Daddy’s Reluctant Queen (Bratva Daddies #4)

1. Sofia

SOFIA

“You look like an escort.”

Adam rattles the insult off in Russian as I survey my appearance in the mirror. The word he uses is putana, a crude word for a prostitute. He’s always poking fun at my appearance, especially when we have to be dressed up.

I’m turned around and looking at myself over my shoulder, just to double-check that the back still looks as good as it does in the front.

I fought for the right to wear this evening gown.

The moment my father saw it, he flipped, and if I’m being honest, it was for good reason.

This dress is backless and it clings to my hips like Saran Wrap.

The material is made from fine, smooth silk that feels cool on my skin.

The neckline dips down into a deep V that stops right between my full breasts.

And to make matters worse, the entire ensemble is a deep crimson red—the same shade as my favorite lipstick.

I fling my long, dark hair over my shoulder as I regard my brother with a raised eyebrow. Then, with a smirk, I answer in English, “Maybe I am… for the right price.”

He snickers. “I can’t believe Papa let you buy that dress. Much less allowed you to wear it tonight. You’re going to have to beat the men off with a stick, you know.”

That makes me laugh. I walk over to my vanity and check my makeup one last time under the warm lights around the glass. Red, red lipstick. Check. Eye makeup that highlights my bluish-gray eyes. Check. Face to beat the gods. Check and Double-check.

“Relax,” I tell him. “I’m the daughter of the Pakhan. I could walk into that ballroom naked and no one would touch me.”

“Except Papa,” he says. “He’d wring your neck.”

I pause and look him up and down. My brother always looks good cleaned up.

He’s tall and blond with sparkling blue eyes and the way of smiling that almost looks like he knows something you don’t.

He’s wearing a dark cashmere and silk suit and a cream dress shirt with the first four buttons undone, showing a hint of his chest.

Adam’s only a couple of years younger than me, but he’s never been the kind of little brother who followed me around like younger siblings tend to. Still, he’s always tried to be my protector and my moral compass. I’ve never really needed the former, but he comes in handy sometimes for the latter.

I button the bottommost button on his shirt and he sighs. “Seriously?”

“No one wants to see the three hairs on your chest,” I say, and he chuckles. “Come on. Let’s make our entrance.”

We walk together out of my bedroom and down the hallway to the top of the stairs leading into the living room and foyer.

The ballroom is in the east wing of the house, which is annoying in these heels.

Whenever there’s a party and I decide to wear these things, I have the thought of kicking them off until we get to the door.

Sometimes, I wish we had a conveyor belt to take us through this massive mansion we call home.

“You know,” he says as we walk, “I heard through the grapevine that Papa’s thinking of naming me his successor tonight.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

He scoffs. “Why did you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like that’s a ridiculous thing. You know, I am his only son. A lot of Bratva leaders ask their sons to be the one to run things after they kick off.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t trying to say anything bad. I guess I’m just…” I pause, looking for the right word. “Curious. That’s all. I mean, who told you that he was thinking about saying something tonight, anyway?”

“Does that matter?” He sighs. “Listen, I know I’m not exactly some badass seventeenth-level black belt with sniper training like some people.”

I burst out with laughter. “Seventeenth level? What kind of black belt has seventeen levels?”

“Exactly my point.” His joyful mood darkens as he glances around us.

He’s looking out for any ears that might be listening.

“What I mean is that you’re built for this life,” he says a little more softly.

“You’re trained to fight. You know how to handle money and you know how to talk the talk. You even know Fenya.”

“I don’t know it all that well,” I say. “It’s not like I’ve spent time in a Russian jail.”

“Face it. If you had been born male, Papa wouldn’t even be looking my way to succeed him.”

That makes me sigh with sadness. I hate it when he gets down on himself like that. “You know, he also has the option of choosing somebody from the actual Bratva to succeed him. He doesn’t have to consider you at all.”

He gives me a side glance. “Thanks.”

“All I’m saying is that he’s thinking of you when he doesn’t really have to. I mean, we’re not the royal family. You don’t automatically inherit the role as Pakhan at birth, you know. It has to be given, and he’s chosen to give it to you. Presumably.”

“I know. I know.” He says the second ‘I know’ a little lower, and I get the feeling that there’s more to this whole conversation than just whether or not he’s been chosen to lead the Bratva.

We get to the double doors leading into the ballroom and he stops, turning to me. He straightens his jacket and lifts his chin. “I look good, right?”

“You’re as pretty as a picture, little brother.”

He smiles. It’s only a half smile, but it makes his face glow. “Thanks.”

We walk into the ballroom. The minute Adam opens the door and I walk through, the smell of the party greets me first. Wine and perfume mixed with cologne and the faint, hearty scent of food being served to the guests.

When we were kids, we were strictly forbidden from being in this room unless invited.

That doesn’t mean that Adam and I didn’t sneak in here as much as possible when we were young.

It always looks regal in here. The gold wallpaper, textured with little diamond shapes in the center, and the smooth, black marble floors with risers on the far side of the room, where bands and DJs usually play.

A large crystal chandelier hangs above us, right at the center of the room, and fills the space with a warm amber glow.

Tonight, Papa has tables that surround the section of floor where people are dancing to the big band music playing coming from the musicians on the risers. The tables all have linen cloths and beautiful floral centerpieces. Waiters walk around carrying trays of wine and food for the guests.

It’s lovely. Just the kind of pomp and circumstance that my father enjoys. And he should have it all. It is his birthday.

I spot him on the other side of the room, surrounded by some of his men.

They’re laughing and talking, drinks in their hands and my father puffing a cigar.

He’s sixty years old today, but he doesn’t look much older than a man in his fifties.

Not to me, anyway. His face isn’t very wrinkled and his dark, shiny hair is still free from any gray, and his blue eyes shine like diamonds with every laugh.

It’s a good night. And as we walk in, heads turn and the din of conversation drops to a rumble. The son and daughter of the Pakhan are here… and they look stunning.

“Told you the dress was too much,” Adam mutters to me as we walk across the room.

“How do you know they’re not talking about those three lonely hairs on your chest?”

“They can see less of my chest than yours,” he shoots back. “Come on. Let’s have a drink before we find our seats for dinner.”

The bar is on the other side of the room near the door leading to the kitchen. Adam orders two glasses of Merlot for us and as we wait for our drinks, he gazes over at our father. The conversation he was having was coming to an end and now he’s making his way over to his table.

“We should have shown up after dinner,” he says. “Maybe gotten something to eat beforehand.”

The bartender hands us our drinks. I notice he purposely looks at the glasses instead of at me, trying to avoid being perceived as staring, no doubt. To my brother, I say, “You have a real problem with this whole idea of being the next Pakhan, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer me. He just drinks his wine.

“It’s a great honor, you know. I’d kill to be in your shoes.”

“Hopefully, it’ll never come to that,” he says smartly.

I follow his gaze and see that our father has found his table.

He pauses to kiss my aunt on the cheek before he sits down next to her.

That table has our aunts and their husbands sitting there.

No doubt, on purpose. I glance over at the table next to his and see the top brigadiers of the Bratva.

They’re all talking among themselves. A few of them steal glances our way.

I’m sure some of them would kill to sit at Papa’s table. I know they’ve noticed that two of the chairs are empty. Seats reserved for Adam and me. I wonder if they’re plotting on convincing my father to give one of them up.

Adam sighs and says, “I’m going to make the rounds, then we can go over there. Want to come with?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “You know where to find me.”

He nods, then starts his walk around the room. I sit down at the bar and watch him, nursing my glass of wine. One of these days, he’s going to have enough nerve to run this whole place. I’ve got faith in him.

“Excuse me?”

I glance over to my right. A man with long, silvery hair and a well trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard is drinking a glass of what looks like whiskey or scotch. He smiles at me, and I get a flutter in my chest.

He’s older, maybe close to my father’s age… but he’s easily the most handsome man in the room. He sits up and turns to me, and I note the tattoos around his collar. The one at the center of his neck looks like a spider, but the others…

He’s Bratva. But nobody I’ve ever met. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to say that you are the most beautiful woman in this room right now.” Hazel-gold eyes drift down to my cleavage. He shamelessly leans to the side to get a better look at the rest of my body. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t,” I say. “I believe I’d know it if we had.”