Page 28 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
“I’ll be there,” Matvei agreed.
“See that you are.” Ilya’s eyes were black with promise. “Because if you’re not, we’ll come looking for you. And next time, we won’t be nearly so polite.”
One by one, the brothers melted back into the restaurant crowd, disappearing with the same silent efficiency they’d used to surround the table. Within moments, it was as if they’d never been there at all.
Except for Irina, who was staring at him with something that looked like a mixture of admiration and terror.
“That,” she said finally, “was either the bravest or stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Probably both,” he admitted, signaling for the check. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” But her hands were shaking as she reached for her wine glass. “They’re going to kill you, you know. At dinner on Friday. They’re going to sit you down, feed you excellent food, and then put a bullet in your head.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe we’ll actually talk like civilized people.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You don’t know my brothers very well, do you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’m about to learn.”
As they left the restaurant, Matvei couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had just changed. The careful balance he’d been maintaining, the delicate game of manipulation and counter-manipulation, all of it had just been blown apart by four men in suits who loved their sister enough to risk everything to get her back.
The question now was whether he was prepared to risk everything to keep her.
Chapter 11 - Irina
Bella Vista was the kind of restaurant that screamed old money and older secrets, all dark wood paneling and crystal chandeliers that had probably witnessed more backroom deals than the Vatican had heard confessions. Irina sat between two worlds at a table that felt more like a negotiating table at the United Nations, watching her husband transform into someone she barely recognized.
Gone was the man who had listened to her suggestions at the distillery with genuine interest, who had made her laugh over dessert just three nights ago. In his place sat Matvei Volkov, Bratva leader, his golden-brown eyes cold as winter and his voice carrying the kind of authority that could make grown men reconsider their life choices.
“The terms are simple,” he was saying to her brothers, his tone as dispassionate as if he were discussing the weather. “Irina stays with me. Your family leaves mine alone. Everyone goes about their business without unnecessary bloodshed.”
Ilya’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “You think you can just kidnap our sister and then dictate terms to us?”
“I didn’t kidnap anyone.” Matvei’s voice remained perfectly level, maddeningly calm. “I purchased her from people who would have done far worse things to her than marry her and give her a comfortable home.”
The word “purchased” hit Irina like a slap, even though she’d heard it before, even though she knew the ugly reality of how she’d ended up here. But hearing it spoken so casually, so clinically, in front of her brothers made something inside her chest crack like thin ice.
“Purchased.” Kostya’s voice was deadly quiet, the kind of tone that usually preceded someone getting their face rearranged. “Our sister isn’t livestock, you bastard.”
“In the world we live in, sometimes the distinction gets blurred,” Matvei replied with infuriating reasonableness. “I made the best choice available at the time.”
Irina forced herself to stare at her untouched plate of osso buco, focusing on the way the sauce had congealed around the edges rather than looking at any of the men around the table. She could feel her brothers’ eyes on her, could practically hear their silent communications. Look at us, they were thinking. Give us a sign. Tell us you want to come home.
But she couldn’t. Not because she didn’t love them, not because she didn’t miss the chaotic warmth of their family dinners, but because looking at them would mean acknowledging what she saw in their faces. The same expression they’d worn her entire life when discussing her future, her safety, her choices. Love, yes, but also the kind of protective dismissal that treated her like a precious object rather than a person.
“She hasn’t said a word,” Viktor observed, his pale blue eyes fixed on her with laser intensity. “Irina, are you alright? Has he hurt you?”
The question was loaded with implications, and she could hear the barely restrained violence underneath it. Viktor had always been the quiet one, the brother who solved problems with calculated precision rather than explosive force. If he thought Matvei had harmed her, there would be blood on the pristine white tablecloths before dessert was served.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice sounding strange and distant even to her own ears. “No one has hurt me.”
“No one has hurt you,” Fedya repeated, and there was something in his tone that made her skin crawl. “But has anyone asked what you want?”
The question hung in the air like smoke, choking and impossible to ignore. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? In all of this, the kidnapping, the auction, the marriage, even this tense dinner negotiation, no one had actually asked her what she wanted.
“What I want,” she said carefully, “is for everyone to stop talking about me like I’m not sitting right here.”
“Then speak up,” Ilya challenged, leaning forward with that dangerous intensity that had made him legendary in their world. “Tell us what you want, little sister. Tell us if you’re here by choice or because you’re too scared to ask for help.”
