Page 1 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

The room is dark enough that the walls feel farther away than they are, like the shadows are waiting to crawl in.

I sit at the far end of the table, arms crossed over my chest, the leather of my jacket creaking as I shift.

Rain taps a soft rhythm against the tall windows behind us. It’s the only thing that moves.

Dominik sits at the head, fingers laced, watching. His silence is louder than the storm outside. My older brother, Andrei, on my left, leans back like he’s relaxed, but I see the tension in his jaw. He’s waiting for something to break.

Across from us, the Mexicans have brought their best suits and worst liars.

Santiago—Tiago, now that he’s trying to reinvent himself—keeps his voice smooth, every word dipped in oil.

His eyes flicker, though. Not fast enough to betray him, but I catch the cracks.

He’s losing ground. Cartel soldiers are bleeding in the streets, their routes are worthless, their loyalty worth even less.

The DEA’s been breathing down their necks, and rival gangs are cutting in without mercy.

This meeting isn’t a gesture of goodwill. It’s survival.

He talks about cooperation. “Mutual benefit,” he says.

“A shared future.” I don’t speak, don’t even blink.

I watch him the way I’d watch a snake move across a path: slow, coiled, dangerous in all the wrong ways.

Every man at this table remembers what his father did. Every man remembers Matías Ortega.

I remember best.

Years ago, I did everything I could to stop him, and I won. I made sure Matías saw my face again before I put him in the ground: but ghosts don’t stay buried forever.

Now his son sits across from me, legs crossed like he belongs here, like he hasn’t inherited the weight of his father’s sins. He hasn’t looked at me once. Not directly, but he doesn’t need to. Every word he says is a dance around the elephant in the room.

I am the elephant.

Dominik shifts slightly, elbow braced on the armrest, his thumb dragging slow along his jaw. I know that look. He’s bored. Ready to cut through the bullshit. Tiago’s still talking when Dominik interrupts with a single question: “What are you offering?”

Tiago doesn’t flinch. He’s been coached, no doubt. There’s a moment—barely a breath—where his chest stills. Then he speaks. “Unity, sealed by blood. A permanent alliance.”

The words slide into place like a knife slipping between ribs.

Someone shifts in their seat down the table. I hear Platon’s sharp inhale. My brother doesn’t move, but I feel the change in him. The air shifts.

Tiago says it like it’s nothing. Like he isn’t throwing a girl’s life on the table like a poker chip.

“A marriage,” he says, his tone pleasant. “To tie our families together. We offer you my sister.”

The room erupts.

Russian spills from every corner. Voices snap like gunfire, chairs scrape against marble. Someone—maybe Viktor—spits a curse so hard it echoes. I don’t move. I sit still and let it wash over me.

Because I knew this was coming.

There’s only one unmarried man at this table with enough standing to be considered. One man who could be used this way without it being seen as a weakness. It isn’t Dominik. It isn’t Andrei.

It’s me.

My eyes meet Tiago’s across the storm. His smile flickers for a fraction of a second. I could kill him for it.

Dominik raises a hand, and the chaos cuts off mid-snarl. The silence after is sharper than anything they were shouting.

He looks at me. Doesn’t say my name. Doesn’t need to. Then he speaks, quiet but firm.

“He’ll meet her once. Then decide.”

That’s all.

The meeting starts to dissolve after that. Tiago nods politely, as if he didn’t just offer up his sister like a blood sacrifice. I stand slowly, letting the ache in my shoulder stretch out. Old scar tissue pulls. A souvenir from another life.

Andrei claps a hand to my back as we head for the elevators. I shrug it off.

I don’t need his comfort.

Outside the elevator, Tiago’s deputy steps out of the shadows. Mateo. Younger, leaner, with a look that says he still thinks some things in this world can be saved. I don’t bother pretending to like him. He speaks, quiet and measured.

“The girl… Kiera. She’s not like us. She didn’t know who her father was until after he died.”

I say nothing. Let him keep talking.

“She grew up far from this. Normal. Her mother kept her away from everything.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

“She’s not a weapon,” Mateo finishes. “She’s a girl. Be easy on her… if you can.”

I step inside and turn my back to him as the doors close. I don’t need to ask the question already forming in every man’s mind.

Why offer her now? Because they’re desperate, and because she’s expendable.

“She’s not like us.”

I don’t believe him, but the hesitation in his voice… that was real.

The lobby is quiet when I step out, all polished stone and expensive silence. My driver’s already waiting at the curb, black car idling, heat humming through the cracked windows. He gives a short nod when he sees me, but says nothing. Good. I’m in no mood for conversation.

The car door groans as I pull it open and sink into the driver’s side. I let the door slam shut harder than necessary, the sound echoing through my ribs. Rain still falls in steady sheets, streaking down the windshield, blurring the city into something formless. My knuckles tighten on the wheel.

I killed her father. Now I’m expected to marry the daughter.

My grip loosens. One hand rises to my face, fingers digging into the curve of my brow. The muscles in my neck ache. I’ve spent the last fifteen years turning into something sharp, something brutal, and suddenly I’m being told to play husband.

She has no idea what that means.

My phone buzzes against the console. I glance at it—Andrei. I let it ring once more before answering.

“What.”

“You sound like hell,” he says, not bothering with hello. “Did Mateo whisper sweet things in your ear on the way out?”

“He thinks I’ll be gentle with her.”

Andrei huffs a laugh. “That’s cute.” There’s a pause. Then: “You going to be?”

I stare ahead, the streetlights warping in the rain. “No.”

He doesn’t ask why. We both know this isn’t about the girl. Not really. It’s about control. Territory. Legacy. They’re dangling a new pawn in front of me, expecting me to play nice because her hands are still clean.

“She’s twenty-two, Maxim,” he adds. “Barely out of university. You think she knows what she’s walking into?”

“She’ll learn.”

“Or break.”

“That’s not my problem.”

I hear him sigh, soft and tired. Then: “You don’t have to say yes.”

“She’s not the one I’m answering to.”

Dominik made that clear the moment he said I’d meet her once. That’s all it takes. One meeting. One impression. Then I decide whether to tie her to me in name, in bed, in blood.

Andrei changes tack. “You remember the last time we tried peace through marriage? It doesn’t always end well for the girls involved… or for us. She could be a spy.”

I exhale through my nose. “Kiera Vargas isn’t a spy.”

“She’s something. Nobody’s clean in this game.”

“Neither are we.”

He goes quiet for a second too long. Then his voice drops, quieter. “You sure you’re doing this for the right reasons?”

I glance at the phone, then back to the road. “No, but I’m doing it for the necessary ones.”

Andrei doesn’t argue. He never does when I sound like this. When the cold settles into my voice and I start thinking in pieces—strategic, surgical. That part of me doesn’t sleep anymore. It stopped sleeping the day Matías Ortega raised a gun to my back.

“Call me when it’s done,” he says finally.

The line goes dead.

I drop the phone into the cupholder, the screen winking off like it’s tired of listening. My hand hovers over the ignition, then pulls back. I don’t want to drive. Not yet.

Instead, I sit in the dark. Rain tapping on the windshield. The memory of Mateo’s face—tight, concerned—lingering.

“She didn’t even know who her father was until he was already dead,” he said. “You won’t find a cartel brat in her.”

I don’t trust the sentiment. That kind of naivety is dangerous. Maybe she didn’t grow up around blood, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t in her. And if Tiago’s desperate enough to offer her up like a bargaining chip, then she’s already a part of this. Whether she knows it or not.

What kind of man signs his sister away to the man who executed their father?

Either a fool, or someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

I lean back in my seat, jaw tight. The leather squeaks under my shoulders, and the cold from the window breathes against my skin.

The truth is, I haven’t stopped thinking about her since Tiago said the word.

Marriage.

Bratva law doesn’t need paperwork. It needs blood. Consummation. Control. They want to bury the past in silk sheets and a ceremony.

If she’s the price of peace, then I’ll collect her. If she’s a trap, I’ll see it coming. If she’s as innocent as they say… then she’s already in more danger than she knows.

I turn the key, engine rumbling to life. The wipers kick in, sweeping the city back into focus.

Let them bring her to me.

Let me see what the daughter of a dead man looks like when she’s handed over to the one who put him in the ground.

I want to see her face. I want to see if she flinches.

The rain eases as I pull out onto the street, but the city’s still washed in gray. Traffic crawls through lower Manhattan, headlights cutting through the mist. I drive without thinking, muscle memory taking over, until the car eases to a stop outside one of our safehouses.

Platon is already waiting.

He leans against the brick wall near the entrance, smoking like always, collar popped against the drizzle. His eyes flick to mine as I kill the engine and step out.

“Well?” he asks, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. “Did they kiss your boots or spit in them?”

“Neither. They offered a girl.”

He snorts. “A virgin sacrifice. Old-school.” Then, when I don’t reply: “You taking her?”

I walk past him and unlock the door. “She’s not mine yet.”

Inside, the place is warm: barebones but functional. Security feeds loop on the far wall, and a stack of folders sits unopened on the desk. Platon trails after me, still waiting for more.

“I heard she’s clean,” he says eventually. “No priors, no connections. Grew up with her mother somewhere quiet.”

I turn. “You checked?”

“Mateo’s face said more than his words. They’re betting on pity. That’s their play.”

“She’s not getting pity.”

He studies me for a long moment, then shrugs. “Didn’t think so.”

I head to the table, thumbing through the folders Tiago left behind. The last one bears her name. Kiera Vargas.

A photo paperclipped to the front shows her at some charity event. Dress fitted but modest. A strand of hair tucked behind one ear. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes—wide, watchful—hold something that doesn’t belong on a pawn.

“She’s pretty,” Platon offers, glancing over my shoulder.

“She’s Ortega’s daughter.”

He grunts, scratching his jaw. “And you’re Sharov. Maybe it’s fitting.”

I close the folder slowly.

“She’ll meet me once,” I say. “That’s all Dominik gave them.”

Platon leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Let me guess. You already made up your mind.”

I don’t answer. Not with words. I hand him the file.

“Have the restaurant prepped for Thursday night. Private room. No distractions. No press.”

He takes it, eyes narrowing. “She’s coming to you?”

“She wants to play a game,” I murmur. “Let’s see how well she follows the rules.”