Page 3 of Prince of Control (Bratva Heirs #1)

Chapter One

Three days later

Baron

I’m not a man of “big feels,” but I always thought I’d feel something on my wedding day.

I also imagined I would actually know the woman I was marrying. And be out of college already.

I’m in my Range Rover on the tarmac of the private airfield, tapping my fingers on the wheel as I wait for the jet to arrive with my bride.

The woman my father told me three days ago I could protect by putting a ring on her finger.

Lara Turgeneva has no social media for me to troll. Probably because she’s a bratva princess and, like the rest of us, was taught to keep a low profile.

I had Anya scour the internet, but she came up dry until she hacked the Russian government to uncover a passport and driver’s license photo. It’s hard to tell much from them. She might be pretty; she might not.

No one looks good in those pictures.

Supposedly, we knew each other as toddlers before her family moved from Chicago back to Moscow.

I remember nothing. I wish I knew something about her.

She’s probably scared. I don’t have any plans to get into a genuine romantic relationship with her, but I’ll do my best to make things comfortable.

This is awkward for both of us. I’ll make sure she understands that I don’t expect her to consummate the marriage or share my bed.

She can even date whomever she likes, if she’s careful and keeps it a secret.

The roar of jet engines makes me peer up through the windshield. A small jet glides in and makes an elegant touchdown. I wait until they’ve opened the door and attached the gangplank before I climb out of the Range Rover.

I wore a suit. Not to impress my bride but as a show of good faith.

To show her I don’t want this, but I will make it work.

I will follow my father’s instructions: pick her up, marry her, and install her in Baranov House, where I can protect her.

Except we can’t get married until twenty-four hours after we’ve picked up the marriage license.

I’m not doing it because my father asked it of me although I would’ve done it for him. While I’m certain he’s a ruthless killer, and I know he’s the head of an international crime organization, he commands nothing but my love and respect.

Like I said, I would’ve done this without his request. When I heard who was trying to marry Lara and why she needed my protection, I couldn’t refuse.

Brash Rostov is a psychopath. I went to prep school in Switzerland with him for one miserable year.

He’s the son of the notorious Russian oligarch, Anatoli Rostov.

If he were simply arrogant and full of himself like the rest of the rich assholes I had to suffer space with that year, I’d leave Lara to her chances with him.

But there’s no one–not even a woman I don’t remember–that I’d let marry that sadistic beast when all I had to do to save her was give her my name.

I got thrown out of that school because I beat the shit out of Brash.

He is everything that is wicked and wrong about the Russian oligarchy–a hateful sadist who I heard had tortured teachers, animals, and younger boys.

The girls found him charming, as I recall, because he was good at hiding that side of himself with them. But I caught him choking the librarian’s daughter, and that was the end of private prep school for me.

If I’d known getting kicked out would be so easy, I would’ve picked a fight with him sooner. I hated living with those arrogant old-moneyed svolochs although that year prepared me for success at Thornecroft.

If Brash and his father are after Lara, I’m happy to step in and be the roadblock he can’t get around. As far as Brash knows, Lara’s dad promised her hand to me at birth, and he couldn’t get out of the arrangement without risking a war with mine.

I approach the stairs as a slender figure appears in the doorway.

Lara wears black loungewear, like she’s mourning our upcoming nuptials. She piled her dark hair on top of her head in a messy bun. A large purse is slung over one shoulder, and when her gaze lands on me, her arm tightens down on it, like she’s scared I’ll steal it.

I puzzle over that gesture as we approach each other.

She carries herself with authority, shoulders square, chin lifted. Good. She’s not some frightened mouse I’ll have to comfort. The less emotionally involved we become, the better. That will make it easier to divorce when the marriage is no longer necessary.

As she draws closer, I can study her face.

She’s gorgeous. Dark, messy hair that’s thick and wild.

Her skin is pale, her wide-set eyes bright blue.

A dusting of dark freckles covers her nose.

She wears little or no makeup–her beauty is natural.

She studies me back from under thick, natural lashes.

Her lips are full, but they’re set in a tight line like she’s pissed.

That’s when I start to teeter off my white steed. I was thinking of myself as the knight in shining armor–here to save the damsel in distress.

But the damsel looks like she wants to throat-punch me.

I stop approaching and let her come to me. I’d planned on a cheek kiss. Maybe a quick embrace if she’s a hugger. Since she looks more like a crotch-kicker, I abort any plans of touching her.

“Lara.”

There’s something familiar about her, even though I have no memories of her from childhood. We were just preschoolers when she moved away.

Her big blue eyes narrow, and she stops in front of me, still keeping that purse of hers held tightly to her side.

“ Da .” Her tone is cutting. She lifts her chin, spreading her free hand and gesturing down her body.

“Here I am–as summoned by your family to be your wife,” she says in Russian. “I hope I’m what you expected.”

I blink, careful to keep my expression blank as my brain scrambles to catch up.

Then I put it together. She was told the lie.

For whatever reason, her father didn’t trust her with the truth. Either he doesn’t think she’s capable of playing pretend, or she was actually in love with Brash.

If it’s the latter, I’m out. She can have him. I don’t need to suffer the disdain of a woman who thinks my family would control her future like she’s chattel.

Except even as I think of throwing her back to him, something in me rebels.

Not just my protective side although I still would defend her against any man who tried to hurt her.

Not just the most competitive part of me that needs to win any contest against Brash.

Beyond that, a possessiveness rises up in me that I’ve never felt before.

As I look at the fiery woman glaring at me, I abandon my previous plan to keep this marriage a sham.

She belongs to me. We belong together. I’m not sure why I believe that, but it’s something about the way she seems familiar.

But not like I knew her before–more like I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet her.

I’m turned on by everything about her. Not the least, that she presents a challenge.

The fact is, Lara is mine.

She was fake-promised to me, but we’ll be legally wed, and that means I’m the guy–the only guy–who gets to have her.

Is she what I expected? I reply in English, my tone dry. “Not really.”

Her pale skin flushes pink. At least I know she speaks English.

I hold out my hand. “Come. We have a marriage license to pick up.”

Lara

Benjamin Baranov doesn’t look as menacing as my father and most of his associates, but I get the feeling he’s deceptively dangerous. Blond hair falls across his forehead in a casual, beachy style, but his eyes, framed by thick, dark brows, appear ancient in his young face.

Dressed in an expensive suit, he doesn’t look like a college student playing dress-up. He wears it with casual elegance. There’s no outward aggression in his posture, just quiet power in the carriage of his shoulders. Like he rules his kingdom with control and cool, calculated decisions.

I clutch my purse closer to me as the flight attendants follow us to Benjamin’s shiny black SUV with the five giant suitcases that contain all the belongings I could pack in the hour my father gave me before bundling me into the private jet.

Just yesterday, I’d come home, exhausted from a day of classes at Académie Internationale des Langues de Paris followed by a three-hour shift for my new internship.

The one I spent the first two years of college setting myself up to get.

I opened the door to find my father sitting at my kitchen table with a deep frown between his brows.

He hadn’t told me he’d left Moscow to fly to Paris. When I asked if he brought my mom, he said she was too angry with him.

Stupid me.

I’d thought he’d come to tell me they were getting a divorce.

Never in a million years could I have predicted this.

“Pack your things, Lara. I’m sending you to Illinois.”

I blink. My brain stops computing. “What?”

He nods with a grave look. “There’s something I should have told you a long, long time ago.”

My heart slams against my ribs wildly. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“I entered a contract with Ravil Baranov when you were a baby .”

I stare at him. None of this makes sense. Ravil Baranov is the powerful pakhan of the Chicago Bratva, where my father entered into the brotherhood. They are close associates. Friends.

“You’re to marry his son, Benjamin.”

I sway on my feet, suddenly light-headed. “That…that’s absurd.”

“It was a long time ago, and I didn’t know he intended to hold me to it. Certainly not so soon, while you both are still in school.”

I back away from my dad. “No.” My head shakes on its own accord. “I won’t. I can’t. I just started my internship. I have one more year of school. This is crazy. Why would I marry a stranger?”

“It has to be now. Ravil demanded it, and he’s far too dangerous a man to cross.”

“But…why?”

It just doesn’t make sense. We don’t live in medieval times. The patriarchy is dying. I shouldn’t be chattel in some bratva machination.