Page 30 of Bratva Bride
My father stood eventually, tapping his glass for attention. The hall quieted. Everyone turned to watch Viktor Morozov give the father-of-the-bride speech.
"Today we celebrate unity," he began, his voice carrying that particular false warmth he used for public appearances. "Two families, once divided, now joined through the marriage of my beloved daughter Anya to Ivan Volkov."
Beloved daughter. I wanted to laugh. Or vomit. Hard to tell which.
"The Morozov and Volkov organizations have both benefited from this alliance," he continued. "And we'll continue to benefit as our families work together toward common goals. Tradition matters. Honor matters. And today, we honor tradition by strengthening bonds between our houses."
He raised his glass. "To Anya and Ivan. May their marriage be fruitful and their loyalty unwavering."
Everyone drank. The champagne tasted like ashes in my mouth.
Alexei stood next. Taller than my father. More presence even though his voice was quieter. When he spoke, people leaned in to listen.
"Family means everything to the Volkovs," he said simply. "We protect our own. We care for our own. And as of today, Anya is our own. She's not just Ivan's wife—she's my sister. Dmitry's sister. Part of our brotherhood."
His ice-blue eyes found mine across the hall. "Welcome to the family, Anya. You're safe here. Always."
The words should have been comforting. Should have meant something. But all I could think was: Alexei wanted to debrief me. Wanted my intelligence, my skills, my value. Safe meant useful. Protected meant productive.
Still. His speech was better than my father's. At least Alexei acknowledged I was human.
The food appeared—course after course that I couldn't eat. My stomach was knotted too tight. I pushed things around my plate. Cut my chicken into smaller and smaller pieces. Rearranged my vegetables. Performed eating without actually consuming anything.
Ivan noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand found mine under the table again. Four seconds. Then gone.
Are you okay? his touch asked.
No, my pulse answered against his fingers.
I smiled at another round of congratulations from people whose names I'd already forgotten. Nodded at toasts from Dmitry about brotherhood and loyalty. Accepted well-wishes from distant relatives who looked at me like they were trying to figure out my breeding value.
Then two Clara and Eva appeared at Ivan's elbow, and something in the air shifted.
Clara moved with quiet confidence in her forest-green dress, shoulders back, chin up, like she'd claimed her space and wouldn't apologize for occupying it. Eva was softer somehow, lavender silk and genuine warmth in her smile, but there wassteel underneath. You didn't survive marrying into the bratva without developing an iron core.
"Alexei," Clara said, her hand finding her husband's shoulder briefly. The touch was casual. Comfortable. The kind of intimacy that came from actually knowing someone. "We'd like to steal the bride for a moment."
It wasn't a request. Not really. Clara Volkov asking her pakhan husband if she could do something was just her being polite. She'd already decided.
"Of course," Alexei said, amusement touching his expression. "Take her. She looks like she needs rescuing."
Did I? Probably. My face was starting to hurt from the forced smile. My body was starting to shake from the effort of holding still when every instinct screamed to run.
Clara turned to Ivan, and there was something in the way she looked at him—assessment, yes, but also familiarity. "We'll bring her back in one piece."
"I don't doubt it," Ivan said. He glanced at me, and I saw the question in his gray eyes: Do you want to go with them?
I managed a small nod. Anything to escape this table. This performance. These calculating stares.
Clara and Eva flanked me as we moved through the crowd, creating a buffer between me and everyone else. Clara walked slightly ahead, clearing the path with nothing more than her presence. Eva stayed close to my side, her hand occasionally brushing my elbow—gentle touches that said I'm here, you're not alone.
We ended up in a corner away from the main tables. Quieter here. The band's music was muffled by distance and bodies. The Edison bulbs were less harsh. A small table with three chairs, probably meant for overflow seating, became our refuge.
I sat before my legs could give out. The relief of not having to perform for a moment made me dizzy.
Clara and Eva took the other chairs, angling them so they faced me more than the room. Creating a small fortress. A space where maybe, possibly, I could breathe.
"First bratva wedding?" Clara asked, her voice gentle.
