Page 6 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

KATYA

R egret slams into me the moment I open my eyes. It isn’t the hangover, even though my head throbs and my mouth tastes of tequila and mistakes. The remorse is for what happened after the tequila. What felt so easy in the dark barrels back now that daylight has stripped away every excuse.

I let Isaac into my room and complied with his every wish like I couldn’t get enough of him. The heat between us flared even though our skin barely touched. The sound of my name on his lips. The weight of the vibrator in his hand. His smirk. His restraint. God, the restraint.

Isaac never laid a finger on me. He didn’t need to. He seized control anyway. Worst of all, my body liked it. No, it reveled in it. Without my permission I surrendered, craving him, unraveling for him.

I burrow beneath the covers and press my palms to my eyes, groaning. How could I have done that? Of all the men I’ve been with or ever wanted, he ranks dead last. Actually, he doesn’t even make the list.

I’ve fooled around before. I’ve sneaked men into this house while my father was gone, let them kiss me, touch me, taste me.

But none of them ever made me feel the way Isaac did and none of them made my body betray me so completely.

I came undone beneath a man I absolutely hate, and he didn’t even have to try. He never even broke a sweat.

I grit my teeth. That cocky bastard was so sure of himself. He stayed calm, maddeningly composed, as if he knew exactly how I’d respond, expected it, counted on it. That certainty makes me want to scream.

I should hate him. I do hate him. Yet my body missed the memo, trapping me in a filthy limbo between resentment and arousal, pride and submission. Something has to change. If I can’t win this war by resisting him, I’ll win it by ruining him.

It takes me exactly twenty-seven minutes to unearth the wedding-planner contact sheet in my father’s study. He’s so proud of himself, organizing this wedding like a proper mafia CEO playing house. I picture him bragging to Oleg over cigars and Scotch.

Barf.

I scroll through the names of the florist, caterer, venue coordinator, seamstress, designer, and even music director. Each one was handpicked by my father and Oleg, vetted for discretion and Bratva loyalty. Too bad none of them is prepared for a vindictive bride with a burner phone.

I call each one in turn, adopting a breezy, composed tone.

“Hi. Yes, this is Katya Belova. The wedding has been canceled for personal reasons. No, no need for refunds. The arrangements are no longer necessary. Thank you for your time.”

Some push back, confused and cautious. I silence them with authority and a sprinkle of false kindness.

It takes just under two hours to undo what took a week to build behind my back. My father arranged so much before he even had the consent of the bride and groom.

When the last call ends, I toss the phone into the trash and smile. Isaac Kozlov may think he’s marrying me in a week, but when the guests arrive at an empty venue that contained no food, no flowers, and no bride, he’ll wish he’d never said yes.

I try to leave before my father can corner me in the hallway, but I’m not fast enough.

“Katya,” he calls, his voice heavy with authority.

I freeze at the foot of the stairs, suitcase in hand. He steps out of his office, adjusting his cuff links like he does every other day, but his eyes betray suspicion.

“You’re heading out early,” he says.

“I like to be punctual,” I reply smoothly.

He eyes my small bag. “That’s all you’re bringing?”

“I’m not planning to stay long.”

His jaw ticks. “Katya?—”

“What?” I interrupt. “What words of advice do you have for a happy marriage, Papa?”

His eyes narrow.

“Just remember what your mother would have wanted,” he says at last.

It’s a low blow. He knows it. And I let it land. But I don’t show him the way my chest aches or how I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression blank. Instead, I give him a tight smile.

“I won’t do anything impulsive.”

He doesn’t believe me, but it’s the only honest thing I can offer. I’ve spent hours plotting how thoroughly I can destroy this wedding.

The drive to Isaac’s mansion is long and silent. The tinted windows of my SUV shut out the world. The leather seat beneath me feels colder than ever. Andrei sits behind the wheel, stoic as always, eyes fixed forward. He doesn’t care that he’s chauffeuring me to the end of the line.

I want to text Evie. I want to crawl out the window. I want to vanish. Instead, I sit straight-backed and smiling. Andrei is loyal to my father to a fault, and he’ll report any hint of me bolting.

By the time we pull through the gates, I feel as if I’ve aged ten years.

Isaac’s mansion is everything I expected.

Cold, grand, and immaculate. The doors open before I can knock.

A woman, maybe in her late sixties, stands there with a crown of silver hair and eyes that remind me of my mother’s.

She wears a tailored black dress and a string of pearls and doesn’t blink at my unimpressed scowl.

“You must be Katya,” she says kindly. “I’m Maude. Come in, dear.”

I step inside and exhale slowly. The air smells of lemon polish and white cotton, expensive through and through.

Maude takes my suitcase and leads me through a maze of hallways. I try not to gape, but the size of this place is absurd. We pass three sitting rooms, a marble staircase, and what I swear is a library with a spiral staircase.

“Your room is here,” Maude says, opening a door near the end of the hall. “Right next to Mr.Kozlov.”

I pause on the threshold. The door across the hall stands slightly ajar, and the dark, spicy, suffocating scent of Isaac’s cologne drifts toward me.

Of course he put me right next to him. He wants me under his thumb, close enough to kill any real sense of privacy or safety. I guess none of that matters, because we’re supposed to be married in a week. If only he knew that’s never happening.

Maude sets my suitcase down gently and straightens.

“There’s an intercom on the nightstand if you need anything.

The bathroom is fully stocked in case you forgot something.

The sheets are Egyptian cotton and mighty comfortable, if I do say so myself.

The closet and dresser are empty, so feel free to unpack.

After the wedding, your personal assistant will move everything into Mr.Kozlov’s room. ”

I nod, my throat tight. My wings are officially clipped, the cage door shutting tightly. My only way out now is to drive Isaac crazy.

“Thank you,” I say, because it isn’t her fault I’m in this situation.

She hesitates, then smiles softly. “I think you’re going to be very happy here,” she says with much more conviction than I feel.

I want to believe her, but I’ll never be happy in a prison, no matter how luxurious it is.

When the door closes behind her, the mask drops.

My shoulders sag, and my hands tremble. I stare at the suitcase packed with only the essentials.

It held a few changes of clothes, some makeup, a toothbrush, and other toiletries.

No heels, no cocktail dresses, or any other articles that show I plan to stay.

Yet as I unzip the bag and start to unpack, something gnaws at me. What if I’m wrong? What if Isaac actually wants this and nothing I do changes his mind? What if he outlasts my rebellion and I really have to marry him?

I shove my clothes into drawers and pretend the knots in my stomach are just nerves. Not doubt or fear, and definitely not anticipation.

I’m halfway through folding a black cashmere sweater when a sharp knock splits the quiet. I pause. The knock comes again, confident and deliberate. I already know who it is before I even turn around. I smooth my expression and open the door with a carefully arched brow.

Just like last night, I find Isaac lounging in the doorway, infuriatingly at ease. He traded his suit jacket for something somehow even more dangerous. Perfectly tailored black dress pants and a crisp white button-down, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Of course. God forbid the universe allow me a single moment of peace.

His forearms flex as he folds them across his chest, lean muscle shifting beneath the starched cuffs.

My gaze skims over those big hands, those toned arms, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and I’m yanked back to last night.

I wonder where he stashed my vibrator after he so casually stole it from me.

I inhale through my nose and stand up straighter. He doesn’t get to win this round.

“What do you want?” I ask, proud of the way my voice stays mostly steady.

Isaac tilts his head, gaze dipping briefly to my bare feet and then back to my face.

“Did you really think calling up everyone involved in the wedding planning would somehow deter me from wanting to marry you?”

My stomach drops.

I blink once, then twice, trying to feign ignorance.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room. The air shifts instantly, becoming charged between us. The moment he crosses the threshold, the bedroom no longer feels like mine. It feels like an extension of him, and at any second he could simply claim me as his.

He doesn’t touch me. He knows he doesn’t even need to in order to get me riled up.

“I will admit,” he says as his eyes scan the open suitcase behind me, “you’re persistent.”

He takes another step, slow and measured. “But you’re going to have to try a lot harder to get out of this.”

My mouth is suddenly dry. “You keep talking like I’m supposed to have any idea what you’re saying.”

He smiles. “Katya,” he says, his voice low. “I told you I value honesty. Don’t start lying to me now.”

I hate the way he says my name, like it tastes good in his mouth, like he’s letting it melt on his tongue.

“You’re clever,” he adds. “But your father’s been playing this game longer than you’ve been alive.”

I’m about to snap back when a knock sounds behind him.

Maude peeks her head in. “Sir, the wedding planners are here for your meeting with Miss Belova.”

My heart stops. “What?” I blurt.

Isaac doesn’t turn. He just grins at me, slow and smug and devastating.

“The people you called up?” he says. “Yeah, they were never the real planners.”

My jaw drops.

“Your father knew you would pull something like this,” he continues, completely unfazed. “So he planted numbers in his office for you to find. Decoy contacts. Fake vendors. It was all entirely staged.”

I can’t speak.

I don’t even have words for the level of betrayal, humiliation, and awe currently colliding in my chest.

Isaac takes another step closer until we’re toe-to-toe, and he drops his voice low enough that only I can hear it.

“You’re playing checkers, sweetheart. We’re playing chess.”

My jaw tightens.

Maude clears her throat politely behind him.

He glances over his shoulder. “Thank you, Maude. We’ll be right there.”

She nods and disappears.

I sink onto the edge of the bed and drop my head in my hands.

This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening. I planned everything. I anticipated every detail. I called every vendor, every designer. I thought I’d finally outmaneuvered them.

Instead, I’ve been playing with pieces they handed me. Isaac stands silently in front of me, letting the moment settle.

I groan into my hands. “There’s really no way out of this, is there?”

“No,” he says simply.

I drag my palms down my face and glare up at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying you.”

I hate how my pulse quickens at that. How something in his tone makes heat curl low in my stomach.

I shake my head and stand. “Fine,” I mutter, brushing past him. “Let’s go plan a wedding I don’t want.”

His hand brushes lightly across the small of my back as he follows. And even though I hate everything about this, I don’t move away.