Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan (Rudenko Bratva #4)

Chapter One - Serena

The ballroom glitters with champagne flutes and false smiles, every surface polished to a mirror-shine. I’ve been standing beside my father for the past two hours, nodding at the right moments, laughing softly when expected, playing the role I was born into.

Senator’s daughter. Political asset. Perfectly groomed piece on the chessboard.

My feet ache in these heels, but I keep my posture straight, my expression pleasant.

Around me, donors and politicians circle each other like sharks, their conversations laced with double meanings I learned to decode years ago.

This is the world I grew up in—power dressed in tuxedos, ambition hidden behind charity auction paddles.

“Serena, darling,” my father says, his hand settling on my shoulder with practiced affection. “I’d like you to meet Congressman Whitfield.”

I turn, extend my hand, offer the smile that’s been photographed a thousand times. “Congressman, it’s a pleasure.”

Whitfield takes my hand, holding it a fraction too long. “Your father speaks very highly of you. Political science at Georgetown, wasn’t it?”

“Columbia,” I correct gently, retrieving my hand. “I graduated last spring.”

The conversation continues, familiar and tedious. I respond automatically, my attention only half present as Whitfield drones on about legislative priorities and my father’s crucial support. My gaze drifts across the ballroom, scanning the crowd out of habit more than interest.

That’s when I see him.

He stands near the far wall, partially obscured by a marble column, but his height makes him impossible to miss.

He’s tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders that strain against his tailored black suit.

Dark hair, clean lines, everything about him controlled and precise.

Except it’s not his appearance that catches my attention.

It’s the way he’s looking at me.

His gaze is direct, unwavering, studying me with an intensity that feels almost physical. Not the appreciative once-over I’m used to from men at these events, but something colder. More deliberate. Like he’s cataloging every detail, every movement, filing it all away for later use.

I hold his stare for a moment, refusing to look away first. His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod in acknowledgment, just continues watching with those pale eyes that seem to cut through the ballroom’s warm lighting.

A chill runs down my spine despite the crowded room’s warmth.

“Serena?” My father’s voice pulls my attention back. “Are you listening?”

“Of course.” I force my focus back to Whitfield, but the weight of that stranger’s gaze lingers on my skin like a brand.

The evening drags on. I move through the crowd with my father, greeting allies and adversaries with the same gracious smile, but I can’t shake the awareness prickling at the back of my neck.

Three times I glance across the ballroom and find him still there, still watching. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t make any attempt at conversation. He simply observes, patient and unnervingly focused.

By the fourth time I catch him staring, my unease has crystallized into something sharper.

“I need some air,” I murmur to my father during a lull in conversation.

He glances at me, distracted by an approaching senator. “Don’t wander too far. We have the Castellano introduction in twenty minutes.”

I slip away before he can add more instructions, weaving through clusters of guests until I reach the terrace doors. The cool night air hits my flushed skin, and I take a steadying breath, gripping the stone balustrade.

“You look like you’re planning an escape.”

I turn to find Adriana stepping onto the terrace, her emerald eyes bright with amusement. She’s wearing a deep green dress that complements her auburn hair, and despite the formal setting, there’s something refreshingly genuine about her smile.

She’s beautiful in that gown, and I feel a spark of envy. She’s always had the kind of figure that can wear anything.

“Just taking a break from performing,” I admit, shoving the thought aside.

Adriana and I met during undergrad, bonded over late-night study sessions and a shared skepticism of the powerful men who run our world. She’s one of the few people at these events who doesn’t want anything from me.

“Your father’s in full campaign mode tonight,” she observes, leaning against the balustrade beside me. “I saw him working the room. Very impressive.”

“That’s one word for it.” I glance back through the glass doors at the glittering crowd. “Adriana, do you see that man? Tall, dark suit, near the column on the east wall?”

She follows my gaze, scanning the ballroom. “Which column? There are about twenty very tall men in dark suits.”

“The one who’s been watching me all night.” I point more specifically. “Right there, beside the—”

The space is empty.

I blink, searching the nearby area. He was there less than a minute ago; I’m certain of it. My pulse quickens as I scan the crowd more frantically, but there’s no sign of him among the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns.

“Serena.” Adriana’s voice carries a note of concern. “Are you okay?”

“I…” I shake my head, trying to dismiss the creeping unease. “There was a man. He’s been staring at me since we arrived. Russian, I think, based on the features. Now he’s just… gone.”

Adriana studies me carefully, her analytical mind clearly processing this information. “Do you want me to mention it to security?”

“No.” The word comes out too quickly. What would I even say? A man looked at me at a crowded gala? It sounds paranoid, even to my own ears. “I’m probably just tired. It’s been a long night.”

I don’t believe that, and from the expression on Adriana’s face, neither does she.

An hour later, I’ve had enough. The stranger’s disappearance should reassure me, but instead it’s left me on edge, hyperaware of every glance and movement around me. When my father gets pulled into yet another lengthy conversation with a defense contractor, I see my opportunity.

“I’m leaving early,” I tell him quietly. “I have a headache.”

He barely glances at me, already nodding along to whatever the contractor is saying. “Fine. I’ll see you at home.”

The dismissal stings less than it used to. I’ve learned not to expect more.

I collect my clutch and make my way toward the exits, offering polite goodbyes to the few people who intercept me. The ballroom’s noise fades as I take the service elevator down to the parking garage, my heels clicking against polished floors giving way to concrete.

The garage is dimmer than I expected, overhead lights casting long shadows between the rows of expensive cars.

My father’s security usually positions someone near the elevator, but tonight the area is empty.

I frown, glancing around, but dismiss the concern.

They’re probably stationed closer to the main entrance.

My car—a sleek black BMW my father bought to maintain appearances—sits in its reserved spot three rows back. I’m digging through my clutch for the keys when I hear footsteps. Multiple sets, moving with purpose.

I look up sharply.

Four men emerge from between the cars, fanning out to surround me. Masks cover their faces, black tactical gear replacing the tuxedos upstairs. Everything about them screams dangerous.

My heart slams against my ribs, but I don’t freeze. Years of my father’s enemies making threats, of security briefings and worst-case scenarios, kick in with crystalline clarity.

I run.

The elevator is too far, but there’s a stairwell exit closer. I sprint toward it, my heels hampering my speed, yet I refuse to kick them off—I might need the pointy ends. Behind me, footsteps pound against concrete, gaining fast.

A hand grabs my arm. I spin, driving my elbow up into a masked face with all my strength. The impact jars my arm, but the man grunts and staggers back. I wrench free and keep running, adrenaline drowning out the fear trying to claw its way up my throat.

I don’t make it five more steps.

Two men catch me from either side, hands locking around my arms with bruising force.

I thrash immediately, driving my heel down onto one’s instep while twisting to throw my weight against the other.

They’re prepared for resistance, but I don’t care.

I scream, the sound echoing through the garage, and aim another kick at the nearest kneecap.

“Goddamn it,” one of them hisses in accented English. “Grab her legs—”

I get one more solid strike in—heel connecting with someone’s shin hard enough to draw a pained curse—before they lift me completely off the ground. My arms are pinned, but I keep fighting, bucking and twisting even as they carry me toward a waiting van with tinted windows.

Terror tries to lock down my thoughts, but I force it back, still struggling even as one of them reaches for the van door. If they get me inside, it’s over. I know enough about abductions to understand that much.

“Enough.”

The single word cuts through the chaos like a blade.

The men freeze. Their hands are still on me, restraining me against the van’s side, but they’ve stopped moving. All of them turn toward the voice, and I follow their gazes.

He steps out from behind a concrete pillar with the calm, unhurried gait of someone who owns every space he enters.

The man from the ballroom. Up close, he’s even more imposing—six-foot-three at least, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that speaks of controlled power rather than bulk.

His steel-gray eyes find mine, and recognition hits like ice water.

“Let her go,” he says in Russian-accented English, his voice low and unnervingly calm.

The men release me immediately, stepping back with the deference of soldiers obeying a superior officer. I stumble slightly, catching myself against the van, my breath coming in sharp gasps as I try to process what’s happening.

He moves closer, each step measured and precise. I should run. I should scream again. Instead, I find myself rooted in place.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, fury cutting through the fear. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies me with that same assessing gaze from the ballroom, taking in my disheveled hair, the torn strap of my dress, the defiant set of my jaw despite everything.

Something flickers in his expression—not quite approval, but close.

“My name,” he says finally, “is not important right now. What matters is that you come with me quietly.”

The absolute audacity of that statement sparks rage hot enough to burn through my remaining caution. “Go to hell.”

I lunge for the stairwell exit again.

I make it three steps before his hand closes around my wrist, grip firm but not painful. He pulls me back with effortless strength, spinning me around and pressing me against the side of my car. The metal is cold against my back, his body a wall of controlled power in front of me.

I try to strike him—knee, fist, anything—but he catches my other wrist and pins both hands against the car above my head. The position forces me to look up at him, and this close I can see the faint scar along his jaw, the absolute absence of emotion in those pale eyes.

“Stop fighting,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my face. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

“Let me go.” I put every ounce of command I’ve learned from a lifetime around powerful men into those words. “Now.”

He almost smiles. Almost. “No.”

I thrash again, trying to break his hold, but he doesn’t budge. He’s not hurting me—his grip is controlled, calculated to restrain without bruising—but the casual display of superior strength is more terrifying than violence would be.

This man doesn’t need to hurt me to control me. He knows it, and worse, I know it.

“You should save that fire,” he tells me, his voice dropping even lower as his gaze locks with mine. “You’re going to need it.”

He releases one wrist long enough to gesture to his men. They move immediately, surrounding us again. I try to pull free, but his hand settles on my waist, fingers spreading across my hip with firm possession as he guides me toward the van.

“Don’t touch me!” I twist hard, trying to break away.

His grip tightens, not painfully but enough to stop my movement. He leans closer, his mouth near my ear. “The more you fight here, the more attention you draw. Do you want hotel security to find us? Because I promise you, that ends worse for everyone involved.”

The threat is implicit but clear. My father’s security, the other guests, anyone who might try to intervene; they’d be collateral damage if this escalates.

I stop struggling, but only because I’m calculating odds, looking for any opening.

His men move with military precision, forming a barrier between us and the rest of the garage while their leader—because that’s clearly what he is—keeps his hand on my waist as he steers me the final steps to the van.

The door slides open. I plant my feet, preparing for one final attempt to break free.

He must sense it because his hand shifts, grip becoming immovable as he lifts me slightly—just enough to break my leverage—and guides me into the vehicle. I land on the leather seat harder than intended, immediately scrambling toward the opposite door.

Locked. Of course.

He slides in beside me, filling the space with his presence, and pulls the door closed with a decisive click. The sound feels final, like a cell door slamming shut.

I press myself against the far window, putting as much distance between us as possible in the confined space. “When my father finds out—”

“Your father already knows.”

The words hit like a physical blow. I stare at him, searching for the lie, but his expression remains maddeningly calm.

“You’re lying.”

He doesn’t respond, just signals to the driver. The van starts moving, pulling out of the parking space with smooth precision.

Through the tinted window, I catch a glimpse of security finally rushing toward the garage entrance, too late and too far to help.

The man beside me settles back against his seat, adjusting his cuff links with the same calm control he’s displayed since appearing. Like abducting a senator’s daughter is just another item on his evening’s agenda.

I force myself to breathe, to think, to remember every security briefing I’ve ever sat through. Panic kills. Information saves lives.

So I study him the way he studied me in the ballroom—cataloging details, looking for weaknesses. The expensive suit, the military bearing, the Russian accent, the absolute authority his men showed him.

This isn’t some desperate criminal. This is someone powerful enough to walk into a high-security political event and mark his target in plain sight.

Someone dangerous enough that my father might actually have known this was coming.