Page 7 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

ISAAC

D inner was painfully civil. Katya speared her pasta as though it had done her wrong. Maude stayed gracious, ignoring the tension while she cleared the plates. Now Katya’s holed up in her room, likely plotting her next attempt to derail the wedding. Too bad for her, there’s no escape.

I can’t help smiling when I recall the lengths she’s already taken to stop this wedding. She spent hours on the phone canceling vendors, only to discover they were decoys. Her frustration simmered through dinner. She may hate me, but she can’t deny the spark between us.

She’s exhausting and rebellious, that much is obvious. But damn, she keeps life interesting. One thing is certain though. Our marriage will never be dull. Whether we spend it fighting or fucking, a blaze will always rage between us.

I head back to my office for the night. With the wedding and honeymoon looming, I need to tie up a handful of loose ends.

Papers sit in neat stacks on my desk, waiting for my signature.

I sink into the chair and flip open the file Mikhail left earlier.

Shipment ledgers once made my head swim, but after years of poring over them, they’re as calming as Sudoku.

I savor the moment the numbers line up, always hunting for the slightest discrepancy.

I’m two pages into the ledger when the door opens without so much as a knock.

“Mikhail,” I say without looking up.

He shuts the door quietly and strides across the room, making a beeline for the bar cart. His sleeves are rolled, and a faint scrape mars his jaw. I raise an eyebrow but say nothing.

He pours himself a drink, takes a long swallow, then slams the glass down and pours another. While I’ve been neck-deep in wedding plans, his day clearly went to hell.

“The firearms shipment went through,” he says. “We moved the crates through the harbor to the warehouse in Bushwick. No delays.”

I nod. “Good. The money?”

“Clean. The laundromats in Hell’s Kitchen funneled everything as expected, and we slipped the cash into the club accounts just before close.”

“Also good,” I say, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He didn’t drop by to socialize. He has bad news, and he’s saving it for last.

He takes another long sip of his drink. “The only hiccup came at the drop point for the guns.”

I look up, pulse steady but alert. “What kind of hiccup?” I ask, keeping my tone even. I hate surprises. The drop was supposed to be routine.

He sets the drink down and sighs. “Two men showed up in an unmarked vehicle. They tried to take out our guys while they were loading the van.”

My blood turns to ice, inching through my veins. “How many men were there on our side?”

“Six.”

“Any injuries?”

“Two were grazed by bullets, flesh wounds at best. One man’s arm is broken, but no one died.”

I nod once, slowly. “What happened to the two men who attacked?”

“They’re subdued,” he says, purposefully vague.

“Subdued as in dead?”

He shakes his head. “They’re in the basement waiting for Ivan.”

Ivan is our enforcer. If anyone can pry the truth out of them, it’s him. Outside the job he’s perfectly pleasant, but when he’s working, all bets are off.

I stand and move to the window, jaw tight. The garden sprawls below, silvered by moonlight and the faint glow of security lights. Moments ago I was in a good mood.

This is why victories never last. There’s always fresh trouble lurking. Someone always wants what we have.

“What did they say?” I ask.

“Nothing yet. Ivan’s waiting on your orders.”

I exhale through my nose, slow and heavy.

The thing about power is that it keeps a target painted on my back.

I don’t kill to feel powerful, I kill so no one forgets that I am powerful.

My reputation is everything, and if I let my guard slip for even a moment, my enemies will swoop in and take advantage.

“Have the attackers been scrubbed?” I ask. “Phones checked, clothes burned, weapons sanitized?”

Mikhail nods. “It’s already been handled.”

“Did they find any ID?”

“None. Not on them. But one had a tattoo. A rook.”

I turn slowly. “A chess piece?”

He nods. “On his lower left rib. Same as the last guy we caught sniffing around our storage yards two months ago.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger.

“It’s a message,” he says steadily.

“Tell the crew we’re on lockdown,” I say. “No side jobs, no late nights, no partying in known haunts. If anyone so much as feels something is off, I want to hear about it directly. No go-betweens.”

Mikhail doesn’t blink. “Understood.”

“And you know what else to do.”

He nods. “Yes sir.”

An unfamiliar heaviness settles in my bones as I ask, “Anything else?”

“Nothing we can’t handle without you,” he quips. “You’ve got to focus on your upcoming nuptials.”

“Most of my focus is on making sure the bride shows up,” I half-joke, tamping down worry over Katya’s antics. With luck, the vendor switch has taken some wind out of her sails.

“She will,” he says more confidently than I feel. “She might be acting bratty, but if she’s anything like her father described, she’ll show up out of a sense of duty.”

“What every man dreams of for a wife,” I quip, making him laugh out loud.

“It’s really going to be fine,” he assures me.

A soft knock sounds, as if summoned by our conversation. I know it’s Katya before the door opens and she pokes her head in.

“Can we talk?” she asks, looking between Mikhail and me.

“I’m all done with him for the night.” He smiles at her before turning to me and shooting me a shit-eating grin.

I motion for her to step in and watch as Mikhail leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.

Katya’s posture isn’t combative for once. She’s still guarded, yet something softer lingers, a hint of vulnerability. She doesn’t seem to be playing a game, but I won’t let my guard down. I nod toward the leather chair across from me.

“Have a seat,” I offer, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like a command.

She sits, crosses her legs, and meets my gaze. “I wanted to apologize,” she says, tone even.

I lift an eyebrow. “Am I on a prank show?” I ask, genuinely thrown by her sincerity.

Her lips twitch, but only slightly. “I know I’ve been difficult,” she says, eyes fixed on her hands.

“But you have to understand. From a young age I was told my wedding would secure an alliance for the Bratva. I never knew with whom or when, and part of me hoped that once I grew up my father would change his mind.”

I nod once, but say nothing.

“I wanted to marry for love,” she continues. “I searched for it, hoping that if I met the right man I could convince my father to scrap his ridiculous plan. I don’t say this to hurt you, but marrying you feels like burying every dream I’ve ever had.”

Her voice cracks on that last word, and the tightness in my chest eases. She’s not just angry, she’s a young woman whose future was stolen. Katya isn’t merely defiant, she’s just grieving the life she wanted, the person she still hoped to become.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “I don’t blame you for wanting to marry for love, Katya,” I tell her honestly.

Her eyes widen slightly at that. “You don’t?”

“Of course not.” I shrug. “This isn’t exactly how I expected it to be either.”

“But you have a choice,” she interjects. “You could call the whole thing off.”

“Wouldn’t your father simply wait to marry you off to someone else?” I ask.

She frowns, as though the thought has never occurred to her.

“Maybe,” she concedes. “But I’d have more time. I could search for another way out, or find someone I actually love before then.”

“Or,” I propose, “you might end up with a horrible oaf of a man who treats you even more like an object than your father and Oleg do.”

This stops her short, and I take her silence as an opportunity.

“Katya, I like your fire,” I say, voice low. “Your passion, your bravery. If you give me the chance, I think I can make you happy. I can’t promise you’ll fall in love with me, but I can promise I’ll treat you the way you deserve.”

She blinks fast, and for a heartbeat I see a tear slip down her cheek before she reins herself back in.

“What if we start from the beginning?” I offer. “Tell me something about yourself.”

Katya hesitates, then nods once. “All right,” she says softly. “What do you want to know?”

A delicate note threads her voice now. It’s not surrender, exactly, but the defiance is gone. We’re finally getting somewhere.

I lean back in my chair. “What’s your favorite color?”

She laughs. “Really? That’s what you want to know?”

I grin. “Humor me.”

She leans back too, her smile finally genuine. “Emerald green. It reminds me of that brief moment in early spring when the snow is gone and the trees burst back to life, just before the flowers return and steal the spotlight.”

My brows rise. “That’s very specific.”

She shrugs. “I like those fleeting moments. They make you pay attention because it might be a long time before you experience them again, if you ever do.”

That’s remarkably insightful for someone so young. Her mother died when she was little so I wonder if that loss shaped this perspective. She knows what it’s like for good things to slip through her fingers.

“Tell me something else,” I say. “What’s the one thing you always want people to know about you when they meet you?”

She tilts her head. “I paint,” she answers proudly.

“You do?” I’m surprised and impressed.

“Obsessively.” She laughs. “In another life I hoped to open my own studio, showcase my pieces, and support other local artists.”

“And what’s stopping you from doing that?” I wonder aloud.

She gestures between us vaguely. “That isn’t exactly the role of a pakhan’s wife,” she says pointedly.

“I’ve never been married, so I’m not the expert on what a pakhan’s wife can and can’t do,” I tease. “But it seems to me that it’s a perfectly reasonable dream.”

A flash of unbridled excitement sparks in her eyes, but it fades as quickly as it flared.

“So, what do you paint?” I can’t help but ask.

“Mostly figures and portraits,” she says. “Sometimes I paint emotions I can’t put into words.”

Her whole face glows when she talks about her art. It’s the first time since we met that she’s genuinely happy. Seeing her like this is a rush. She was intriguing when all she showed were sharp edges and fire, but joyful Katya is mesmerizing. I want to give her the world.

As we talk, I can’t help wondering whether she feels the same electricity crackling between us. If she did, she wouldn’t be so eager to escape this marriage.