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

ISAAC

O leg Grinkov wants a meeting. I don’t know what he has planned.

My men act as if my death warrant is already stamped, some even swearing their mothers will light candles for me at Mass.

They’re right to be uneasy, yet I doubt Oleg would summon me just to pull the trigger. Men like him prefer a stage.

Sergei Grinkov, his father, once ordered an entire wedding party burned alive just to make a point.

I shook that bastard’s hand years ago, and it took every ounce of control not to crush his bones.

Now he’s gone, dead of a heart attack in his sleep.

Every account calls it a peaceful passing.

Cowardly, if you ask me. A man like him deserved a hail of bullets, not a warm blanket.

Oleg, the son, now occupies the pakhan’s chair, and the whispers have already started. They say he’s smarter, more ambitious, maybe even deadlier than his father. Methodical to the core, he never moves without plotting five steps ahead. Whatever this meeting is, it’s strategic.

It’s a move, a test, maybe even a trap. Still, I agree because curiosity gets the better of me. After all, you can’t say no to the devil when he knocks. You can only choose how you’ll greet him.

I pour a glass of vodka and take a slow sip while I wait behind my desk.

The liquor burns, though not enough. I need something stronger to get through this meeting.

My shoulders bunch beneath the silk of my shirt, muscles coiled since the moment Oleg’s request landed on my desk.

I don’t expect an olive branch, so I have to be ready for a fight if one breaks out.

The door swings open without a knock. Only one man has that privilege. Mikhail, my second-in-command, strolls in, loose-limbed and confident, sleeves rolled to the elbows and a grin that treats all this as mildly inconvenient rather than potentially catastrophic.

“You look like you’re preparing for war,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me.

“Aren’t I?” I ask, giving him a flat look.

“Hopefully not,” he jokes, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing that vein in your neck pop again. It’s been a while.”

I don’t smile. I don’t need to. Mikhail’s known me since we were seventeen. He can read the twitch in my jaw like a book.

“Do you trust him?” I ask.

He snorts. “Do I trust a Grinkov? That’s a stupid question. That’s like asking if I trust a rabid dog not to bite.”

“I agree,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Still, something about this feels different. I can’t explain it, but the wind has shifted.”

Mikhail studies me for a moment. “In a way, it is different,” he says.

“Oleg’s not Sergei, he didn’t grow up drowning puppies for fun.

The guy’s calculating. When his father died, he made no move on us, no power plays, no territory grabs.

That tells me he’s either playing the long game or trying something new. ”

“Like peace?” I wonder.

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But it could all be a ruse to set you up for something.”

I swirl the vodka in my glass. “Either way, we could be walking into something unexpected,” I say.

Mikhail nods, face suddenly serious. He pats the weapon at his hip, his favorite sidearm. “So we keep our heads down and our guns close.”

Two sharp, precise taps rattle the door. I glance at my watch. Oleg is exactly on time, neither early nor late.

“They’re here,” Mikhail says, pushing to his feet to let our guests in.

I rise, smooth out the sleeves of my jacket, and button the front. It’s not vanity, it’s armor. If I’m going to be forced into a room with men who may want to slit my throat, I’m going to make damn sure I look like the one holding the knife.

Mikhail hovers by the door, waiting for my nod of approval. “Showtime.”

My guests stride in as if they own the place. Oleg Grinkov leads, all swagger and smooth lines, his tailored suit as black as his soul. He has his father’s eyes but not his grin. When he smiles, it’s a wolfish display that shows teeth rather than charm.

Viktor Belov trails after him, quieter and more calculating. He’s the one I watch most closely. Nothing about him is loud or flashy. He’s silent, efficient, deadly, a viper ready to strike without warning. Today his posture is unusually formal.

Oleg tilts his head. “Isaac,” he says, already claiming the room. “Thank you for having us.”

I gesture to the chairs across from my desk. “I like to see trouble coming before it bites me in the ass.”

Oleg laughs as though I’ve told a joke. “Then I guess I’ll have to prove I’m not trouble anymore,” he says, his tone almost sincere. I don’t buy it for a second.

“I’ll believe that when you walk in without an escort.” I nod toward Viktor.

“Fair enough.” He grins. “I didn’t bring Viktor as an escort tonight, however. We have a proposition to discuss.”

Viktor sits without a word. His eyes land on me, flick to Mikhail, then settle back on Oleg. He’s a trained dog waiting for direction from his master.

Mikhail mirrors my stillness, arms loose on the chair, eyes roaming the room like a predator’s. The smile is gone. That’s his don’t-fuck-with-us face, one he’s perfected over the years.

Oleg lifts the glass of Scotch waiting for him and takes a sip. Naturally, he had the nerve to ask for drinks, and naturally, I had them poured. It’s a power dance, and we all know the steps. After a beat, he leans forward and sets the glass down with a soft clink.

“I’ll get right to it,” he says, his tone almost jovial.

I say nothing. I just wait. If this is war disguised as peace, I want to hear every lie before I draw my blade.

“I know there has been a lot of bad blood between us in recent years,” Oleg says, his voice like silk, “but after my father’s death, I’m looking to right some of his wrongs.”

He pauses, letting his words hang in the air for a moment like incense. They’re meant to soothe us into complacency, to distract from the scent of smoke beneath.

“And to do that,” he continues, not waiting for our input, “Viktor has kindly offered his daughter, Katya, to be your wife. To link our families in a way that ensures peace.”

For a full second, I think I’ve misheard him, but as the words echo in my head I realize I haven’t. He’s offering Viktor’s daughter to be my wife. Preposterous. The silence that follows is thick, almost suffocating, and for a moment I don’t know how to respond.

Mikhail’s gaze snaps to me, sharp and immediate, but I don’t return it. My focus stays on Oleg, whose smile never wavers. It’s as though he’s offered me territory or a ticket to Coney Island, not a bride. Is it really so easy for him to treat people like objects? It’s unsettling.

I set my glass down with deliberate calm and fold my hands on the desk. “You’re offering me your daughter,” I repeat flatly, looking at Viktor.

Viktor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. “She’s not a child,” Oleg answers for him, still trying to sound persuasive. “She’s twenty-two, beautiful, intelligent, loyal. Viktor has groomed her to understand this world and her place in it. She’ll make a fine wife.”

A pulse ticks in my jaw. He’s rattling off her attributes as though she’s a show dog, a product. To him she’s a bargaining chip, and I can’t help wondering whether she’s had any say in this arrangement.

What unsettles me even more is Viktor himself, sitting there composed, silent, completely at ease.

Oleg used the word grooming. Viktor has raised his daughter to be some man’s possession, all to strengthen the Grinkov Bratva.

That kind of blind devotion isn’t ordinary loyalty, it borders on psychosis.

“You’re serious,” I finally say, still half waiting for the punchline.

Oleg’s smile is patient. “I am.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “Your solution to end years of bloodshed is marriage to a girl half my age.”

Oleg shrugs. “Sometimes the old ways are the most effective.”

“And what does Katya think about this?” I can’t help but ask.

Viktor answers without hesitation. “She understands her duty.”

Duty. That word again, a leash men like him fasten to a woman’s neck and call it honor.

I want to say no. I want them out of this room before the conversation goes any further.

But then the door opens, and the woman herself walks in.

Every doubt I have about this arrangement crumbles to dust at my feet. Katya Belova is certainly a beauty.

Long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in soft waves, and emerald eyes glint beneath long, curled lashes.

A deep burgundy silk dress clings to all the right places.

But it isn’t only her stark beauty that pulls me in.

There’s defiance in the way she moves, the lift of her chin, the subtle tension in her jaw.

She’s furious, and she’s stunning. I’m suddenly, utterly intrigued.

For a moment, no one speaks. She doesn’t look at me, not yet. Her attention locks on her father, gaze hard and unyielding. Then her eyes glide to Oleg, and finally to me. When they do, the entire world goes quiet.

Every part of her screams, I do not want this. I will not make this easy. I am not your prize. And every part of me responds to that fire with something primal and dangerous.

This could be a setup or a honey trap. Knowing Oleg, it’s probably a ploy to earn my trust only to sink a knife between my ribs later.

But my first instinct when I look at her isn’t suspicion, it’s possession and protection.

I want her. I want to claim her and make her mine, to take her away from that monster of a father. And that’s a problem.

I don’t let desire drive my decisions. I never did as a young man, and I certainly haven’t in the seven years I’ve ruled the Kozlov Bratva.

Still, a small voice whispers that this could be a smart move.

She clearly hates her father for forcing her into this, and I could use that against him.

At least that’s the excuse I cling to, pretending it’s more than lust urging me to say yes.

Katya takes three deliberate steps into the room. Her heels click against the floor in a steady rhythm of defiance. She doesn’t sit, curtsy, or offer a greeting. Instead, she looks straight at me, green eyes blazing, and says, “I’m going to make your life hell.”

Her words hit like gunfire, and I do something I haven’t done in a very long time.

I laugh. Not because I doubt her, but because I believe every word. She has fire in her, and I relish it. I turn my gaze to Oleg and Viktor.

“You have yourself a deal.”