Cobalt Sin (Belov Bratva #2)

1. Chapter 1

1

Bella

I ’m definitely going to hell.

Not that I wasn’t already on the list, but this? This just bumped me to VIP status. Front row, flames included.

Because instead of waiting at the bridal suite for the time to walk down the aisle to marry Konstantin freaking Belov, I’m sitting on a toilet, wedding dress hiked up, trying not to pass out.

Let me back up.

I didn’t mean to run.

Not really.

I just needed a second. A breath. Maybe an exorcism.

Somewhere, my parents are probably watching this disaster unfold—my mother clutching her pearls, my father rubbing his temples. This is what we died for?

And honestly? Fair question.

Because instead of fighting like I always swore I would, I’m taking the easy way out—selling my soul in exchange for a safety net. If that doesn’t earn me a one-way ticket to the underworld, I don’t know what does.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the world to stop spinning. The wedding brigade had practically marched me into the church, a well-oiled machine of Russian efficiency, lace adjustments, and hairspray fumes. And I let them. Because what else was I supposed to do?

I’d been parked in a tornado of lipstick, heel straps, and Aunt Ludmila muttering prayers under her breath—and somewhere in that blur, I remember something. A flash from the car window on the drive over this morning.

A taco stall.

Three blocks down. The one with the faded blue awning and a line already forming before noon. It’d barely registered at the time, but now?

Now it feels like a religious vision.

Suddenly, I’m 8 years old again, sitting in my dad’s beat-up Chevy before a big spelling bee, too nervous to breathe. He pulled into that taco stand on Rosewood and bought me two carne asada with extra lime.

Comfort food fixes everything, Bellita, he’d say, wiping salsa from my chin.

My stomach growls. My brain short-circuits.

Decision made.

I tell Natasha I need to pee. Simple. Believable. Even mobsters respect bladder emergencies. The bridal suite is locked down tighter than a federal prison, but the moment I wobble in my heels and make a pained face, one of Konstantin’s security goons—who looks like he’d rather wrestle a grizzly than deal with a hysterical bride—nods at another guard to escort me to the restroom.

I count my steps. Act normal. Resist the urge to sprint.

The second we reach the marble-floored hallway, I move fast.

“Actually, I think I’m going to be sick—” I clutch my stomach, bending slightly.

The poor guy guarding me—probably expecting tears, vomit, or both—looks absolutely horrified. “Uh—”

“Actually, I think I might be fine now.” I straighten, waving a hand. “Just need a second.”

He hesitates. Eyes narrowing slightly.

I double down, sighing dramatically. “Just… wedding jitters, you know? Big moment. Big day. Really gotta make sure I’m…” I gesture vaguely. “Centered.”

Still suspicious.

“Listen,” I press on, “it’s gonna take a while. You might as well grab a coffee or something. I heard Natasha say the catering table has espresso shots. You work hard. You deserve an espresso shot.”

He blinks at me like I just suggested he abandon his post to go adopt a puppy.

“Right,” he mutters. “I’ll be right outside.”

Perfect.

My heart is practically tap-dancing in my chest as I lock the bathroom door behind me. The bridal suite’s private bathroom—complete with gold fixtures and enough marble to build a Roman temple—suddenly feels like my only safe space.

“Breathe, Bella. Just breathe.”

The woman in the mirror looks like a stranger. Hair in some elaborate updo, tiny diamonds woven through the strands. Makeup that took forty-five minutes to apply. Wedding dress that weighs as much as a small car.

I’m not this woman.

I climb onto the toilet, hoist myself toward the window with the grace of a drunk giraffe, and hang suspended for a second—half in, half out—my veil caught on something inside.

“Screw it,” I mutter, yanking. The sound of ripping lace is oddly satisfying.

I drop the last few feet, landing in a perfectly manicured rosebush beside the church. My dress billows around me like some kind of absurd parachute.

I peek around the corner.

Konstantin’s man is still posted at the front entrance—a walking slab of muscle and bad intentions—but the side street?

Clear.

I hike up my skirts, ignore the absolute disaster that is my life, and make a run for it.

A delivery guy on a bike swerves to avoid me, nearly crashing into a street sign.

“What the hell, lady?”

“Sorry!” I call back, not slowing down. “Wedding emergency!”

I pass a café where two women are having lunch outside. One of them chokes on her drink when she sees me. The other just stares, fork frozen halfway to her mouth.

“Don’t get married,” I tell them breathlessly as I hurry past. “Or at least elope.”

I catch my reflection in a storefront window—mascara already smudging from sweat, wedding dress bunched awkwardly in my fists. I look deranged. Which seems appropriate, because marrying a man like Konstantin Belov without at least one moment of public panic would be the truly crazy thing.

A cop on the corner notices me and starts reaching for his radio. I quickly duck down a side street before he can decide whether “bride on the loose” constitutes an emergency.

My lungs are burning. Turns out, cardio in a corset is its own special form of torture. The dress weighs a ton, and I’ve got at least three layers of foundation melting down my face. But I don’t stop.

A little boy tugs his mother’s sleeve and points at me. “Mommy, is that a princess?”

“No honey, that’s just a woman making poor life choices,” she answers, pulling him along.

I can’t even argue with her assessment.

Three blocks later, I spot it—the blue and white taco truck with a hand-painted sign reading “El Taquito Feliz.” My stomach growls in recognition.

I approach the window, breathless, aware that I look absolutely insane. The vendor—a middle-aged man with a magnificent mustache—freezes mid-taco assembly.

“ Senorita?”

“Three carne asada tacos, please,” I say, trying to sound like it’s completely normal for a bride in full wedding regalia to order street food. “Extra lime.”

He blinks.

“Are you running away from your wedding?”

“Yes… No….” I press my lips together. “I’m having a slight crisis, and tacos fix everything. My dad always said so.”

The vendor’s eyes flick over my wedding dress, then up to my half-done hair. Something crosses his weathered face—pity, maybe, or recognition of a train wreck in progress—but it’s gone quickly, shuttered behind professional indifference. He turns to his grill, flipping a tortilla with practiced ease.

“Three carne asada tacos, extra lime,” he repeats, voice flat as if he serves runaway brides every Tuesday. He sprinkles a generous handful of chopped cilantro over the sizzling meat.

“Smart advice. Tacos fix most of life’s problems.”

“I…” I pat the sides of my dress uselessly. “I don’t have any money.”

My eyes start to sting with unshed tears. This is the cherry on top of this disaster sundae—starving, panicking, and now I can’t even pay for comfort food.

The taco vendor studies me for a moment, then simply nods and turns back to his grill without a word. The sizzle of meat hitting the hot surface makes my stomach growl again. He works quickly, his hands moving with efficiency, layering meat onto fresh corn tortillas, topping them with cilantro, onion, and his homemade salsa.

He slides a paper plate across the counter with three perfect tacos, lime wedges squeezed over the top.

“But I can’t—”

“Eat,” he says simply. “You look like you need it more than I need the money.”

I take the plate with shaking hands and find a small metal table nearby to sit at. The smell sends waves of nostalgia through me that are so strong I nearly sob. It smells like childhood, like safety, like a time when my biggest worry was a spelling test.

“It’s going to be fine,” I whisper to myself, “You signed a contract. One year. You can handle one year.”

I take a bite.

The flavors hit all at once—the smoky carne asada , the fresh lime, the spice of the salsa. I almost sob.

“Holy shit, this is good,” I mumble around a mouthful, swallowing too fast.

The vendor just nods, like he already knew that.

I try to keep eating, try to keep breathing, but panic starts clawing up my throat again. What am I even doing? Where am I going? How the hell am I getting out of this?

It’s fine. It’s fine.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my palm against my forehead. I just need to figure out a plan, that’s all. I can fix this.

Then—

A low, rumbling sound.

I look up.

Three black SUVs roll to a stop right in front of the taco stall.

The vendor stiffens. A couple of customers shuffle back.

Someone mutters, “Shit, is that the feds?”

The doors swing open.

And out steps him.

My soon-to-be husband.

I swallow.

It’s not fine.