Page 5 of Married to the Bratva

“Want me to send him a sternly worded letter?”

“I want you to show him no mercy, Maxim. Your father was merciful and that earned him his early grave.” He switches to Russian. “Nikakoy poshchady.”

“No mercy,” I echo back before hanging up.

I don’t want to think about my father right now, how he’d come up with some bullshit reason why Evan should be given another chance.

Outside, the rain amplifies every sound—the whoosh of passing cars, the slap of water against the pavement, the occasional blare of a horn. New York doesn’t stop for anything, not even one hell of a storm.

I slow the car, easing it into the nearest parking spot across from the target building.

The apartment complex is faded red brick, broken windows patched with cardboard, steel door with rust eating at its edges.

It fits Evan, a man who pretends to have class but is rotting from the inside. A man who lies about his wealth while stealing from the Bratva.

As I’m reaching for my gun, someone walks out of the building. But it’s not Evan with a hastily packed suitcase trying to run from me.

It’s a woman.

The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

She stands there, trembling in the doorway like a startled deer, her wide, doe-like eyes darting around the street, taking in every shadow and corner.

Her wedding dress clings to her body, the rain-soaked fabric cheap and unforgiving. It molds to her like a second skin, highlighting every curve—the delicate dip of her waist, the soft swell of her hips.

The dress is wrong for her, like something borrowed or bought last-minute. It’s the kind of cheap synthetic material that shouldn’t exist, turning translucent when wet, teasing at what it’s supposed to conceal.

I can see the outline of her nipples, light pink and pebble-hard against the damp fabric. A pulse of heat surges through me, sharp and unexpected. My cock twitches at the sight, and I clench my jaw, forcing my attention upward.

Her hair is plastered to her face, darkened by the rain, and yet she still looks… ethereal. Strands cling to the curve of her jaw and the pale column of her neck.

Her features are striking in their fragility—the high sweep of her cheekbones, the small, straight nose, and lips that are slightly parted, trembling as if she’s about to speak but hasn’t quite mustered the courage.

There’s a vulnerability in the way she clutches a small, bedraggled handbag to her chest, her knuckles whiter than the cheap fabric of her dress.

She looks too young, too innocent for the world she’s just stepped into. Twenty, I’d guess—twenty-five, tops. Her wide eyes flicker with fear but also something else, something harder to pin down.

Her lips press together, her chin tilting up just slightly. The movement is subtle, but it shifts something inside me.

Innocent, yes. But not weak. Not entirely.

My jaw tightens as I watch her from the shadows of the SUV. I shouldn’t care. She’s not my problem. But something about her—the raw emotion in her movements, the vulnerability she doesn’t bother to hide—makes me pause.

My fingers move to my phone, and I snap a quick photo of her face. I send it to Nikolai with a single word:

Identify.

The seconds drag as I wait for his response, my eyes never leaving her as she stumbles down the street. I rejoin the traffic and follow until she stops under the awning of a closed bookstore.

Her shoulders shake as she cries into her hands. I want to hold her in my arms, ask who hurt her, and then go rip his fucking head off.

She pulls out her cellphone and makes a call.

My phone buzzes, and Nikolai’s reply comes through:

Sophie Hale. 22. Cybersecurity expert. Self taught. Engaged to Evan Daniels. Wedding is booked at the courthouse in thirty minutes. One living relative, a grandmother, Amber Hale, 72. Currently in St. Jude’s getting physio for a sprained ankle. Need more?

I smile to myself. The woman of my dreams is supposed to marry my victim. Interesting.

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