Page 3 of Bratva Bride

"Oh fuck!" I yelled, sprinting to my closet.

"Oh, fuck is right," Aleksandr muttered as he walked out the door.

Ignoring him, I quickly put an outfit together, simple black jeans and a blank tank, and ran to my en suite. After a quick five-minute shower, I got dressed and made my way downstairs.

Our house (although people would say it's more of a mansion) is built on several hundred acres of land. The whole property is gated off and guarded by my father's men twenty-four hours a day. It's every bit as ostentatious as one might expect the leader of the Bratva to have.

Three story house, built in the Victorian Era, and every bit deserving of the name. With towers, turrets, wrap-around porches, decorative railings and a stone exterior, our home is everything my mother ever wanted it to be.

Making my way down our large circular staircase, I tried to get my head back in the game. My father told us all yesterday he wanted to meet this morning to discuss something important. Of course, I hardly paid attention because I was getting mentally prepared to get fucked up that night.

Now, I was paying the price for that.

I had no idea what this meeting was about and I hope to God he didn't tell us yesterday. Otherwise I'll be the next one to go a few rounds in the ring with him.

Growing up, my brothers and I used to get into all kinds of fights. From screaming matches to full on blows, we would argue over the tiniest little thing. Not to mention the fact that we used to prank each other all the time, and our pranks sometimes got way out of hand.

One year, Lukyan and I decided Aleksandr really needed to loosen up a bit, so we spiked his vodka with Rohypnol, commonly known as Roofies. Once he passed out, we tied his ass up and left him buck naked in one of our strip clubs with lipstick kisses all over his body from one of the strippers.

He woke up pissed and disoriented, with no clue as to how he got to the strip club, and a simple note taped to his chest -'Lyubov, Lukyan & Illayana.'Love, Lukyan & Illayana.

When he got home, note in hand, he was ready to wage war. Instead, we settled it like we always do, in the ring. When our father realised he couldn't contain our habit for picking fights with one another, he decided that any disagreements would be settled in our boxing ring at our personal gym. He also used it as a form of punishment. If we fucked up a job, or disrespected him, we would have to go a few rounds with him, the devil himself, and Father never went easy in the ring. It doesn’t matter if you are his own flesh and blood, he'll knock you down to teach you your place.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, I pivoted left and made my way down the long corridor towards my father's office. Coming to a stop in front of a large, wooden door, I raised my hand and knocked twice.

"Enter," my father's voice boomed from inside the room.

I lowered my hand to the handle and immediately opened the door.

The smell of smoke and alcohol immediately hit my senses. Not surprising even for nine o'clock in the morning. My father was seated behind his large, mahogany desk in the middle of the room. Wearing his signature three-piece Armani suit, he looked like he was a model for GQ, not a cold-blooded Russian Mobster.

His black hair was kept neat and tidy, with only a few grey hairs starting to make their appearance. His face was set in his usual neutral expression, giving off the epitome of a man who had no care in the world. His bright blue eyes locked on to me as soon as I stepped in the room.

Father rose from his chair and made his way around his desk, heading towards me.

"S dnem rozhdeniya, printsessa,"Happy Birthday, Princess,he said in Russian as he embraced me in his arms. Placing a small kiss to my forehead, he gave me one quick squeeze before letting me go. Reaching into his suit jacket, he pulled out an envelope, handing it to me.

Ah, the perfect gift, money. I can always count on Daddy Dearest to deliver the goods every year.

Leaning up on my tip toes, I kissed him on the cheek and whispered,"Spasibo, otets"Thank you, Father.

He straightened his body, fixing his tie and running his hands down his suit. A clear sign he was uncomfortable. My father loves me, there's no doubt in my mind about that, but he isn't the greatest at showing it. At showing emotions or feelings in general.

He was raised to be tough. To show no weakness. To be every bit the ruthless killer aPakhanought to be. That kind of upbringing cemented him as the tough love type of parent, instead of the nurturing type.

He walked back to his desk and sat in his large leather chair, pouring himself what I'm guessing is his second or third shot of vodka. As I walked in, I tucked the envelope in my back pocket and took stock of my surroundings.

Lukyan was sitting in a chair in front of father's desk, slouched back with his ankle resting comfortably on his left knee. He had a thick, brown cigar sticking out of his mouth and a glass half filled with vodka in his hand.

He was the youngest boy, and he definitely acted like it. He was carefree, with a ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude that wafted off him like a bad smell. He was always the first to make light of a bad situation with dark humour and crappy jokes, never taking anything too seriously and always being just a general shit head. Only a few years separated us. He was older, but you wouldn’t think it based on his childish behaviour half the time. He drove me crazy most of the bloody time.

Swirling the glass, he brought it to his lips and chugged the remainder. Placing the glass on Father's desk, he stood quickly and made his way over to me.

He was just as tall as Aleksandr, but instead of being built like a bloody brick house, Lukyan was more on the leaner side. His dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, with a few strands cascading over his face. His brown eyes connected with mine and his lips curved up in a smile.

"Happy Birthday baby sister," he said, his thick Russian accent coming through clear as day. No matter how long we lived in Las Vegas, his accent never changed, his true heritage always shining through.

"Thank you, brother," I replied, wrapping my arms around his waist.

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