Page 10 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

KATYA

D awn breaks blindingly early on my wedding day.

I sit up, bleary-eyed, and stretch. My limbs protest, taut and aching after a night of almost no sleep.

The ceremony barrels toward me anyway, and in a few minutes a glam team will arrive to turn me into a bride.

Papa chose them, of course. He hired the priciest, best-reviewed stylists in the city, determined that no last-minute sabotage slip through.

They would never risk their sterling reputations by making me look anything less than flawless, no matter how much I might wish it.

Resignation settles over me as I swing my legs off the mattress and shuffle into the shower. I linger under the hot spray, willing it to unknot my stiff muscles. If only it could rinse away the knot of nerves twisting in my gut. By nightfall I’ll be Katya Kozlova, chained to Isaac for life.

I slide into the underdress Maude laid out, then shrug on the satin bridal robe she left behind. A cheerful note rests on top reading: You’re going to be beautiful!

As soon as the glam team finishes, she’ll come back to lace me into the gown. This is it. From here on out the day will run on autopilot, giving me no chance to hit the brakes.

The team sweeps in, and my suite morphs into a hive of activity.

One stylist arranges a towering display of palettes and powders, while the other lines every hot tool along the bathroom counter.

They settle me in front of the mirror and move in perfect sync, with the intent of transforming me into a glowing bride.

I refuse to meet my own gaze while they work.

They pepper me with polite questions about the day, but my clipped answers make it clear I’m not in the mood.

Eventually they surrender to the silence, and I let my mind go blank.

They seem to finish in record time, though maybe the clock is simply sprinting today.

My life feels stuck on fast-forward, rushing toward inevitable doom.

I watch, numb, as they pack away their kits. My hands won’t stop trembling. I clasp them in my lap and stare at nothing until the stylists’ footsteps fade, leaving me alone for a single heartbeat.

It isn’t fear, exactly. It’s a stomach-churning cocktail of adrenaline, raw nerves, and simmering rage. My pulse thrashes under my skin like a trapped bird. At last I face my reflection, as though she might hand me answers.

The girl in the glass stares back with too-wide eyes, flawless makeup, and an artfully pinned twist of hair. She’s stunning, radiant, immaculate. Yet beneath all that polish I see the truth. Every brushstroke is a mask laid over my panic.

A sharp knock makes me jolt. Before I can answer, the handle turns and my father steps inside, wonder brightening his gaze. He says nothing at first and just drinks me in. Stopping beside the vanity, he meets my eyes in the mirror, and I catch a shimmer of moisture there.

“You look beautiful,” he says at last.

I suspect he’s mostly relieved I haven’t undone the stylists’ impeccable work in the two minutes they left me alone. Still, I’m nowhere near done fighting for the future I want.

“You haven’t seen the dress,” I quip, nodding toward the garment bag dangling from the shower rod.

“I’m sure it’s as beautiful as you,” he says gently, though a flicker in his eye warns me I’d better not have done anything reckless.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say softly, letting my anxiety win.

He doesn’t respond.

I swallow hard.

“Please, Papa,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “Don’t make me go through with this.”

I hadn’t planned this. I wanted to find a way out of this wedding on my own, but it’s my last chance to make him change his mind. My fear is genuine, but my plea sincere.

“Katya…”

“I mean it. You still have time to stop it. To call it off. To tell them you changed your mind.”

He exhales, his eyes softening. “And what would that solve?”

“I wouldn’t belong to him.”

“You don’t belong to anyone.”

I blink at his reflection, stunned.

He steps closer, his voice gentler now. “I didn’t choose this path to control you. I chose it because I know your strength and I know what you can do. This isn’t a punishment, Katya. With this marriage you’ll build a solid foundation.”

“A foundation for you ,” I snap. “For your empire. Not for me.”

His smile turns wistful, and I know he’s about to fire the big guns. “Your mother would be so proud of you.”

The words cut deeper than I’d expected. I turn my face away, but it’s too late. Tears are already burning my eyes.

“I can feel her here with us,” he murmurs. “She’s watching over you. She’d be fussing with your hair. Crying into a tissue. Telling me not to smudge your makeup when I kiss your cheek.”

I blink rapidly, fighting the sting. “I miss her,” I whisper.

“I know.” His voice softens, and for a moment I see his armor crack. He misses her too. “She believed in this. In peace, in progress, and in you.”

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.

“Your marriage to Isaac will do wonders for both families. You’ll understand that someday.”

He pats my shoulder and turns away, ending the conversation. That’s it, then. I really do have to go through with this.

I’m alone for mere seconds before Maude steps back in and unzips the garment bag. I can’t see her face as she takes in the dress, but the quick tension in her shoulders gives her away. Still, she says nothing. She drapes the gown over the shower rod and faces me, hands planted on her hips.

“It’s time, Miss Katya,” she says in her brisk, businesslike tone. “All that’s left is to get you dressed, and then you’ll be mistress of the house.”

I draw a deep breath and push to my feet, willing my shaky knees not to betray me. If she notices, she says nothing. That restraint is what I appreciate about her.

I stand in the middle of the bathroom like a doll while she lowers the dress and pools it at my feet. She guides me into the fabric, then pulls it up and cinches the corset, her fingers flying over the laces.

I watch her work, admiring my final act of defiance. With any luck, Isaac will take one look at me in this dress and walk straight out of the ceremony.

Maude lets out a quiet breath as she settles the veil. “You look breathtaking.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely, though stunning wasn’t exactly what I was going for.

She guides me to the garden doors, now closed and curtained for a dramatic entrance. Music drifts down the hallway, mingling with the excited chatter of guests. I don’t even know who’s here, but I resent every last person who showed up to witness my execution.

Maude peeks through the drape, then turns and gives me a thumbs-up. It was showtime. She swings the doors open, and I step to the threshold, finally seeing my wedding venue.

The garden is drenched in soft, glowing sunlight.

It was the kind of flawless weather photographers pray for.

Golden rays sift through tall hedges, scattering dappled patterns across the aisle.

White chairs flank the stone path, and beneath a rose-covered trellis a string quartet plays something soft and hopeful.

Everything is pristine, which only makes me want to ruin it.

At Maude’s cue, I start down the aisle alone. No escort, no bouquet. The crowd gasps the moment I round the hedge and step into view. I hear the reaction ripple, starting with one sharp breath, then another, then an inflow of soft whispers of confusion.

Somewhere from the front, Evie catches my eye and winks at me.

My gown is a simple sheath of silk, molded to my curves and flaunting far more cleavage than any wedding planner would sanction.

But the color, a striking jet black, is the real showstopper.

It’s my final stand, a public declaration that this ceremony feels like a death sentence.

Their shock is exactly what I wanted, exactly what I needed.

I keep moving, slow and steady, heels clicking on the stone, silk whispering around my legs like smoke. I nodded and smile at the horrified guests, savoring every flinch of judgment. Let them judge. This wedding is a farce.

When I finally look at Isaac, disappointment punches me. I had hoped for a disastrous fury, for him to take one look and storm off. At the very least I wanted disapproval, but his face showed none of that.

Instead, he’s smiling. Really smiling. It isn’t the thin grin of a man masking anger, it’s genuine and brighter than the sun. His ice-blue eyes dance with delight, as though he expected nothing less from me.

He wears a perfectly cut black tux, hands clasped in front of him. The formal wear makes him even more handsome, and I hate him for that, almost as much as I hate him for his total lack of shock.

It’s infuriating. He doesn’t get to win this moment. This was my last big move to stop the wedding, and it has completely backfired. The guests may see my act of defiance for what it is, but Isaac looks at me as if I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

My stride falters for half a heartbeat, but I square my shoulders and keep going. He doesn’t get to break me. Maybe I’m wrong and he’s just masking his fury. Maybe the black dress really did rattle him.

Yet the nearer I draw, the happier he looks.

Every step feels heavier than the last, and retreat is no longer an option.

When I’m close enough, he offers his hand and, without thinking, I take it.

The world tilts, and I finally understand that I’m truly about to marry Isaac. There is simply no way out.