A Wife for the Bratva Boss (Holidays with the Bratva #8)

Aria

Winter light is unforgiving. It exposes the gray in Galina's skin and the tremor in her hands that she tries so hard to hide. I shift her weight forward, keeping my hands professional as I settle her against the fresh pillow.

It’s a performance. My methodical approach is the lie I tell every day—that Galina is just a patient, that I haven't fallen in love with her grit and humor. I treat her like a job so I don't have to admit how much she reminds me of my grandmother.

"Better?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"Always better when you're here, dushka." Her accent thickens the warm endearment. She pats my hand with fingers that tremble now, bones too close to the surface. "You work too hard for an old woman."

I fight a smile at her shameless fishing. Galina might be declining, but she hasn’t fallen down yet, and we both know it.

"You're right," I say, smoothing the blanket across her lap. "I’ll tell your grandsons to ship you off to one of those dusty homes where they feed you once a day and leave the TV on all night for company. Then I can finally go sit on a beach and drink Mai Tais."

Galina’s raspy laugh crinkles the corners of her eyes. She knows the truth: she isn't going anywhere, and neither am I.

We settle into the Aslanov estate’s comfortable silence.

Neither of us puts much stock in small talk.

She doesn’t have the time for it and I’ve been too busy hustling to scrape out a living to learn the skill.

The last eight months have been my longest reprieve.

The first chance I’ve had to fucking breathe and not worry about a creak outside my apartment door or the nervous rattle of my twenty-year-old car’s engine.

Even the converted servant's room puts my old apartment to shame. But more than the luxury of polished furniture and staff servants is the pleasure of caring for a woman who treats me like blood. A woman who cares for me without question or cruel judgements. In my twenty- two years, these eight months are the first time I’ve ever felt safe. Safety comes at a price.

Igor Aslanov.

A sudden shift in pressure, a primordial warning on the back of my neck, straightens my spine and tells me the oldest of her beloved grandsons has arrived.

I’ve trained myself not to scurry from the room at his entrances.

No, I don’t give the cat any reason to chase.

I greet him with a polite, distant smile, steel my nerves, and prepare to leave.

Like anyone who’s had to live on the streets, I know how to skirt danger.

How to dance near flames without being consumed.

He’s braced himself against the doorframe, suit jacket gone, white shirtsleeves rolled to reveal forearms that look like they could strangle a man or cradle a child with equal competence. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw carved from something sharp and unforgiving.

He doesn’t smile. He never smiles.

"Aria."

His voice is low, vibrating through the floorboards. Vibrating through… me.

"Mr. Aslanov." I turn back to Galina, fussing with the edge of her blanket just to give my hands something to do. The professional mask is back in place, but it feels thinner than usual.

"Igor," Galina corrects, her face lighting up in a way that makes my chest ache. "Come. Sit."

He moves into the room with that deliberate stalk of his.

He pulls a chair close to the bed, and reaches for his grandmother's hand. I swallow a lump in my throat—his large, tattooed hand engulfs her fragile, paper-thin bones. His tenderness unnerves me as much as his darkness. It’s the demon I wrestle with.

The one that whispers and suggests things I can’t have and shouldn’t want.

"How are you feeling today, Babushka?" His thumb strokes her knuckles.

"I am well. Aria takes good care of me." Galina's gaze flicks between us, sharp despite the illness eating her from the inside. "She is a gift, this one."

"Yes." Igor’s eyes cut to me. Heavy. Assessing. "She is."

Heat crawls up my neck, hot and sudden. I turn away, busying myself with the pill organizer on the nightstand, counting out doses I memorized weeks ago. Just a job, I remind myself. He is just the employer.

"I need to speak with you both," Galina says.

The tone of her voice stops my hands mid-air. It’s not the voice of a sick grandmother; it’s the voice of a matriarch.

"Sit, Aria. Please."

I sink into the armchair opposite Igor. The fabric of my scrubs suddenly feels too thin, leaving me exposed under the intensity of two pairs of dark, demanding eyes.

Galina looks at her grandson, her expression softening into something tragic. "I am dying, moy dorogoy. We do not need to pretend otherwise."

"Babushka—"

"No." She lifts a hand, silencing him instantly. "I have one wish before I go. One thing I need to see to know you will be safe."

The room goes dead still. Even the antique clock on the mantel seems to hold its breath.

"I want to see you married, Igor. Before Christmas. Start your new year on a good note."

The words land like stones in a frozen lake. Igor's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

"You don't need to worry about—"

"I do worry." Her voice cracks, the steel giving way to fear. "You are alone, vnuchek. You have built walls so high no one can climb them. I will not leave this world knowing you will live behind them forever."

"I'm not alone. I have my brothers—"

"Your brothers are not wives. They are not peace." She reaches for his hand, gripping it with surprising strength. "Please. Give me this."

I should leave. This is private. I start to rise, but Galina's other hand shoots out, latching onto mine. She holds us both there—Igor and me, tethered to her by touch.

"Aria," she says, turning those knowing eyes on me. "You understand, yes? What it means to want someone you love to be happy?"

My throat closes. "Yes."

"Good." She squeezes my hand, pulling it fractionally toward Igor’s. "Then you will help me convince this stubborn man."

I look down at the tangle of our fingers on the coverlet. Her pale, translucent skin bridging the gap between my hand and Igor’s deadly one. My eyes widen, and I bite my lip to stop the gasp.

She isn't asking me to give him advice.

The triangle of our hands drains the blood from my face. Galina doesn't just want him married. She is offering up a candidate. She is offering me.

Panic, sharp and cold, spikes in my veins. I try to pull my hand free, a jerk of instinct to sever the connection, to run before this madness takes root.

I stop.

Igor is watching.

He isn't looking at his grandmother. His gaze is fixed on my hand, watching the way I tried to recoil from him. His expression is unreadable, a mask of carved stone, but his eyes are dark, intelligent, and terrifyingly alert.

He sees the panic. He sees the rejection. And I can’t tell if the narrowing of his eyes is amusement at the absurdity of it, or the cold calculation of a predator realizing the prey just noticed the trap.

"I'll leave you two to talk," I say. I try again to extract my fingers, slower this time.

Galina doesn't let go. "No. Stay."

"Babushka—"

"She stays." Galina's tone brooks no argument. She looks between us, something flickering in her expression despite her exhaustion. "You are both here. You both care for me. This is good."

The silence stretches, taut as a wire. No, no, no this can not be happening. With my family background, I should never even consider getting married. But like any other silly girl I have dreamt of the getting married. But not like this. Not to him.

Igor stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the hardwood. He moves to the window, his back to us, shoulders rigid beneath the crisp white of his shirt.

"I'll consider it," he says finally, his voice flat.

What? Wait, he’ll consider it? What does that even mean?

"You will do more than consider." Galina's words are steel wrapped in velvet. "You will do this for me, Igor. Before the snow falls on Christmas."

He doesn't answer. Just stands there, silhouetted against the winter light, a man carved from stone and silence.

Galina releases my hand, and lies back against her pillows. Her burst of energy drained. "Good. Now, Aria, help me with my tea. And Igor—stay. I want to hear about your day."

I move on autopilot, pouring lukewarm tea from the pot, adding honey the way she likes. My hands are steady even though my pulse is hammering in my throat.

Married. Before Christmas.

Igor returns to his chair, and we fall into the rhythm of a normal visit—Galina asking questions, Igor answering in that measured way he has, me fading into the background like good help should. But her request sits heavy in the room, a third presence we all pretend not to notice.

When Galina's eyelids droop, I ease the teacup from her hands and adjust the blankets.

"Rest now," I say.

"You will think about what I said?" she asks, her gaze on Igor.

"Yes."

"Good girl." She closes her eyes, her breathing evening out almost immediately.

I move toward the door, desperate for air, for space, for anything that isn't this room and the impossible thing she just asked for.

Igor's voice stops me at the threshold.

"Aria. A word."

It's not a request.

I follow him into the hallway, and he closes the door behind us with a soft click. The corridor stretches in both directions, all polished wood and expensive art.

When he faces me, I force myself to meet his eyes.

"She's serious," I say, because someone needs to state the obvious.

"I know."

"You can't actually be considering—"

"I am considering it." His gaze pins me in place. "And I'm considering you."

This time I can’t stop the gasp. "What?"

"You heard her. She wants me married. She wants peace." He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to back up. "You're here. You care for her. You're the logical choice."

"Logical choice?" My voice screeches. "You can't be serious."

"I'm always serious."

"This is insane. We can't just—you don't even know me."

"I know enough." Another step. He's close now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, smell the faint scent of his cologne—something clean and sharp. "You need stability. Money for school. A place to stay."

"So this is a business transaction?" A bitter laugh escapes me. Of course, that’s how he sees me. When was the last time anyone even looked at the real Aria? "How romantic," I sneer.

"I'm not offering romance. I'm offering security. A roof over your head. Tuition paid. A future." His voice drops lower. "All you have to do is say yes."

"And if I say no?"

Something flickers across his face—too quick to name. "She wants you, Aria. She's made that clear.And I will do anything to give my grandmother what she wants before she passes away."

Guilt twists in my stomach. He's right. Galina looks at me like I'm the granddaughter she never had. What kind of monster would refuse a dying woman?

But marrying Igor Aslanov? A man I barely know? A man whose world is built on violence and control, even if I never see it directly?

"I need to think," I say.

"You have until tomorrow." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, presses it into my palm. His fingers brush mine, and heat sparks up my arm. "My private number. Call me with your answer."

Then he's walking away, his footsteps silent on the hardwood, leaving me standing in the hallway with a piece of cardstock burning a hole in my hand.

I look down at it. Black print on cream paper, elegant and understated.

Igor Aslanov

No title. No company. Just a name and a number.

I slip it into my pocket and head toward my room, my mind spinning.

Married.

The words pound in my head with every step.

I pass through the marble and stainless steel kitchen—and nearly collide with the housekeeper, Anya, who's wiping down the counters.

"Sorry," I mutter.

She gives me a knowing look. "You look like you've seen a ghost, devochka."

"Something like that."

She tsks, shaking her head. "The pakhan has that effect. But he is a good man, under all that ice."

I want to ask her how she knows, what she's seen, but I just nod and keep moving.

My room is at the end of the east wing, tucked away like an afterthought. It's small but comfortable—a bed, a dresser, a window that overlooks the gardens. I close the door behind me and lean against it, closing my eyes.

You're the logical choice.

Not I want you. Not I care about you.

Logical.

I pull out my phone, scroll through my contacts until I find the one I'm looking for.

Danny

We've been on two coffee dates. He's nice. Normal. Works for an IT company, likes hiking, and has a labrador retriever named Max. Danny is the kind of guy who represents everything Igor Aslanov isn't—safe, predictable, uncomplicated.

My thumb hovers over his name.

Then I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the bed.

Because the truth is, I don't mind a little danger. A psychologist would tell me it’s because it’s what I know. It feels familiar, and that’s why it feels normal. But they’d be wrong. What I want is to belong somewhere. To someone. To stop feeling like I'm one mistake away from losing everything.

And Igor Aslanov, for all his cold control and dangerous edges, is offering me exactly that.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, the business card still in my pocket, and stare out the window at the snow beginning to fall.

Christmas is right around the corner. Then I’ll have to decide if I'm brave enough—or desperate enough—to say yes.

I fall asleep with more questions than I could ever answer.