Page 14 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

KATYA

I ’ve been Mrs.Katya Kozlova for exactly two weeks and one day, but who’s counting?

That’s fifteen straight days of surprisingly glorious, toe-curling sex with Isaac.

If you’d told me on my wedding day that I would be walking into my childhood home blushing over what Isaac Kozlov did to me last night, I would have called you a liar.

But he’s been incredible since that first night. He’s patient with me, vulnerable in ways I never expected. He stirs feelings I once thought impossible, and every time I’m convinced I’ve had the best orgasm of my life, he proves me wrong with an even better one.

Isaac isn’t merely a king in bed, he’s a god. Part of me is almost grateful I was a virgin when we married, because any other experience would have paled in comparison. He’s indecently skilled with every inch of his body.

But he’s so much more than an incredible lay. He’s thoughtful and caring in ways I never anticipated. When he unveiled my art studio, I nearly burst with emotion. He didn’t simply give me a lavish gift, he listened to my hopes and opened a portal to my dreams.

He’s a surprisingly good listener. Every morning I have fresh tulips, my favorite, waiting on the kitchen table. I doubt he sets them out himself, yet he remembered the offhand remark I made and ensures they’re always there.

And the food is always divine. I know he’s not the one sweating over the stove, yet every night something I once mentioned appears on our plates.

We’ve had buttery Maine lobster, sizzling fajitas, and pelmeni exactly the way Mama made them.

He’s forever filing away my cravings and turning them into sweet ambushes.

He’s spoiling me so thoroughly I almost feel guilty for trying to sabotage the wedding. Almost.

When I arrive at my father’s house, a wave of awkwardness washes over me.

It’s strange to walk through the rooms I grew up in and feel like a guest. The floors are still polished to a mirror shine.

The same thick-framed, somber portraits of long-gone Belov ancestors glare down, too stern for my taste.

Everything smells faintly of lemon polish and old leather books.

It’s familiar and comforting, but it’s not home anymore.

That word has started to mean something else, some one else. It doesn’t really hit me until I’m walking through the hallways of my childhood home that I realize just how comfortable I’ve gotten with Isaac over these last two weeks. It’s a little unsettling.

I adjust the bag on my shoulder and head down the hallway toward my old bedroom.

The heels of my boots click across the marble, echoing softly in the quiet.

I’d already texted Maude to say I’d be out for the morning, and I have a short list of things I want to grab.

I remember some old sketchbooks, a couple of books from my shelf, and a box of jewelry I forgot in the top drawer.

The rest can wait.

Isaac offered to send someone for my things, but I wanted to do this part myself. For closure, maybe. Or control. Or some piece of my past I’m not ready to let go of completely.

The bedroom door creaks as I push it open. Everything is untouched. My bed is still made, the soft cream comforter fluffed and tucked exactly the way I left it. A few dresses hang on the wardrobe rack, and my old perfume, a bottle of Chanel I hardly used but loved owning, still waits on the vanity.

I exhale and step inside, remembering how reluctant I was to leave in the first place. I packed so little, convinced I’d return right away. Yet in a few short weeks I’ve become someone else, maybe just a better version of myself. I’m actually, ridiculously happy, and I never expected that.

It doesn’t take long to gather what I need. I collect the jewelry box, slide a few sketchbooks into the tote, and then pause in front of the mirror, studying my reflection.

I don’t look the same.

Something softer lives around my eyes now. My mouth curves more easily. I recognize myself, but it’s not the same version of me who stood in front of this mirror trying to figure out how to survive a wedding she didn’t want.

I’m still not sure how I got here or why I don’t hate it. Well, that’s not entirely true. I don’t hate being married to Isaac because I don’t hate Isaac. He’s already given me more than I ever dreamed I could have.

With my bag packed, I head downstairs toward my car, but habit pulls me to the study first. Papa will be in there. He always is.

And sure enough, when I push open the office door, I find him behind his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. A half-finished mug of coffee sits beside a thick file. He looks up at the sound and smiles when he sees me.

“Katya,” he says warmly. “I didn’t expect you this morning.”

I step inside. “Just here to grab a few of my things,” I say, lifting my tote bag as proof.

He nods, setting his pen down. “How’s married life treating you?”

The question is innocent enough, yet something in his tone rubs me the wrong way.

I pause, letting my fingers drift along the edge of a bookshelf. The answer slips out before I can overthink it. “It’s surprisingly great,” I admit.

He laughs, deep and low. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear that come from you. Especially not this soon.”

“Me either,” I say, suddenly feeling shy and off-balance.

Maybe it’s not just the house that feels strange. Even being around my father feels a little off. I don’t feel at ease with him anymore, but maybe I never did, since it was all I knew. I suddenly miss Isaac and can’t wait to wrap up this conversation so I can be with him.

He leans back in his chair, smiling like the weight of the world just got a little lighter. “So, you like him, then.”

I hesitate, then nod, knowing there’s no point in lying. “I do.”

Papa stays silent for a moment, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read. He seems relieved, yet I can tell he’s also calculating something.

“Isaac’s a good man,” he says. “He can be a hard-ass, but I knew he’d take care of you.”

I look away, not ready to admit how much deeper it goes.

He absolutely takes care of me, but I also like who I am when I’m with him.

I don’t have to pretend to be someone else or act out just to catch his eye.

He lets me be myself, and he actually likes that woman. I don’t have to shrink to be loved.

I stay silent for a moment, already itching to get back to my husband. It’s surprising how much I miss him after only a few hours apart.

I’m searching for a polite way to leave when my father says, “I’m proud of you, lapushka .”

The words hit harder than I expect, and I hate the way they make me feel. Why does his approval still matter? He hasn’t done anything to earn mine.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice tight.

Then he keeps me there for several more minutes of inane small talk.

I tell him about Maude and her excellent cooking and he tells me about the less important aspects of his business, things I couldn’t care less about.

We discuss a painting in his office that he’d like replaced, and I promise to start something he can hang.

It’s stilted and awkward, another piece of my old life that no longer fits. I tell him I really do need to get back to my house now, and he suddenly gets sentimental.

“I knew you would hit it off with Isaac,” my father says, his voice warm and sure, the way it always is when he believes he’s right. “You’re doing the family a great deal of service.”

I offer a polite smile and lower myself back into the armchair across from him, careful not to let my thoughts show. I just want to go, but he’s clearly holding on to something he needs to say, so I let him get it out.

He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes assessing me over the rim of his mug. “You’ve always had good instincts,” he adds. “And I trust them.”

I nod once. “Thank you.”

He takes a slow sip, then sets the mug down. “Tell me, does Isaac talk to you about business at all? Have you heard anything about the Kozlov Bratva’s dealings lately?”

My stomach flips, the question making me even more uncomfortable. I don’t know why, exactly. He and Isaac both know I don’t care much about the business. I don’t know things and I don’t want to know.

But I remember my conversation with Papa the day after the wedding. Isaac’s business is his business now. Papa needs to know if anything’s brewing so he can keep Isaac and me safe. I hesitate only a second before answering.

“This morning I overheard Isaac talking to Mikhail outside our bedroom,” I say finally, recalling a conversation that was never meant for me.

His eyes sharpen, but he says nothing. He just gestures for me to continue.

“They were talking about a shipment. Something was infiltrated. I don’t know the details, only that they’re worried another group is after them. They’re adding extra security, but I didn’t hear what kind.”

Papa nods, as if I’ve confirmed something he already suspected. “That’s good to know,” he says carefully. “So we can be on the lookout. I’ve got to keep my son-in-law’s interests safe.”

“You’re not planning anything, are you?”

He lifts his gaze to mine and I don’t like what I see in it.

“Of course not, lapushka. It’s like I told you before.

Now that the families are joined, the Kozlovs’ safety is directly tied to yours.

If someone’s making moves against them, it’s only a matter of time before it reaches you too. I can’t have that.”

My fingers tighten around the strap of my tote bag, and a sudden urge to bolt takes hold. I don’t know why, exactly. I just know that all this business talk makes me anxious.

He reaches across the desk and squeezes my hand. “You’re my daughter. I’ll always look out for you.”

I force a smile. “I really should get going,” I say, standing slowly. “Isaac will wonder where I disappeared to.”

Papa nods. “Of course. Give him my regards.”

“I will.”

I lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. He squeezes my hand again before I turn toward the door.

As I walk down the hall, past the columns and the hallway table with the bowl of candied almonds that hasn’t moved in a decade, I hear his voice.

I pause at the corner, half-shielded by the wall.

“Get Oleg on the phone,” he says into the receiver. “We may have something.”

I swallow hard and keep walking.