Page 3 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Lena

T he lights are too bright.

The music too loud.

It was all so much. I want to be happy.

I want to drink champagne and celebrate.

But it would be like celebrating at my own funeral. That’s what this felt like.

More like the lead up to my funeral. I knew the day I died and all my friends were celebrating the occasion. It was me attending my pre-wake.

Everyone was so happy. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they understand?

"To Lena!"

I don’t even know who says it.

Anya or that influencer girl Kira invited. The table erupts with cheers. Glasses clink. Glitter rains from the ceiling like we’re pop stars on stage for the grand finale. Someone shoves a glass into my hand.

“Drink!”

I smile. I’m good at smiling. Years of practice. I’m a Bratva princess. Technically, I’m more like a duchess, just one step down but I will be a Bratva queen in two weeks.

And that thought nearly has my smile slipping away.

A shirtless waiter carrying a bottle of Dom Pérignon arrives. He looks like he works as a dancer on the side. If this were any other celebration, I would enjoy the display.

I raise my glass as another camera flashes, catching my good side—there’s always a “good side” when you're the daughter of a Bratva general and your engagement makes the cover of tabloids from Moscow to Milan.

"God, I love your dress," Kira yells over the thumping bass.

She's already two martinis in and shimmying like she doesn’t have a care in the world. "You look like sin wrapped in diamonds."

"Fitting," I say, smiling like I’m not dying inside. "I’m marrying the devil."

She pauses for a beat. Her smile wavers.

Then she shrugs. "At least he’s rich."

I laugh because it’s either that or cry. And tears smear mascara. I spent too much time on this face tonight to ruin it with emotion.

And I will not let anyone see me give into the fear. That’s what they want. It will give my future husband satisfaction. I’ve never been in his bed but I know he’s an evil man. I know he’s violent, and I will never know love or pleasure.

"Lena!"

My heart jumps. It’s my best friend, Anastasia. She floats into the VIP section in a beautiful navy silk dress, understated and elegant like always. A diamond glitters on her finger. She’s glowing.

That’s what happens when you have the love of a good man. A man that would walk through fire for her.

I’m so jealous and happy for her at the same time.

She used to be my sister in chaos. Now she’s a married woman with a life I envy more than I care to admit.

"You're glowing," I say, hugging her tightly. She smells like Chanel and safety.

"I’m tired," she murmurs in my ear. "But I couldn’t miss this. God knows when we’ll see each other again."

The words hit harder than I expect. I pull back, scanning her face.

"I—"

She shakes her head with a tight smile. "Let’s not ruin your night."

My night.

A flaming chariot ride to hell in six-inch heels. Can the path to hell really be lined with Beluga vodka, diamonds and designer handbags?

Yes. Yes, it can and I’ve seen the path. I stepped one little toe on the path and tried to turn away but my father practically shoved me back onto the path.

Her eyes soften. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine."

It’s a lie, and she knows it. Anastasia knows my future husband. Everyone does, but only Anastasia really understands.

"He won't hurt you," she says quietly. "If he tries anything?—"

"Anastasia, don’t." My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "I’m not stupid or naive. I’m not some innocent little lamb being led to slaughter. We all know what this is. Denying it solves nothing."

She flinches, but only just. “I know. I just wish…”

“I know,” I say softly. “Me too.”

I take a deep breath. I can’t be angry with her. She got a good man. I’m glad one of us did. In our world surrounded by Russian mobsters, the chances were never good. She got lucky. I didn’t.

And that’s that. Her husband texts her. She shows me the screen apologetically.

“I have to go. He’s waiting. I just wanted to show up and give you a hug. We’re here for you. Text me and I don’t care what I have to do—if you need backup, I will save you.”

I offer her a smile and hope I look stronger than I feel.

“I’m glad you came,” I whisper, pulling her into another hug. “Thank you.”

She squeezes me once more. “I hope you find a way out.”

Her voice is so low, I barely hear the forbidden words. She may have found her own way out, but she knows the rules. She would never openly defy the rules we live by in our dark underworld. When I look into her eyes, I know she means it.

“I love you,” I whisper.

I walk her to the edge of the section where one of my fiancé’s guards stands.

Anastasia turns and puts her hand on my upper arm. “Don’t do that. Don’t say goodbye. This is not over. I know you, Lena Rostova. Kick ass. Fight back. And do it wearing four-inch heels.”

That makes me laugh. “I will try.”

“You will do .”

The guard glances at Anastasia and quickly looks away.

Everyone knows her husband will happily kill anyone that looks at his woman too long.

I watch her fade into the crowd with my heart squeezing.

I don’t know if or when I’ll see her again.

I’m certain my husband will keep me locked away for the first few years of our marriage.

I will be in “training.” He will be doing his best to break me.

To make me a compliant wife. He’ll make sure I have at least two of his children.

And only then will I be allowed some freedom.

I force my smile and turn back to my friends.

I grab a glass of champagne and decide getting drunk is the only way to get through the next two weeks.

Maybe that will make my future husband reject me.

Girls dance on tables, glitter clings to every surface, and someone orders a round of shots named after mafia bosses. I down mine without asking questions.

Kira flops onto the plush blue couch beside me. I’m finally feeling a little buzzed. My worries are there but they have taken a back seat.

"Tell me the truth,” Kira says with a dramatic sigh. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to run?"

I sip my drink. “One-hundred.”

She exhales, leaning her head on my shoulder. "I’m so sorry, Lena."

“It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it is. We’re all here, celebrating, but?—”

"Because that’s what we do, right?" I cut in. "Smile. Dance. Pretend like it’s not happening."

Kira also knows me marrying Mikhail Orlov is a mistake with deadly consequences. She may not know all the reasons, but she knows enough.

She looks at me, expression sober despite the alcohol. “A lot of arranged marriages work out, you know.”

I snort. "Sure. So do hostage situations. Eventually, the hostage stops fighting. What’s that called…"

"Lena."

"No. It's fine. I’ll play the part. Wear the dress. Kiss the ring. Smile for the cameras. I'll be a perfect little ornament for my husband's empire. My father will be connected to the most powerful family in Russia. He’ll be happy. My mother will be happy. Everyone will be happy."

“Except you,” she says softly.

“Ah, but who cares.” I shrug. “I have boobs, vagina and a uterus. That’s all that counts.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I stand up before she can say anything else. I can’t take one more pitying look. Not from her. Not from anyone.

“I need to pee,” I lie.

“Lena.”

It’s a warning.

I flip my long blonde hair over my shoulder, turn and flash her a smile.

She lets me go. Kira’s smart enough to know when I’m about to bolt. She’s been running cover for me for years. She’s a beautiful woman and my father’s guards cannot resist her. But tonight, I’m surrounded by women wearing next to nothing. Their attention is already distracted.

The Orlov guard attempts to follow me, but I hold up my hand. “I’m going to the bathroom. I don’t need your assistance.”

That’s the fun part about being engaged to Pakhan Orlov’s son—I get extra guards. And they are not nice. They see me as a possession to be guarded.

I clock the two Orlov guards, flash my best silly girl smile and make my way to the hallway. There’s the usual line of women.

I wait in line, tapping my Louboutin heels against the tile floor. The woman ahead of me is doing lines of cocaine off her phone screen while her friend holds her hair back. Moscow's elite at their finest.

The bathroom is packed with drunk socialites reapplying lipstick and gossiping about who's sleeping with whom. I slip into a stall and lock the door, leaning against it to think. The walls are spinning slightly—I've had more champagne than I realized.

When I come out, I notice something useful. There's a service door tucked behind the vanity area. Staff only. Most of the women are too drunk or high to notice, but I've always been observant. It's a survival skill in my world.

I pretend to fix my lipstick in the mirror, watching the door. A woman emerges with a bucket and towels, likely to clean up the vomit I heard coming from down the hall. She props it open with a wedge. Perfect.

I wait until she's gone, then slip through the doorway. The hallway beyond is stark white and utilitarian—a sharp contrast to the club's opulent interior. Service corridors always lead to exits. They have to for fire codes.

My heels click against the concrete as I navigate the maze of hallways. I find an exit and land in another hallway. This one is covered with thick red carpet and art on the walls. I see a sign for the elevators and grab my room key.

My father rented nearly one whole floor of rooms for fifty of my closest friends. They are young women I haven’t seen since we were children. Some I’ve never met. But they are all daughters of powerful men. They are all in Moscow for the wedding.

My wedding.

The bachelorette party is a status symbol. It’s not like I could have said no.

I unzip the glittering blue gown and let it pool around my ankles.

I kick off my heels and move toward the closet.

It takes me two seconds to find the dangerously sexy dress I thought about wearing tonight but knew it would only earn me a lecture.

The dress is silver and barely covers what matters.

The low back lands just above the top of my ass.

I know I will never get to wear such things again. I pull the jet black blunt-cut wig from the velvet bag under the lining of my suitcase. It’s one of my favorites. I feel sexy and daring—like a spy. I have many wigs all carefully hidden deep in my closet at home.

I walk into the bathroom and study my reflection in the mirror. Too sweet. Too innocent. Too much like the perfect bride everyone expects me to be.

I pull out my makeup bag and get to work.

First, I smudge black liner around my eyes, making them look sultry and dangerous instead of wide and trusting.

I blend it until my blue eyes look like ice behind smoke.

Then I swap my soft pink lipstick for deep burgundy—the color of spilled wine or dried blood.

The wig slides over my blonde hair like a second skin. The sleek black bob transforms me completely. I look like someone who would dance on tables and kiss strangers. Someone who doesn't give a fuck about reputation or consequences.

I slip into the silver dress, tugging it down over my curves. The fabric clings to every inch of me, leaving nothing to the imagination. Perfect.

Black stilettos complete the look. These are fuck-me heels that demand attention. I practice walking in them, rolling my hips with each step.

In the mirror, I don't see Lena Rostova, dutiful daughter and future mob wife. I see a woman who could disappear into the Moscow night and never be found. A woman who makes her own choices.

I grab my small purse and stuff it with cash. I’m not taking my phone. I know my father tracks me. It’s dangerous. Reckless. I could get snatched. Murdered.

But that doesn’t scare me.

I leave the hotel and inhale the cool night air. I look left and right. I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s not hard to find a club. I cut through the crowd near Red Square, slipping past tourists and drunk boys from the university.

And then I remember a club. It’s one I’ve never been to. It’s been forbidden. Good girls didn’t go to such seedy places.

The club is underground—literally and metaphorically. Security at the door looks me up and down and then gestures for me to enter. I descend down cement stairs that are a danger in themselves, especially when walking in heels.

I’ve been sneaking away like this for years. It drives my father insane. He posts guards. I lose them. He installs trackers. I ditch them. He threatens. I smile.

Sometimes I go to the spa or shopping on Tverskaya. Sometimes, Kira and I simply take a walk. It’s all about maintaining a little control in a world where I have none.

I slide through the bodies grinding against one another in the dark. The music is loud and filled with so much bass I can feel it vibrating my insides. It’s a slow beat. Seductive. Sensual.

I make my way to the bar and order a vodka soda, heavy on the vodka.

I don’t sip.

I down it.

I want to get so drunk I forget my name. I want to be the woman I’m pretending to be.

I let the music grab me by the ribs and drag me into the dance floor.

Bodies pulse around me, but I keep to myself. I don’t flirt. I don’t smile. I don’t invite any attention. This isn’t about being seen.

It’s about being gone .

My hips move to the rhythm. My arms rise into the air and my head sways. Sweat beads along my collarbone as I lose myself in the beat. Here, in the dark, in the anonymity, I’m not a bargaining chip. Not a trophy bride. Not a warning to others about what happens when your father makes enemies.

I’m just a girl dancing like the world isn’t ending in two weeks.

The lights strobe red, white, red again—like sirens flashing against my eyelids.

Someone brushes against me. A hand on my waist. I turn, elbow sharp, and the guy holds up his hands, backing off.

Good call.

The music rises. Drops again.

I keep dancing, ignoring the sweaty bodies and cloying perfume that seems to wrap me in a cloud.

I spin, arms raised, head thrown back, the ceiling spinning with me.

I feel free.