripped onto my keyboard—three drops between the G and H keys. I watched them instead of looking at my father.
"Wear the red dress," he continued. "The one I bought last month. Be ready in thirty minutes."
The red Valentino. Four thousand dollars of silk and sophisticated tailoring that his assistant had selected, had delivered, had hung in my closet like a prophecy. I'd never worn it. Never wanted to. It was the kind of dress you wore to be seen, to be displayed, to be evaluated.
To be sold.
My world tilted off its axis. Every calculation I'd made, every pattern I'd identified, every variable I'd controlled—none of it mattered if I wasn't here at 2:17 PM. If I was sitting in some Council meeting in Manhattan while Yevgeny took his cigarette break and Maksim processed the shift change and my window opened and closed without me.
