Page 7 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
“Tropical wedding,” I repeat, in a voice that any sane person would recognise as pure menace.
The man beside her is obviously either stupid or insane, as not only is he presumably this screech-owl’s fiancé, he doesn’tunderstand the danger, or that I wasn’t asking a question. I was inviting my pilot to ensure this was fixed immediately.
“Now, look here,” the man begins, standing up straighter.
He’s dwarfed by my six-foot-five frame. I glance at him, and to his credit, he doesn’t back down.
“I paid for a luxury beach wedding elopement and two-week honeymoon on an exclusive island.” His voice wobbles. “And I promised that to my fiancée, and so if you could…”
Turning the gun on him has his wife-to-be screaming again.
I think he just realised he’s really at risk, because I’m feeling murderous, my lip curling as I listen to this bullshit when I should be getting Payton Love onto this plane, and away from London, safe, then going after the monster with my name and half my DNA.
“Let us go…” he finishes pathetically.
Pizdets. This is enough.
“I do not run a FUCKING TRAVEL COMPANY!” I roar.
The pilot cringes, which is logical. If it weren’t for the fact he knows how to fly my private plane, and pilots are difficult to get at late notice and I want Payton out of the way while I deal with Ivan, he’d be dead already.
“My name is Feliks Rykov. You might know me,” I say more calmly. “As the head of the Beckenham Bratva.” I let my Russian accent bleed through a little more.
Yes. They recognise that name. My reputation for being unhinged has been carefully cultivated with the deaths of those who deserve it, and the creation of weapons that are as genius as they are terrifying. Their horror shows, except for Payton, whose brows knit with confusion.
“Feliks.” There’s a gentle tug at my hand, I glance down at Payton’s upturned face. Her enormous eyes are trusting.
No one has trusted me for years. Decades. Ever.
“They just want to get married,” she says in a small voice, and fuck, but she has no sense of self-preservation, what makes her think she should intervene in a deadly situation?
Except, she’s correct. There’s one force on earth that can calm me, and it’s this girl. Slowly, I lower my weapon, and holster it, focusing on her little hand in mine. Trying to be a good enough man for her.
“Why are you taking them on a fucking wedding trip?” I ask the pilot.
“I thought you knew, Pakhan,” he stammers, sweat having beaded at his temple, and I go cold. Because of course. I should have known.
My son.
“Ivan told me it was at your instruction.”
“Yes, that’s the name of the customer service agent who promised me champagne on the flight!” the woman exclaims.
“Whatexactlydid my son sell you?” I demand.
“A full wedding package,” the man says.
Mudak. Ivan needed money so badly that he sold luxury wedding packages to my island. Camden really did have his balls in a vice.
“Well, he didn’t have the right to sell you anything, and she’s taking this plane.” I nod at Payton.
I’ve wasted enough time on this already. I need this distracting girl out of the way, then I can take out my bloody anger on the person who deserves it. Ivan.
“I’m not having a stranger on my exclusive flight!” the woman objects, loudly. Her voice is a cross between nails on a chalkboard and the sound of a six-year-old playing the violin.
“No,” I say. “You’re not getting on that plane, because, as I’ve mentioned before, it belongs to me.”
“I’ll report you to the?—”
