Ruthless Mafia King: A Dark Bratva Arranged Marriage Romance

“Kata!”

I groan as Igor’s deep voice invades my dreams, making me aware of the pounding headache that threatens to make me vomit on the floor. One of my eyes cracks open, but the bright sunlight stings, so I slam it back shut and throw the soft pillow over my head.

“Go away!” I snap from my messy bed as my hands fly to my aching temples.

“No can do. Papa has something to tell you,” he insists.

The determination in his voice tells me it can’t wait. My plan of sleeping until noon is now ruined anyway. It wouldn’t matter much if I hadn’t spent the entire Friday night working at a music event where the artist I’ve been trying to sign was playing. Being a talent scout sucks when my family decides to interfere with my beauty sleep.

Whatever it is that my father wants me to know, it cannot possibly be more important than me recharging my batteries. Even the smallest mishap at work could make them doubt that I’m the right person for the job.

While I consider myself more attuned to the music scene than anyone in New York, I’m still a nobody compared to the more experienced scouts. It doesn’t matter much that I landed a job at a very well-established recording company as soon as I got out of high school three years ago.

“The world can do without whatever information Papa wants to give me,” I mumble under my breath, still trying to block out the bright rays and hide from the world. My stomach protests at my movements.

“I wouldn’t make assumptions if I were you, printsessa.”

Igor’s warning tone freezes me on the spot. It’s the one he uses every time he pretends to have higher authority than he actually possesses, and he only uses this nickname whenever something bad is about to happen.

Slowly, I toss the pillows away and kick the blanket off my body, turning my attention to the open French window that’s facing the private garden. I place both palms over my face and rub my cheeks in an attempt to wake up. The cool silk of the ivory nightgown slips across my breasts and makes my nipples harden at the sensation. I could stay in bed. The temptation to ignore my father’s demand and simply relax on the comfortable pillows lingers, but I don’t dare.

I’ve seen enough of his world to know not to challenge the pakhan. Even the fact that I’m his favorite baby girl doesn’t protect me from his wrath.

Narrowing my eyes to slits, I watch him sitting under the gazebo by the pool. His jet-black hair is slicked back perfectly, revealing his deep blue eyes. With his hands curled on the white wicker armchair, he turns his head and beckons with his finger in a universal gesture for me to approach. Despite the drumming between my eyes, I huff and force myself to rise to my feet. This can’t be good, and despite the intense beating of my heart, I shove my feet into a pair of fluffy silver and gold house shoes, wrap my silk robe around me, grab a pair of sunglasses, and drag myself toward him.

He loves making people wait for the most earth-shattering news, enjoys watching their helplessness when they realize there’s nothing they can do about the predicament they’re in.

“Papa,” I greet him casually once I reach his chair, an overly friendly smile curved across my lips.

The sunglasses I’m wearing don’t help at all to make the daylight less painful to my brain. They only dull the pain.

“Ah, my little ray of sunshine,” he teases in his low, cold voice. “How lovely to see you this bright and early.”

“Is everything okay, Papa?” I ask, willing him to get to the point so I can go back to bed.

He sighs. The gesture is so unlike him that it makes me pause. Whatever’s going on must be more serious than I thought. My heart speeds up a notch, and my headache amplifies.

He watches me intently and with little emotion. Then a sad smile slowly spreads across his face. My eyes sink into his midnight blue gaze, and though I’m his favorite child, there’s nothing remotely resembling kindness in them. I can’t quite decipher what it is that I see. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was grief. I study his expression to try and figure it out, but all he does is give me a slight shake of his head.

“Sit down, Kata,” he says with another sigh. He pats the arm of the neighboring chair.

Defeated.

That’s the word I’m looking for. That’s the emotion in his eyes.

“Papa,” I say cautiously. “What’s going on?”

No reply.

“Just spit it out. I’m all ears,” I press.

With his left hand, he motions to a butler to pour him a glass of the vodka that’s already resting on the small, white table in front of him. Only after the small gesture does he turn, giving me the glass.

“Drink,” he orders gently, pressing it in between my fingers.

The cool and transparent surface slides across my skin. Still recovering from the night before, the bile in my throat threatens to rise. Knowing better than to complain, I give my father an obedient nod and bring the glass to my lips.

The liquid glides into my mouth, and a warm, mellow sensation spreads throughout my body.

“Holly crap, this is smooth,” I exclaim, surprised by the velvety feel despite its strength.

My father chuckles, the familiar lightness returning to his gaze. “Stoli Elit is the best,” he says, the grin not leaving his face.

I watch him carefully as he places his glass back on the table. The butler fills it up again, and Papa takes it and drinks it. He lets his body slump in his seat.

Despite his relaxed posture, a part of me remains cautious. His attitude can swing the other way in the blink of an eye. He’s one of those people that even a psychologist would have a hard time understanding, let alone a young, inexperienced girl like me.

That’s why I brace myself as much as I can, thinking up a thousand ideas of what this conversation could be about and trying to silence the violent pounding of my heart in my chest.

“Your brothers and I went to see Nikolai Volkov yesterday,” my father suddenly announces, a thoughtful expression etched on his face.

Now I certainly hadn’t expected that. So far, Volkov, a successful and business friend of the Bratva, had managed to stay in line well enough for my father not to pay him a visit. I wonder what he did to warrant it. What he does for a living is well-known around New York City. Need the latest and deadliest guns? Volkov Enterprises can get them for you with overnight shipping straight from Russia.

Curiosity itches inside me as a dozen questions scream for attention. However, I bite my lip and let him speak.

“To make a very long story short, the fucking bastard has a brilliant head on his shoulders,” he continues in the same casual tone as he fills the empty glass back up.

Though I’m not a stranger to seeing him drink, I’ve only known him to go through the bottle if some serious shit has hit the fan.

“As of yesterday, you are engaged to be married to Nikolai Volkov,” my father announces evenly.

I nearly fall off my chair. Instead, I lean back, my body hitting the cushions with a hard thump.

“Come again?” I manage to say through gritted teeth, completely dumbfounded.

“You will marry Nikolai Volkov,” my father states in a harsher voice, his cold eyes darting toward me.

My hands fumble with the silk pillow lying between my thighs. “How can I possibly do that? I’ve never met him.”

My father shrugs with indifference. “It’s the only way,” he snarls between gulps of vodka.

“Is this a sick, twisted joke, or are you really that cruel?” I challenge, trying to wrap my mind around it.

I know I have a reputation for being reckless and going on insane adventures. But this, I want nothing to do with.

My father narrows his eyes at my disrespect. “Do you think I would joke about something like this?” he asks, placing his glass back on the table.

He moves closer, leaving no space between us. I can smell his vodka breath with every word he speaks.

“Volkov saved all our asses yesterday, and for that, I owe him,” he admits. “It is his wish to marry you. He’s the only one that can cancel this arrangement. Do you understand? My hands are tied.”

Though I understand every word my father says, I barely comprehend his decision. I need to push back. I need to make him realize that this isn’t the solution to his problem.

“Papa, please,” I beg as one of his large palms covers mine, squeezing my fingers lightly.

“Where’s the pride I raised you to have, my dear daughter?” my father says.

This hurts more than his decision to marry me off. He’s a very perceptive person who notices every detail. To him, reputation is important. Fear is a power that can bring his enemies to their knees and keep them from attacking.

“Listen to me carefully,” he urges with a sigh, dropping his stern expression. “Though there’s nothing I can do about the engagement, it doesn’t mean that it will come to pass. This was Nikolai’s request. Therefore, he’s the only one who can back out of it. Do you understand what I’m saying, printsessa?”

My lungs still as my father’s cold hands move to cup my face. Tears well up in my eyes, but I nod.

“Good,” my father says, patting me on the head. “Your only job now is to get Nikolai to despise you, so much so that he won’t even want to be in the same room as you, let alone marry you. The fate and reputation of this family lay on your shoulders, Kata.”

With that, he kisses me on the forehead and squeezes me in his arms.

His words were clear. I still have the chance to not marry Nikolai damned Volkov.

No one comes between me and my sweet freedom.