The Bratva’s Obsession (Villains of New York #4)

Prologue

Andrei

Los Angeles smells like sun-warmed asphalt and money that doesn’t bother hiding. It’s loud without being chaotic, polished without pretending to be clean. I don’t belong here, but neither does Mikhail, and somehow he’s made it work.

We’re sitting on the balcony of his condo, the city sprawled beneath us like it’s offering itself up. Two bottles of beer sweat between our hands. Mine is already half gone. His is untouched.

“You’re brooding,” Mikhail says, finally lifting his bottle. “Which means something’s eating at you.”

“I don’t brood,” I say.

He snorts. “You brood professionally.”

I glance at him. He’s relaxed—linen shirt, sleeves rolled, hair pushed back like he hasn’t worried about it once today. This is the version of Mikhail people see first. The easy smile. The sharp humor. The man who could talk anyone into anything if he wanted to.

They never see what’s underneath unless they give him a reason.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, softer now.

I take another drink. “Natalya.”

He arches his brows at the mention of our sister. “What about Natalya?”

“Nothing much.” I shrug, taking a swig from my beer. “Just wondering how she’s doing.” Without me.

I don’t say the last part out loud, of course

“I’m sure she’s doing just fine,” Mikhail replies, his lips curving upward slightly in amusement. “Viktor adores her.”

“That’s the problem,” I say flatly.

Mikhail laughs. “You sound like a jealous husband.”

“I sound like an older brother who no longer has a purpose.”

That earns his full attention. He leans back in his chair, studying me the way he does artists before he signs them…like he’s stripping me down to see what I’m not saying.

“She’s happy,” he says. “You should be relieved.”

“I am,” I admit. “But I spent my life making sure she was safe. Protecting her. Watching for threats she didn’t even know to look for.” I curl my fingers tighter around the bottle. “Now she doesn’t need me like that.”

“And you don’t know what to do with yourself,” he clarifies.

I don’t argue. He’s right.

“I feel lost,” I murmur, half to myself.

It’s shitty admitting that out loud but I guess my brother already figured that out.

He didn’t grow up with us—our gem of a mother left him with his father when she chose to marry—so he doesn’t fully understand the weight of the protectiveness I feel for Natalya.

Looking after her has been my top priority her entire life.

“I don’t know who I am without that responsibility. ”

“You could date,” Mikhail says lightly. “Find a wife. Start a family.”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “Absolutely not.”

He smirks. “That bad, huh?”

“You know how my parents were. Their marriage was a disaster. They treated Natalya and me like crap.” The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. My jaw tightens as a familiar wave of wrath rushes through. “I won’t be like them.”

“You’re nothing like them,” Mikhail says firmly, like he really believes his words.

“That’s what everyone thinks,” I reply. “But who knows. I have our mother’s blood in my veins, after all.”

Mikhail is quiet for a moment. He takes a slow drink, eyes on the skyline. “My father was a monster,” he says. “You know that.”

I nod. Everyone knows that.

“But I had my stepmother,” he continues. “Natasha was…steady. Kind. She showed me what love could look like without fear.” He glances at me. “And my brothers. They all found love despite our…bloodline. They’re doing alright.”

I understand his point but somehow, it feels different. Maybe because he had some warmth, while all my life, I’ve carried the weight of responsibility.

“You know…I used to dream of fairy tales,” I say with a light snort. “A lovely wife. Kids. A white picket fence—the whole nine.”

“But?”

“Adulthood has a way of stripping illusions,” I say.

“And crushing dreams,” he counters, then sighs. “You can still have all of that, you know, if you open your heart.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You sound like a therapist.”

“I manage artists,” he says dryly. “Same thing but with more screaming.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees now, his expression growing serious. “The problem is not that you don’t believe in romance, Mikhail. It’s that you hold on too tightly to structure and control.”

“Those aren’t bad things.”

“They are if that’s all you have,” he says quietly. “You take care of everyone… Natalya. Your employees. Your partners. Hell, even people who don’t deserve it.”

“I do my job.”

“No,” he says. “You need to be needed.”

The words land heavier than I expect.

“You were forced to grow up too quickly,” he continues. “And all your life, you’ve had to protect your sister. It’s understandable you feel lost now that it feels like the person that you protected all your life no longer needs you. It’s only right to pour all of that energy into someone else.”

“I’d rather pour it in my business,” I say dryly, chugging the rest of my beer.

“You could build an empire and still be lonely,” Mikhail says quietly. “Businesses won’t love you back.”

“I don’t need love.”

He watches me for a long second, then nods. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The city hums below us. My phone buzzes on the table—an email from New York, something that needs my attention. As it always does.

“Can I borrow your computer? I forgot my laptop,” I ask. “I need to answer some work emails.”

“Of course,” he replies. “You’re welcome to use the one in my study.”

I stand, stretching. He does too, pulling me into a brief, solid hug—one brother to another.

“For what it’s worth,” he says near my ear, voice low, “whoever ends up with you will be lucky. You don’t destroy what you touch. You care for it.”

I pull back, scoffing. “You’re projecting.”

“Maybe,” he says with a grin. “Or maybe you just don’t see yourself clearly yet.”

I leave the balcony with his words echoing in my head.

Could that really be true?