Page 4 of Bratva’s Stolen Bride (Obsessed Bratva Bosses #1)

FELIKS

“No!” Payton protests. “No, surely that’s?—”

I don’t stop to listen.

“Stay here,” I snarl and as the limo halts, I push to my feet and I’m out and striding towards my private jet.

“Yes, but will there be Champagne?” the woman is saying to my pilot as I approach. My Beckenham men who dragged Payton from the street have just arrived ahead of me, but this is clearly something they weren’t prepared to deal with, and they look baffled.

“I think we can cope with Cava,” the man next to her says reassuringly, but with a note of question.

“But this is our dream wedding trip!” she replies hysterically. “Everything has to be the very best, and Cava isn’t…”

My pilot’s gaze bounces between the woman and me. “Pakhan,” he begins.

I draw the revolver from under my jacket. “Nyet.”

The couple turn and the woman screams, though I’m not pointing the gun at her.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a small figure creep out of the limo, and I exhale with exasperation.

“Payton,” I snarl, and she freezes.

Still trying to escape. So brave, and sweet, and naive as a baby bird. I was so distracted by this gavno, I forgot to lock the door behind me.

“Encircle her, but do not touch her,” I mutter to the nearest of my men, and they slip off to do my bidding.

“Do not think of running, Payton. You will have blood on your hands if I have to kill him,” I nod at the pilot, “to chase after you.”

She makes a cute sound of frustration.

The woman begins to sob, and throws herself into her partner’s arms. He looks as though he might vomit, but does a good job restraining both her, and his breakfast.

“This isn’t what it seems,” the pilot says, like a fucking cliché.

“It never is.” I’m weary of this.

I crook one finger, beckoning Payton to me. Shooting wary looks at my men who now surround her, she walks over in jerky motions, her head bowed.

As soon as she’s near enough, I grab her little hand and drag her to my side. It’s delicate in my big paw, and I try not to notice it too much, or squeeze her too tight, as I lace our fingers together.

I’m soothed by having her close.

“In what way is this not you taking my private jet—which I pay you to have at my disposal anytime—without my permission?” I ask the pilot.

“It’s not!” the woman screeches. “This is my private jet to take me to my tropical wedding!”

I rub my jaw thoughtfully, and raise my eyebrows at the pilot.

“Tropical wedding,” I repeat, in a voice that any sane person would recognise as pure menace.

The man beside her is obviously either stupid or insane, as not only is he presumably this screech-owl’s fiancé, he doesn’t understand the danger, or that I wasn’t asking a question. I was inviting my pilot to ensure this was fixed immediately.

“Now, look here,” the man begins, standing up straighter.

He’s dwarfed by my six-foot-five frame. I glance at him, and to his credit, he doesn’t back down.

“I paid for a luxury beach wedding elopement and two-week honeymoon on an exclusive island.” His voice wobbles. “And I promised that to my fiancée, and so if you could…”

Turning the gun on him has his wife-to-be screaming again.

I think he just realised he’s really at risk, because I’m feeling murderous, my lip curling as I listen to this bullshit when I should be getting Payton Love onto this plane, and away from London, safe, then going after the monster with my name and half my DNA.

“Let us go…” he finishes pathetically.

Pizdets. This is enough.

“I do not run a FUCKING TRAVEL COMPANY!” I roar.

The pilot cringes, which is logical. If it weren’t for the fact he knows how to fly my private plane, and pilots are difficult to get at late notice and I want Payton out of the way while I deal with Ivan, he’d be dead already.

“My name is Feliks Rykov. You might know me,” I say more calmly. “As the head of the Beckenham Bratva.” I let my Russian accent bleed through a little more.

Yes. They recognise that name. My reputation for being unhinged has been carefully cultivated with the deaths of those who deserve it, and the creation of weapons that are as genius as they are terrifying. Their horror shows, except for Payton, whose brows knit with confusion.

“Feliks.” There’s a gentle tug at my hand, I glance down at Payton’s upturned face. Her enormous eyes are trusting.

No one has trusted me for years. Decades. Ever.

“They just want to get married,” she says in a small voice, and fuck, but she has no sense of self-preservation, what makes her think she should intervene in a deadly situation?

Except, she’s correct. There’s one force on earth that can calm me, and it’s this girl. Slowly, I lower my weapon, and holster it, focusing on her little hand in mine. Trying to be a good enough man for her.

“Why are you taking them on a fucking wedding trip?” I ask the pilot.

“I thought you knew, Pakhan,” he stammers, sweat having beaded at his temple, and I go cold. Because of course. I should have known.

My son.

“Ivan told me it was at your instruction.”

“Yes, that’s the name of the customer service agent who promised me champagne on the flight!” the woman exclaims.

“What exactly did my son sell you?” I demand.

“A full wedding package,” the man says.

Mudak. Ivan needed money so badly that he sold luxury wedding packages to my island. Camden really did have his balls in a vice.

“Well, he didn’t have the right to sell you anything, and she’s taking this plane.” I nod at Payton.

I’ve wasted enough time on this already. I need this distracting girl out of the way, then I can take out my bloody anger on the person who deserves it. Ivan.

“I’m not having a stranger on my exclusive flight!” the woman objects, loudly. Her voice is a cross between nails on a chalkboard and the sound of a six-year-old playing the violin.

“No,” I say. “You’re not getting on that plane, because, as I’ve mentioned before, it belongs to me.”

“I’ll report you to the?—”

“Please darling,” her husband-to-be begs.

I’ve had enough of this shit. My hand twitches for my gun but Payton’s interlocked fingers tightening on mine stop me. I look down at her.

“It’s her wedding.”

Oh fuck why do I have to have a weak spot the size of the Atlantic for this girl?

She’s your son’s girlfriend , I remind myself.

She won’t be for long , a voice reminds me. As soon as Payton is safely on that plane, I will go to kill my offspring.

The things a father has to do.

“You.” I point at the pilot. “If this plane isn’t in the air in five minutes your head will be all over the tarmac.”

I turn to the wedding couple. “I’ll refund whatever you paid, and if you go to Beckenham Court House in my car now, you can get married. Which I assume is the most important part of this trip.” I arch an eyebrow.

“But what about the floral pergola on the beach—” the woman protests.

“Consider yourself lucky to be alive,” I mutter and walk away, dragging Payton behind me. I take the stairs up to the jet two at a time, and she has to run to keep up.

“Get your hands off me!” comes a screechy voice from below as we enter the plane, so I assume my men have done their jobs and are getting rid of the results of Ivan’s little travel-agent hobby.

I refocus fully on Payton Love.

She’s sharing her glances between me and the luxurious aircraft as I pull her further inside to large, comfortable leather seats and… Oh the irony, there’s a bottle of bubbly on ice. Champagne.

I guide Payton to a seat, and before I’ve thought better of it, sit next to her.

“Pakhan.” The senior flight attendant approaches me, head bowed.

I spend a lot of time at my secondary residence, a private tropical island I bought almost twenty-five years ago, when I made my first obscene amount of money with a new weapon that became vital to every country that could afford it. So the jet’s staff are familiar with me.

They also know that I can be unpredictable, and potentially deadly. I once had to take a dead body on a flight and this stewardess hasn’t been comfortable with me since.

“We’re ready to go now.” She doesn’t meet my gaze.

This is my cue to leave.

I feel the words. They’re just behind my tongue.

“What’s going to happen?” Payton asks in a small voice.

The plan was to ditch Payton in a safe house an hour away in Scotland to keep her out of the way until I’d dealt with her boyfriend. My island, on the other hand is much further across the ocean, then a boat trip that takes a couple more hours.

“Ivan will discover that I’m onto him and his scam of selling wedding packages to fund Camden’s blackmail, as well as the ‘hobby’ that got him into this trouble. If he’s desperate for money, or thinks he has nothing to lose, he’ll come after you.”

She creases her brow in confusion.

“It seems everything is in place for a trip to my private island, so you can go there. I think you’ll enjoy the weather there more than where I was going to send you in Scotland.”

I should explain fully and then leave. But Payton’s lip wobbles.

“Can I have my phone?” she asks in a small voice. “There’s someone I need to talk to.”

“Ivan?” I ask with dangerous calm, fury bubbling to the surface.

“No,” she whispers.

I can’t risk it anyway. Who knows what software Ivan has put on her phone. I can’t drag my gaze from Payton, never mind walk away. She’s innocent. Pretty. Not even half my age.

She’s not mine. But she feels like she’s mine, and the thought of deserting her to go to my son as though that piece of shit matters makes me crazy.

Because as it turns out, she is the only one that matters.

Moya lisichka. In less than an hour, this girl has found her way into my heart, triggering a protective instinct that has been dormant for forty-four years. She’s the perfect combination of brave and sweet and vulnerable.

I have to prevent any more fuck-ups, I tell myself. It’s not because I’m falling for her. It’s not because I can’t stand to spend another minute without her.

I’ll return to London tomorrow, and do what I have to, and no parent ever should.

In the meantime, I’ll look after Payton, help her get settled into the island and explain she’ll be alone for some days until I’ve dealt with Ivan.

What’s the harm of letting him live, and keeping my soul a bit cleaner, for one more day?

“You won’t need your phone. I’ll be your social secretary,” I say dryly.

“My what?” she says, gaping.

Picking up the Champagne bottle from the silver cooler, I rip off the foil, and pop the cork. Nodding to the stewardess, I pour a flute and pass it to Payton, who blinks, confused, but accepts the glass. “We’re going to the beach.”

For a destination wedding.