Page 46 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

I set down my fork. The pasta is still steaming, a thick cloud billowing up from the plate.

“What was it like?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Dark.” The word hangs between us. “Konstantin wasn’t interested in raising children. He was interested in creating soldiers. From the time we could walk, Dmitri and I were trained to fight, to obey, to never show weakness.”

“That sounds...”

“Like hell.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s describing the weather. “It was, but it taught me how to survive.”

I think about my own childhood. The small apartment my parents shared was always clean but cramped. That was before my father got involved with the Bratva, when we were still happy. My mother would sing while she cooked, her voice filling the tiny kitchen.

Things never got better, but at least I had those moments of warmth.

“Did you have anything good?” I ask. “Any moments that weren’t about surviving?”

Roman considers the question. His fork hovers over his plate, forgotten.

“Dmitri,” he says finally. “Before he changed and the charm became a weapon. We used to sneak out at night and go to the lake near our property. We’d swim in the dark and dare each other to go deeper.”

“What happened?”

“We grew up.” Roman’s mouth curves, but it’s not a smile. “He learned that the world rewarded cruelty.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He sets down his fork. “Look at where we are. Look at how we got here. Dmitri was cruel and he was rewarded with power and respect, with you. I was exiled to Siberia because I couldn’t keep up.”

I don’t know what to say. So I do what my mother would have done—I reach for more food.

“Tell me about your father,” Roman says.

I look up, surprised. “My father?”

“You never talk about either of your parents. So, talk.”

I pick up a piece of warm bread and tear off a corner. It’s an excuse to do something with my hands. Maybe I’m just putting off the inevitable.

I take a breath and set the bread down. “My father was... is... a gambler. Not a good one. He owed money to the wrong people, and they happened to be connected to the Volkonskys.”

“How much?”

I’m surprised he doesn’t know. Then again, perhaps only Dmitri knew the extent of Dad’s debts.

“Enough that they were going to kill him.” I push the piece of bread around my plate. “Dmitri saw me at a dinner. I was nineteen, I didn’t know what I was walking into.”

Roman’s jaw tightens. “He offered to forgive the debt in exchange for you?”

“It wasn’t an offer; it was a demand.” I meet his eyes. “My father didn’t even hesitate. He handed me over like I was a piece of furniture he no longer needed. We married a year later.”

The memory still hurts, even after all these years. My father avoided my eyes as the papers were signed. After, he patted my shoulder like I was a horse he was selling at auction.

“You were twenty,” Roman says. His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge beneath it.

“I was naive. I thought marriage meant love. Dmitri promised that he would take care of me.” I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “I was wrong.”

14

ROMAN