Page 4 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

KATYA

T he first shot of tequila lands harder than I expect. By the time the second arrives, my heels are abandoned under the table and I’m slumped against the paneled booth, letting out a long, weighted breath.

Evie sips hers like chamomile tea, lipstick un-smudged and spine arrow-straight. She was never the princess in a tower. She got to live, drink, and do as she pleased. Translation: her tolerance leaves mine in the dust, while I’m slowly melting into the leather cushions.

“You’re a mess,” she says, her tone bone-dry.

“I’m a bride,” I mutter, raising my glass in a mock toast. “Of a man I didn’t choose, in a marriage I didn’t sign up for, on a timeline I didn’t set.”

“So,” she says, raising her glass in return. “Exactly what your father raised you for.”

We clink our glasses. The sharp, familiar chime almost convinces me everything is normal. Just a girl grabbing drinks with her best friend instead of a lamb being marched to the sacrificial altar.

Evie studies me, expression unreadable. “So,” she says, “tell me about your groom.”

I groan and let my forehead thump against the sticky tabletop.

Evie’s brows shoot up. “That bad?”

“He’s infuriating,” I say, dragging the word out in a full-bodied whine.

“That bad,” she answers her own question.

“He’s calm and calculated, snarky too. That awful smirk is permanently glued to his face, and he’s dominant in this quiet, unnerving way that makes me want to throttle him.”

Evie takes another sip, a smug grin curving her mouth. “So, he makes you horny,” she teases.

My head snaps up.

“Evie,” I huff, flinging a straw wrapper at her.

She shrugs. “What? I’ve known you since we were eleven. I know that tone.”

“What tone?”

“The one you use when you’re trying very hard not to admit you find someone hot,” she answers coolly. “You used the same exact tone when you had a crush on Tommy Del Grazio in the tenth grade.”

I scoff. “Isaac is not hot,” I sputter. “He’s the enemy.”

She lifts one brow. “A hot enemy?”

I retaliate with a tortilla chip. She dodges effortlessly and steals one off my plate.

“Okay,” she says, “how long has it been since you saw him?”

“Three days.”

Her lips twitch. “And how many of those days have you thought about him?”

“I hate you.”

“That’s not a number.”

I sink lower into the booth. “All of them.”

Evie leans forward, grin widening. “All of them?”

I cover my face. “Every single one. It’s like he’s in my head on purpose. Like I left that meeting with the intention to forget him, and instead he built a condo in my frontal lobe and started redecorating.”

She laughs, a wicked, delighted sound. “Oh my God, you’re in trouble,” she sing-songs. “What a shame, you’re attracted to your future husband.”

“I am not!” I protest, a little too loudly.

She laughs, taking a long sip of her margarita.

I bolt upright, palms flat on the table as though bracing for impact. “This marriage isn’t happening,” I declare. “He’s going to call it off.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

She tilts her head curiously. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because I’m going to make his life hell.” I grin.

Evie laughs again, but sympathy lingers behind the sound. “You really think that’ll be enough?” she asks, doubt thick in her voice. The apprehension on her face isn’t just about my plan, it’s about me.

“I can be annoying enough when I want to be. I’ll make myself so impossible to live with, he’ll be begging to return me by day three.”

Evie stirs her straw through her drink, watching me carefully. “But what if he doesn’t? What if he plays along? What if he likes the fire?”

“I’ll throw gasoline on it,” I shoot back. “I’ll go nuclear.”

She bites back a smile. “And if that doesn’t scare him off either?”

I hesitate.

That’s the real fear, isn’t it? It’s been stalking me since the moment we met. I’m not afraid he’ll walk away, I’m terrified he won’t. That I’ll burn and he’ll savor the flames. I shake the thought loose.

“He’ll hate me, Evie. I’ll give him whiplash, cold, distant, rude. I’ll redecorate his mansion in pink tulle and fake roses. I’ll force his men to go gluten-free, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll drag them all into a vegan diet.”

Evie snorts into her drink. “Oh no. Not vegan,” she teases.

“Watch me. I’ll host a dinner party where everything is free of carbs, meat, dairy, and joy.”

She presses a hand to her heart. “Ruthless.”

“That’s what I’m known for.”

“Actually, you’re known for art, caffeine addictions, and choosing the worst dates in all of Manhattan.”

“What dates?” I gesture wildly around the bar. “I’m not allowed to date! I’m not allowed to have any fun. That’s the whole point!”

She rolls her eyes. “Let’s not pretend you’re as pure as your daddy thinks you are.”

We laugh, and for a moment the future, the man poised to ruin it, fades. But expectation sits heavy on my shoulders, waiting to shove me back to reality.

Then Evie sets her drink down and leans closer. Her voice is quieter now. “When do you move in?”

“Tomorrow,” I exhale, mourning how fast reality crashes back in.

Her brows pull together. “Already?”

“Papa’s orders. He wants us to ‘build rapport’ before the wedding.”

“Rapport?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.

“His word, not mine.”

Evie’s expression darkens. “He really won’t let you say no?”

“No,” I whisper. “He won’t.”

A heavy silence settles over the table.

Evie picks at the edge of her napkin.

“You don’t have to go,” she whispers conspiratorially. “We could run away.”

“He’d find us,” I respond glumly.

She looks up, voice thick. “What if we made it impossible?”

I reach across the table and take her hand. “He’d hurt you. And I won’t let that happen.”

I know the truth. Apart from Isaac’s refusal, there’s no way for me to get out of this. And I’m not letting my best friend put herself in danger because of it.

She squeezes my hand back tightly. “Then let me help. Call me. Text me. You don’t have to be strong the whole time.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

I shake my head. “If I let myself fall apart, I won’t come back from it.”

She studies me for a long moment.

Then she nods.

“Okay. Then I’ll hold the pieces until you’re ready.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and look away.

Evie doesn’t say anything else. She just flags down the server, orders another round, and reaches into her purse to pull out a tiny bottle of nail polish.

I blink.

“Are you seriously doing your nails right now?”

She shrugs. “Your wedding’s in nine days. If I’m starring as maid of honor in a hostage situation, the least I can do is sport a decent manicure.”

I start laughing so hard I cry.

For the first time in days, I feel like I’m allowed to. With my arranged marriage to one of the Bratva’s most feared men days away, I down another shot of tequila. It scorches my throat, but it’s not enough to burn away the dread clawing inside me.

I stumble into the bathroom, phone in hand, and scroll to the number my father demanded I save. Isaac Kozlov. My future husband. My future captor.

I’d sworn I wouldn’t text him. That I’d play the perfect daughter until I could find my escape. But the tequila hums in my blood, loosening my restraint and sharpening something reckless. If I was going to sabotage this marriage, why not start now?

You’re old.

The three dots appear immediately.

Is that a problem?

I smirk, my heart pounding with dangerous satisfaction.

I’m sure it is for the women you sleep with.

His reply is sharp, like steel hidden in velvet.

I’ll have you know I have no complaints. Only begging.

Heat pools low in my stomach. Damn him.

I don’t believe you.

This time he makes me wait. Long enough for my pulse to trip over itself.

Care to find out firsthand?

My breath catches. What an arrogant man.

I’m good. Wouldn’t want to wound your fragile ego.

His next message slices me open.

The only fragile thing here will be your body after I’m done with it.

My thighs clench, shame and desire tangling until I can’t tell which one is winning. The tequila whispers that I like the danger. That maybe I crave it.

Another message buzzes before I can answer.

Flustered, my little bride?

I grit my teeth, typing with defiance I don’t quite feel.

No. Just shocked at how confident you are.

The pause before his reply drags, stretching the tension tight. Then his words land like a promise and a threat all at once.

Confidence isn’t necessary when you already own something. You’ll learn that soon.

A shiver runs through me, equal parts fury and anticipation. My stomach twists as I shove the phone back into my bag. I was going to need more than tequila to survive marrying a monster like Isaac Kozlov.

I toss the phone into my bag, already planning the next phase of Operation: Annoy the Hell Out of My Future Husband.

A part of me is smug. Maybe I finally got under his skin. Maybe he’s second-guessing this whole thing the way he should’ve from the beginning. Maybe this ridiculous wedding will fall apart before I ever have to pack a single bag.

Evie’s already outside, arms crossed, leaning against the railing beneath the amber glow of the bar’s outdoor lights.

She gives me a look when she sees me approaching. “You good?”

“I’m tipsy. Petty. And considering setting fire to my wedding dress before I even pick one.”

She smiles. “So you’re great.”

My father’s driver waits beside the black SUV that has practically become my second home. Andrei, silent and stoic, forever wearing sunglasses at night as though auditioning for a spy movie, gives a curt nod. I roll my eyes and wave him off.

“I don’t need babysitting.”

“You do tonight,” Evie says, looping her arm through mine and steering me toward the car. “You’re drunk and reckless, which means it’s either Andrei or I shove you into an Uber and pray you don’t drunk-text Isaac.”

“I would never,” I lie.

She shoves me in and I settle into the backseat, lean my head against the window, and try not to imagine Isaac’s stupid grin. Or what he’d say if he had responded. Or what I would’ve said if he had pushed just one message further.

Before I know it, we’re winding up the mansion’s long driveway. No lights blaze, and my father’s car is gone, thank God. Inside, the silence is thick. No farewell dinner, no late-night send-off. This might be the last night I ever sleep in my childhood home, and no one seems to care.

I don’t bother with the lights. I know every inch of this place by heart. I climb the stairs with the exaggerated care of someone pretending to be sober and close my bedroom door with a soft click. Off go the heels, then the earrings, and, inevitably, my inhibitions.

I drop my bag and pad barefoot across the plush rug, the hem of my dress brushing my thighs. A bottle of water waits on the nightstand. I drink greedily, trying to slow my heartbeat, trying to forget the way Isaac looked at me, and how close we’d been in proximity.

I shimmy out of the dress and let it pool at the foot of the bed.

The top drawer slides open with practiced ease and my fingers find what they’re after without looking.

Half-naked, I collapse onto the pillows, heart racing, lips parted, and eyes closed.

I picture Isaac’s ice-blue stare, his tailored sleeves rolled to the elbow, his voice issuing commands.

God help me. I hate him. I hate him so much I could scream. Yet my body reacts before my brain can catch up. Heat rolls through me, unexpected and sharp, like I’ve uncorked something I can’t put back.

I slide one hand down my stomach as the other curls around my vibrator.

I flick it on and let the sound fill the room, low and intimate.

I close my eyes and let the image sharpen.

Him pinning me against a wall, growling something obscene into my neck, and those big, rough hands gripping my thighs like they belong to him.

He wouldn’t even need to touch me. He’d just direct and command, and I’d…

A sharp rap splits the air. I freeze, heart hammering even louder. Shit.

I fumble the vibrator off and shove it under the covers. My legs tangle in the sheets as I grab the nearest robe, cinching it tight while I school my expression. The knock comes again, harder.

I cross the room, heart hammering, robe half tied, and completely annoyed. If no one’s going to give me a proper goodbye, the least they could do is leave me alone so I can get off.

I swing the door open expecting staff, or worse, my father. Instead, it’s Isaac. I blink, rub my eyes, half-convinced the tequila has turned him into a hallucination.

But when my vision clears, he’s still there, shoulder propped against the frame, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other braced on the wall. That infuriating smirk is back, cockier than ever.

“One thing you should learn about me, wife,” he says, voice low and infuriatingly smug, “is that I’m a man of my word.”