Page 18 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

ISAAC

U nlike Mikhail, Maude never steps into my office without knocking. So the instant the door flies open and she barrels inside, her face drained of color, eyes wide with panic, I know something is wrong.

I push back from my desk, tension snapping through my spine like a live wire.

“Maude?” My voice comes out rough. “What’s wrong?”

Her hands tremble as she whispers, “Katya’s gone.”

My mind stalls, refusing to process those two simple words. They shouldn’t be this hard to grasp, and yet they are. “What?”

“Katya is gone,” she whispers, as if saying her name too loudly will shatter the air between us.

“I went to let her know dinner was ready, but she wasn’t there.

The bed was made, her phone’s gone, and a few of her things are missing from the closet.

I checked the security feed, and she slipped out several hours ago.

She always tells me when she’s leaving.”

I shoot to my feet, the chair skidding back and slams into the bookshelf behind me.

For a second the room blurs. My pulse hammers in my ears.

She was quiet yesterday, more distant than usual, but I thought we were okay.

After the hospital, after the promises we made, I thought we were moving forward, together.

Now she’s gone, and something isn’t right.

“She didn’t leave a note?” I ask, though I already know in my heart she didn’t.

Maude shakes her head. “No one saw her leave. I’ve already checked with the guards. She slipped out completely unnoticed.”

Fury sparks in my chest, not at her but at myself. I missed the signs. I let her walk out without realizing she was hurting so badly she felt she had to run.

I storm past Maude and down the hall, mind racing. I throw open our closet door. There’s a bare space where her duffel bag used to be. Half her paints are gone. Her favorite sweater, the one she always wears when she’s working, is missing from the hook behind the door.

She has run away, and she did it in a rush. She didn’t take everything, only what she could grab quickly.

I stand there, staring at her side of the bed, and every scenario storms through my mind. Someone took her. Someone coerced her. Someone breached our security, our walls, our reach. But if that were the case, there would’ve been noise. Struggle. Blood.

No.This was her choice. She left on purpose. Because of me. Because of this life. Because she’s pregnant and scared and doesn’t know how to live under the weight of everything I’ve handed her.

Where would she have gone? Not home, I know that for sure. After her last visit to her father, she told me that place didn’t feel like it was hers anymore. She could be with Evie, but I don’t know where Evie lives. Just as I’m pulling out my phone to call Evie, something hits me.

She once told me about a loft above a bookstore in the arts district, a place where she could vanish for days, painting until her fingers cramped and her world made sense again.

I call Mikhail and give him the address.

“On it, boss,” he says and I hang up, returning to my office to think.

I can’t go off on Katya half-cocked or I could lose her forever. No, I’ll give my men a chance to look, to confirm where she is, and then I’ll calmly bring my wife home.

Five minutes later, my phone rings and by the sharp exhale on the other end, my gut already knows.

“They have her,” Mikhail snaps. “Cameras from across the street show two of the rook-marked bastards dragged her out. We’ve got ten minutes, maybe less.”

The world narrows to a single point of rage. My wife. My printsessa.

I don’t wait. I’m out the door, gun loaded, blood roaring like thunder.

I tell the driver to take the day off, and slide into the seat, gripping the wheel, but not sure where to go. My men are all over the city looking. Finally after what seems like forever, my phone pings with an address. They’ve found her.

I start the engine and pull out of the driveway, tires squealing in protest.

Thirty minutes later I nose the car into a narrow alley and spot the building. I exit the vehicle and find Mikhail waiting for me.

“We go in quiet and quick. Get her out, leave no one standing,” I say.

Mikhail nods.

“We leave a message that my wife is never to be touched again.”

We move forward toward the building and find a door, unguarded. We quietly enter and make our way through the space.

The warehouse stinks of rust and gasoline. I slip through the shadows, Mikhail covering my flank. One wrong move and she’s gone.

Then I hear it — her voice, sharp as a blade, cutting through the darkness.

“My husband’s coming. And when he gets here, you’ll beg for mercy you don’t deserve.”

Pride slams into me. She’s terrified, but she’s still fighting.

I see where Katya stands, facing a man with malice in her eyes.

The first shot I fire takes the smirk off her captor’s face.

Chaos erupts. Bullets sing. Mikhail drops one man; I’m already on the other. He shoves Katya forward like a shield, but I don’t hesitate. My bullet finds his temple before his finger finds the trigger.

Katya stumbles into my arms, rope biting her wrists, tears streaking paint down her cheeks. I cut her free and crush her to me.

“You came,” she whispers, voice trembling.

“I’ll always come for you,” I growl against her hair. “No one touches my wife. Ever.”

When we finally stumble back into the night, her hand never leaves mine.

Back in the car, I untie her wrists and look for any other injuries before starting the engine and heading toward home.

She shivers in the passenger seat and I crank up the heat.

“I thought we were okay,” I say, my voice rough.

“We were,” she says. “But I’m not.”

The honesty slices like glass. I nod slowly.

“I’m trying, Isaac. I’m trying to be this woman you need. A wife. A mother. A Bratva queen or whatever the hell this life is shaping me into. But it’s happening so fast. And I’m scared I’ll lose myself in it.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” I say softly.

She finally looks at me. Her eyes are rimmed red, yet clear and strong.

“I needed to remember who I was before you,” she says. “Before all of this. Before guns and guards and kidnappings.”

“And did you?”

She draws a slow breath and nods. “I remembered I used to feel alive when I painted. I remembered that I wanted a life of my own. That I still do.”

I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.

“I didn’t leave to hurt you,” she says. “I just needed to breathe.”

I nod once. “I get that. I should’ve seen it,” I say quietly. “I should’ve asked more, given you space before you felt you had to run from me to find it. Before you had to find out how dangerous it was to leave without telling me.”

She shakes her head. “I always thought I’d travel, open a gallery, maybe fall in love on my own time. Do things in the order that made sense to me.”

“And now it’s all upside down.”

She nods slowly. “I’m terrified , Isaac. I sure as hell didn’t think I’d be pregnant this soon. And I didn’t think I’d have to give up everything I ever dreamed of just to keep the peace between our families. I certainly didn’t think I’d be kidnapped.”

My throat tightens. I can hear the resignation in her voice, the sadness she hasn’t dared say out loud until now.

“I’m not trying to take anything from you, Katya.

I want to build something with you. If you want this studio, it’s yours.

If you want to open a gallery, I’ll fund it.

If you need two lives, one here and one with me, I’ll make it happen.

I told you, there is nothing you can ask for that I won’t give.

And I will never let anyone hurt you again. ”

Tears gather in her eyes, and she shakes her head. “Why are you so good to me?”

Because I love you , I almost say.

But I don’t. Not yet.

Instead I tell her, “Because I see you, all of you. And I want you to feel like you still belong to yourself, even when you belong to me, too.”

A tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away. I pull her into my arms and hold her while she cries. And when her breathing slows, when her hand curls into the fabric of my jacket and she rests her forehead against my shoulder, I whisper, “Come home.”

She doesn’t answer. She only leans into me, small in my arms yet carrying a weight that has been breaking her open piece by piece. I hold her as though she’s fragile, even though I know she’s anything but.

Eventually, she pulls back, just enough to look up at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but steady now. Clear.

“You haven’t lost your dreams, Katya,” I promise her. “Not to me. And not because of this marriage.”

Her brow furrows, as if she wants to believe me but isn’t sure she should.

I soften my voice. “I care for you,” I promise. “I’ll do anything you need to protect you and our child.”

That stills her.

The silence stretches until she finally asks, “You care for me?”

“More than you could imagine. More than I ever thought I could.”

She studies me for a long beat, all her sharp edges dulled by exhaustion, fear, and something that might be hope.

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Okay?”

“I’ll come home.”

The relief that floods my chest is so sudden, so immense, it nearly knocks me back. I nod, careful not to say anything more that might make her pull away again. Instead, I reach for her, press a kiss to her forehead, and breathe her in.

Instead of heading home, I turn in the direction of her studio. She looks at me in wonder.

“Finish your painting,” I say. “I’m happy to sit here and watch.”

She blinks, surprised. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Katya stares at me for another second, then gives me a tentative, genuine smile.

We exit the car and walk up to her study. She gives an involuntary shudder at the reminder of her ordeal. At the knowledge that her sacred space was defiled.

“I will have new locks and a state of the art security system installed tonight,” I tell her. “You will never have to worry about your safety when you are here again.”

She nods and walks to the easel and lifts her brush. I move to the corner of the studio, claim a paint-spattered stool, and settle in to watch her work.

There’s something serene about her process. She mixes colors without a second thought. Her brow furrows when she’s in flow. She steps back now and then, tilting her head, deciding whether the piece is speaking the truth or merely pretending.

I don’t interrupt. I don’t speak. I just watch her paint. With every stroke I know this woman, this life we’re building, the child she carries, matter more than anything I’ve ever done. I’ve spilled blood, built an empire, buried enemies deep, but none of it means a damn thing compared with her.

And I’ll protect it with everything I am.