The Bratva’s Stolen Bride Page 2

  2

  Zoey

  My hands are shaking. I close my eyes hard, if squeezing them shut tight enough and not breathing will build up enough pressure inside of me to stop the shaking. But all it does is give me a headache.

  When I open my eyes and let the air out, spots swim in my vision. I look down and groan. My hands are still shaking.

  I take a shaky breath as I look back up at my own reflection looking back at me. If you were to see a random snapshot of this moment, you’d probably smile. You’d see the pale-face bride all dressed in white. You’d see the shaking hands and the nervous bottom lip flicking against her teeth.

  You’d see the tension in her neck and the stiff way she’s sitting in the chair, trying to stop the shakes. You would see all that and smile, thinking you’re seeing a girl with a bad case of wedding day jitters—so overcome with excitement and joy that she’s a nervous wreck.

  But if you saw this snapshot and thought all of that, you would be so fucking wrong.

  These aren’t wedding day jitters. These are a panic attack. I’m not “overcome with excitement and joy,” I’m losing my fucking shit. Because in a matter of minutes, I’m going to be walking down the aisle to my doom.

  I look over at the paper the wedding planner has left open on the vanity. Since I just met her less than ten hours ago, I’m not sure if it’s her being a cruel bitch or if she’s trying to psyche me up for the big day. But whatever her intention, seeing it just makes me angry. It’s a glaring reminder that my freedom has just been become forfeit. It’s been sacrificed, for money.

  The merger between my father’s company, KRV Financial, and Adonis Capital, has been rumbling towards closure for months now. It’s not even a well-kept secret. I mean, the two biggest financial institutions in Chicago merging is hard to keep under wraps, and the stock market has been betting on it for months.

  But last night, it reaches it’s awful, twisted, horror-movie conclusion.

  Last night, the CEO of Adonis Capital, Melvin Brubaker, sat down for dinner with my father at his house and dropped the bomb: he was ready to sign off on the merger. No more haggling, no more lawyers, no more dragging it out. But he had one last demand: me.

  Not for him, of course. Melvin Brubaker is sixty-five, and even in the finance world, sixty-five marrying twenty-two is pushing it. But he wasn’t after me for him, he was after me for his son, Chet.

  I groan. Even thinking of Chet’s smug, gross face and his vile reputation makes me want to throw up. Chet’s a known face in the upper-crust elite society in this city. A trust-fund brat through-and-through, with a billionaire father and all the cliches that come with it: expensive cars, celebrity friends, and drug offenses he’ll never be charged with.

  But then there’s the dark part—the worst part of Chet, that makes my stomach turn: a litany of women who’ve woken up in his bed with no idea how they got there.

  I know at least four girls personally who he’s victimized. But the full list is ten times that number, probably more. With his father’s money, Chet’s managed to pay off or settle every single offense. Every potential criminal charge has been swept under the rug. All of them.

  But apparently, the rug is getting a little bumpy. Chet’s reputation is approaching a Chernobyl level of toxicity. As in, no one will touch him with a ten-foot pole. Not to date, and more importantly to his father Melvin, not to marry.

  That’s where I come in. Melvin is the type of old rich guy who thinks of himself as a king, and since Chet is so abhorrently untouchable, he’s desperate to find someone to “give him an heir to his line.” That’s literally what he told my father. The problem is my dad is the exact same type of old rich asshole who believes shit like that.

  So just like that, they shook on it. My hand in marriage to cement a business deal. Sure, I could say no. I could run. But my father has made it pretty damn clear that this is happening. As in, if it doesn’t, I’m cut off. No more credit card, no more college tuition, no more amazing apartment, no car, nothing.

  All of that on its own would be shitty. But if it was just that, I’d still have run. I mean, I have my best friend Fiona, after all, who’s just been swept up in a romance with the most notorious Bratva Russian mobster in Chicago. If it was just the threat of being cut off, I could obviously run to her for help.

  But my father is more insidious than that. Much more. He didn’t build KRV Financial out of luck. He didn’t get to the top by smiling and being a nice guy. He got to where he is by brutality, threats, and sometimes violence.

  Oh, it’s all this big hush-hush secret. But I know what he is and what he’s capable of. Just like I know that there’s also been a doubt in his mind on him being my biological father. He and my mom had a brief “break” about nine and a half months before I was born. And she died about ten years ago to cancer, before I was old enough to have the “gee mom, did you ever bang someone else and maybe get pregnant by them” conversation.

  Since her death, and especially in the last few years, my “dad” has been more and more withdrawn from me. But I still know what he is. I know what he’s willing to do to get what he wants. And I know what “you will do this, Zoey” really means.

  So, here I am.

  There’s a knock at the dressing room door. I blink away my dark thoughts as I startle and turn. “Yes?”

  The door opens, and relief washes over me.

  “Oh, thank fucking God you’re here.”

  Fiona rushes into the room and throws her arms around me. I sob as I hug her back, gripping her like a life raft. She holds me and lets me hitch my breath against her before I finally pull back. She looks at me with a fallen face.

  “Well, shit,” she groans softly.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Shit is right.”

  “This is your dad, right?”

  We’ve barely had time to talk since all of this went into motion last night. She and Viktor were in Mexico when I called, but she swore she’d be here for this debacle.

  I nod. “Yeah. I’m the door prize for this fucking merger.”

  She makes a face. “Chet? Really?”

  I nod. “Lucky me, huh?”

  Fiona shudders. “Zoey, why are you going through with this?”

  “You know why.”

  My tone says it all. She and I have known each other for years. We were there for each other when both of our moms passed around the same time, to the same shitty cancer. And we’ve been close as sisters ever since. She also knows what my dad is capable of.

  “Look, you could just come stay with us. I mean with Viktor’s people—”

  “Fiona—”

  “He could protect you, Zoey! I mean… c’mon, we’re talking about the fucking Bratva here.”

  “No,” I shake my head. “We’re talking about putting you in my dad’s crosshairs too.”

  “Zoey—”

  “Viktor could have an army, Fiona, and it still—”

  “He does have an army!”

  I take a slow breath and shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t just skip out and make this something you and Viktor have to deal with. You know my dad would pull out all the stops. I’m talking connections with law enforcement, politicians, all of it. Yeah, I’d love to run back to Viktor’s mansion with you and hang out by the pool with a bunch of hot Russians with tattoos and guns. But my dad will play dirty, and we both know it. He’d come after Viktor a hundred different ways. He’d come after you, too.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing that, Fiona.”

  She takes my hands, and we sit in silence for a minute.

  “It’s just… Chet,” she groans.

  “Yeah, well you can be sure I’m not fucking sleeping with him.”

  She smiles wryly. “Well, at least you had a couple of fun years getting it all out of your system before this, huh?”

  I smile thinly. “Yeah…”

  Fiona and I are close as sisters. We share and tell each other everything. Or, almost everything.

  It’s h
ard to explain how it started. But you know when you tell a lie, and it starts to spiral, so you have to just keep lying? Well, that’s me when it comes to my sexual history. Or as the truth would be, my lack-there-of.

  Here’s the problem: when you’re part of the “in crowd” of the wealthy upper society, there’s a certain image you have to perpetuate. I don’t even know why or how I got sucked into feeding it, but I did. Most people, including Zoey and the publishers of pretty much any Chicago society gossip rag out there, think I’m “that” girl; the one with the litany of older guys, scandals, affairs, and steamy hot stories littering my past.

  Except the truth is, none of it is real. There is no closet full of ex’s. No tawdry list of married men or adventures worthy of Penthouse letters. It’s all bullshit, to keep up a certain image I don’t even know why I have anymore.

  The truth is, I haven’t done anything, with any guy, ever. Or at least, I hadn’t until three weeks ago.

  But three weeks, I did it all, and I haven’t stopped thinking about that night, or that man for a single second since.

  Part of me feels a little guilty. Maybe you should tell the person who’s taking your virginity that they are in fact doing that.

  But I didn’t.

  I laid eyes on him, and I knew without a doubt that he was what I wanted. He was what I’d been missing—the fantasy that I’d for some reason been holding out for. And my God was he the fantasy—every hot, demanding, orgasmic inch of it.

  I thought I would hit it and quit it, like people think I do every weekend. I’d finally lose my fucking v-card, and be done with it, and with him.

  But that’s the problem: I’m not done with him. I can’t be, when he’s been invading my every thought ever since. I might be marrying someone today. But for the last three weeks, all I’ve been thinking about, every minute of every day and gasping into my pillow every night, is him.

  There’s another knock at the door before it swings open. I look up past Fiona and stiffen when I see the wedding planner. Or in my case, the executioner.

  “And this must be the maid of honor!”

  Fiona nods without smiling. “Yep, that’s me.”

  “We could have used you at the rehearsal!” The planner says with a sugary smile.

  “Well, I could have used more than a nine-hour head’s up that my best friend was getting married!” Fiona beams back.

  The planner’s smile fades. “Well then. If you would be so kind as to get into your position by the doors to the church, that would be just great, mmmkay?”

  Fiona turns back to me and rolls her eyes. It’s the little thing I need to make me at least smile a tiny bit.

  “If you want to run, say the word,” she whispers. “You know you can come with me to Viktor’s. I know you’re going to say no, but if you’re halfway down that aisle and—”

  “I’ll let you know,” I choke, trying to hide it with a smile.

  She nods. “Okay then.”

  Fiona hugs me tightly and pulls away. “Just say the word,” she whispers. I nod as I wipe away a tear. She turns and brushes past the wedding planner out the door.

  “Well, if we’re ready—”

  “We’re not,” I mutter.

  “Okay, well, we’re on a bit of a time—”

  “I need a minute.”

  She frowns and opens her mouth, but I glare at her.

  “I need a fucking minute,” I snap.

  She scowls at me. “One minute,” she says tersely before she sniffs and slips out, shutting the door behind her.

  I groan and sigh as I turn and slump across the vanity. I can’t believe this is actually fucking happening. But it is. I close my eyes and imagine a different wedding. I know it’s stupid. I know it was one freaking night, and with a man like him, none-the-less.

  But still. I close my eyes and imagine it’s the man from the other night who’s waiting for me to walk down that aisle.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t be stupid,” I whisper to myself. I take a deep breath, knowing it’s time to face the music. I hear the door open behind me, and I groan as I raise my head.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, I said I’ll be ready in—”

  My eyes lock with his through the mirror in front of me. They grow wide as my jaw drops in disbelief. I turn, bug-eyed as I try and focus on gorgeous, rough and dangerous looking man in the leather jacket and dark jeans standing in the doorway.

  The very same man who took me to bed for the first time—and the couch, and the kitchen countertop, and against the front door—three weeks ago.

  “You…” I breathe.

  “You,” Lev snarls. His lips curl, and a dangerous heat flickers in his icy blue eyes. And then suddenly, he starts to stride towards me, like an animal coming after its prey.

  “You’re coming with me.”

  I gasp. The reality of all of this suddenly hits me like a storm, shaking me.

  “Wait, what?”

  “I said,” he snarls. “You’re coming with me.”

  I frown. “Wait, it’s… I’m getting married—”

  “Not anymore you’re not.”

  Suddenly, he’s on me. I gasp as his huge hands grab my waist, lifting me into the air. Instinctually, I kick and lash out when he grabs me, but he’s so much bigger and stronger than me. Before I know it, I’m gasping again as he tosses me over his freaking shoulder, like a caveman.

  “Wait, where—!”

  He turns, and without a word, starts to carry me out. He storms out of the dressing room, down the hall, and then suddenly kicks open a side door and steps out into daylight.

  Away from the church. Away from the horror-show wedding. But into what?

  His muscles bulge against my body. His firm grip holds me tight. And suddenly, I’m not sure if I should be turned on, or terrified.

  It also might be both, and I might kind of like that.

  3

  Lev

  She’s panting against me. But when we get outside, she suddenly starts to fight.

  “Let go of me!” She shrieks. I grunt as she starts to kick and thrash against me. “Let me the fuck GO!”

  She squirms and kicks some more, harder. I groan when one of her knees gets me square in the chest. But then I tighten my arms around her waist and legs, pinning her over my shoulder. She screams again as I march across mercifully empty the parking lot. She kicks again, and her big white wedding dress bunches up around her thighs.

  She keeps twisting and thrashing against me. And it’s making me… hard. So is the flash of her thighs as she tries to fight her way out of my grip. My eyes pull to the side, and I groan when they drink in the sight of the smooth, creamy skin of her legs. I grit my teeth and resist the urge to shove the dress the rest of the way up and let my eyes drink in the rest of her.

  The view is shattered when she starts to scream about being kidnapped again.

  “Stop yelling,” I hiss.

  “Well stop fucking kidnapping me!”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’ve literally got me over our shoulder, stealing me away from my own fucking wedding!” she snaps. “Help!! Someone help! Help, I’m being taken!!”

  I grunt and suddenly slide my hand up her thigh until I grab the white frilly garter belt I spotted there.

  “Hey!” She sputters. “What are you—”

  I yank the stupid thing off her kicking ankle. I reach behind me over my shoulder, and before she realizes what I’m doing, I stuff the garter into her mouth.

  “Mmmffmmmmpphh!!!” She squeals through the makeshift gag. She thrashes and writhes hard against me. But I’m much, much stronger.

  There’s been no real plan here—no getaway route, no plan B. Nothing. All I knew was, get her, take her, make her mine. But somehow, I’ve gotten her out of the church across a parking lot, and around the corner to the parking garage where I’ve parked.

  I trot up the stairwell to the second floor of the garage with her still kicking and screaming through the garter,
writhing against my shoulder. I march over to my ’70 Chevelle and yank the passenger door open. Zoey is still screaming what I’m sure are curses and obscenities at me as I sling her off my shoulder and set her down in the bucket seat.

  I crouch down and pin her shoulders to the seat as she glares at me.

  “If I take that out of your mouth,” I growl. “Will you scream?”

  She jabs a hand up, flipping me off. I chuckle.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Mmmffmmmph!! Phmmmmph!”

  I sigh. “Is that a ‘no Lev, I will not scream’?”

  Zoey glares at me.

  “You get one chance at this, got it?”

  I bring a hand up and pull the garter out of her mouth. Her face is pink and flushed, her lips swollen just enough to make me groan.

  “Better?”

  “Fuck you,” she spits.

  “And I thought you were a good little upper society girl.”

  Zoey sneers at me. Christ, even sneering, she’s unbelievably gorgeous. Stunning, captivating, and making it very, very hard for me to not grab her and have her again right here.

  She simmers as she glares into my face. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you.”

  She blushes deeply. “What?”

  “I said I am taking you.”

  “No, I heard you, I just don’t understand—”

  “You don’t want to marry that douchebag.”

  She purses her lips. “Says you?”

  My jaw tightens as I glare at her. “You don’t.”

  “How do—”

  “Because I know you’re mine,” I growl, making her gasp at the ferocity of it as I lean close to her. “Because I know you’ve been dreaming of me, and aching for me, ever since the other day.”

  She whimpers

  “Because I know you might be a bad girl, but I know damn well no other man has ever fucked you like I can fuck you. Like you’ve been dying to be fucked.”

  Zoey’s mouth falls opens.

  “And because I know you’ve been dying to feel my hands on you, and my lips tasting you again.”