Page 2 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)
The oldest Kamarov mansion was a citadel built upon blood. Literally . Its Neo-Gothic architecture didn’t just loom over me; it watched me with grim, stoned towers and arched windows for eyes that held secrets and hid bodies.
The structure had endured years and generations of bloodshed and shared trauma, as it had been the foundation—the rock on which the Russian Mafioso—the Bratva—had been born.
And though the evening air around it was crisp, refreshing even, beyond the walls, I could still smell the stench of blood hidden beneath the building’s polished floors.
Armed guards were stationed just beneath the terraced stairway, donned in black suits and Ray-Bans, a quiet air of danger reeking off them as I approached them, adjusting the collar of the coat that brushed against the hairs of my skin.
They immediately stepped aside from the stairway, regarding my authority and presence with a quiet nod, which I returned, my eyes set ahead to the gigantic mahogany twin doors that were also manned by guards, who immediately drew them open upon noticing me.
And though it had been ages since I had been summoned to the mansion, they all knew just who I was and didn’t bother asking questions.
Upon stepping into the foyer, the doors clanked shut behind me, their resonance echoing through the building.
I brushed dust off my boots as my eyes scanned the place. Nothing had changed. The marbled floors gleamed brightly, and the arched windows were decorated with paintings of fallen angels, resembling a cathedral.
The golden pool of light flooding the room from the chandelier seemed to add warmth to a building that could only ever be truly cold.
A scoff escaped my lips as I headed for the sweeping staircase, covered in a red, flowing carpet that draped onto the floors. A blood-curdling silence filled the building, and if it weren’t for the slow, rhythmic tapping coming from above, I would have believed the building was empty.
I had been in my penthouse in New York when Matvey—our most recent Pakhan—had called. He had literally growled into the phone, ordering me to fly my ass all the way to Chicago, the true home of the Bratva.
His voice had sounded somewhat urgent, even with its authoritative undertones, and though I had been mildly irritated by his abruptness, I couldn’t exactly refuse his demands. As powerful as I deemed myself, there was a hierarchy—a system—and a Pakhan I had to answer to.
Even if that Pakhan was my cousin.
The urge to smoke to soothe my growing nerves filled me as I took a deep breath, ascending the stairway with an annoyed, hardened expression.
My mind raced through the countless reasons I must’ve been called.
As the overseer of the Bratva’s affairs in New York, there was truly no reason for me to be physically present in this building.
But knowing Matvey, summoning me here must’ve been a way for him to wave his authority in my face.
Once off the stairway and into the dimly lit halls leading to Matvey’s office, my attention was suddenly drawn to the sound of the office’s oak door slamming shut.
Almost immediately, Jaxon Whitmore—a seasoned American businessman who closely partnered with the Bratva—came into view, his expression appearing troubled despite his elegant looks and neatly slicked-back grey hair.
His posture was upright, a clear sign of his polished background.
As my eyes raked over his form, I suddenly remembered that he had gotten his daughter engaged to Matvey some time ago in an effort to expand the roots of his empire.
But it hadn’t worked out in the end, as Matvey pulled out of the engagement and married another woman.
I wondered if he had come to propose a marriage deal again.
“Rafael,” he acknowledged me with a nod, his voice gravelly and somewhat weathered from age.
I returned the acknowledgment with a nod of my own and a polite smile that faltered once he strode past me and disappeared down the stairs.
I had always wondered—then and even now—why a successful businessman like Jaxon Whitmore would entangle himself with the Bratva. But I figured that even someone as wealthy as him could never be satisfied.
In my eyes, Jaxon Whitmore was like a tree whose vines and roots only wanted to grow deeper, even into the darkest places.
And though I respected the stupidity of that fact, I could see that his lust for success would only lead him to an early grave.
Pushing aside thoughts of Jaxon Whitmore, I opened the double doors of Matvey’s office, revealing its classic, old-money interior.
Sitting in a high-back, tufted black leather armchair behind a mahogany desk cluttered with papers and books was Matvey, dressed in a costly Armani suit, his dark brown hair neatly brushed back.
Uncle Oskar, our ex-Pakhan, sat across from him in a similar black leather armchair, donning a fur coat that swept elegantly against the wooden floorboard as he tapped his signature cane rhythmically against the ground.
They didn’t notice me right away as I headed to the armchair next to Uncle Oskar, since they seemed absorbed in their conversation, their Russian slipping through their sentences.
I settled into the chair that dipped under my weight and leaned against it as I took in the familiar features of Matvey’s office, which had once belonged to Uncle Oskar.
A built-in bookshelf adorned with intricate markings stood tall behind Matvey, shielding the hidden passage to Matvey’s armory and other hidden passages between the walls of the mansion. This office, like the mansion, held the legacies, information, and secrets of all the Pakhans before Matvey.
I wondered, as my eyes now fell on his, if Matvey saw all of this as a burden.
Just then, a sentence Uncle Oskar had just spoken to Matvey caught my attention, pulling me back to the reality that I had been summoned for a reason.
He had said something along the lines of, “We have the right man for this, right here.”
I raised a brow, now fully tuning in to their conversation.
“Are you really sure he’s ready for this, Oskar?” Matvey asked, not bothering to spare me a glance. I knew better than to interrupt their little chit-chat, as I figured sooner or later they would acknowledge my presence.
They needed me anyway. Their conversation proved it.
Part of me still regretted not bringing a pack of cigarettes, as my irritation was growing. Watching them talk about me like I wasn’t there was unsettling. But I had learned to be patient—to watch and to do my job as their puppet.
The buzzing of my phone from the pockets of my coat briefly caught their attention as they craned their heads toward me. I pulled out the phone, a sense of satisfaction washing over me as I read an email from Maxim, my right-hand man, about an Australian nightclub deal currently in progress.
I had intended to acquire full rights and ownership of the nightclub, and apparently, the deal went through. If I weren’t so busy sitting here idly, I would’ve celebrated the win with some wine back at my penthouse.
I tucked my phone back into my pocket to find Matvey and Oskar now watching me. It seemed they were finally ready to talk, and I couldn’t have been more relieved.
Pulling a pocket watch from my coat’s breast pocket, I held their attention.
“Time’s running,” I stated, tapping at my pocket watch. “Why did you both call me in?” My eyes darted between them.
Matvey leaned forward, and right as his mouth opened to speak—
BOOM!
An explosion thundered just outside the building, shaking the mansion to its core.
The sound was erratic, its sheer force and pressure hitting me right in the stomach and nearly knocking me out of the armchair.
The chandelier above the room swung violently, threatening to tear its hinges and crush us all.
Sounds of men below, cussing and yelling in Russian, filled the room as Matvey, Oskar, and I all exchanged glances, a silent message being passed through our eyes.
An outsider had planted a bomb by the mansion.
But there wasn’t any time to think about who or why. We all got up, the aftershock of the blast still clawing at us.
Oskar flicked open the eagle-headed handle of his cane, revealing a sharp blade, while Matvey quickly grabbed his Glock from the drawer. Meanwhile, I pulled a gun from the pockets of my coat as we headed for the door, moving stealthily amid the chaos outside.
From outside Matvey’s office, the stench of smoke and ash lingered in the air, strong and dense, causing me to hold my breath as we stepped into the hallway, Matvey signaling with his hands that the coast was clear.
An inferno raged beyond the arched windows, aggressively consuming everything in its path and licking the stone walls of the building. After checking each part of the building for any intruders, we headed out, only for my eyes to widen.
Right in front of the mansion, by the terraced stairway, was my Maybach—or so I thought, until I realized I had it parked right outside the estate’s iron-bar gates.
The Maybach we were looking at was on fire, with sparks flying out and hissing loudly, as the orange embers from the flames licked every corner of the car.
Right by the car was Jaxon Whitmore’s slumped body, a third of his body burnt, with blood oozing out from his side where a shard of glass had penetrated into his skin. The smell of burnt flesh, along with gasoline, ravaged my nostrils as I tried to comprehend what was happening.
“What the fuck happened here?” Matvey demanded to no one in particular.
We stayed at the top of the stairway, watching guards rush to help Jaxon Whitmore, who I assumed was now barely alive, judging by how serious the situation looked.
And the longer I stared at Jaxon Whitmore’s body, it suddenly dawned on me that the hit might not have been meant for the old man, because honestly, it didn’t make any sense why anyone would want him dead.