The Bratva’s Secret (Villains of New York #3)

Prologue

Natalya

A circus in black.

My father’s memorial service feels like a performance I never agreed to star in.

My mother, Irina, insisted on hosting it in one of those lavish hotel ballrooms she loves with crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, an overabundance of lilies that sting my nose and make my eyes water more than any grief ever could.

It’s ironic, really. Boris Popov never cared for flowers in life, but in death, he’s drowning in them.

My mother calls it honoring his legacy. I call it a spectacle, meant to convince the room she’s a grieving widow rather than the woman who’s been quietly celebrating since the day he disappeared.

Of course, no one says it aloud, but everyone here knows the truth…Alexei Balshov is the reason my father “disappeared.”

Not like I care. For once, I think that the universe made the right call.

I stand off to the side, hands clasped in front of me, watching as faces blur into a sea of obligatory condolences and whispered gossip. None of it touches me. I feel…detached. Hollow. As if I’m watching someone else’s life transform.

Suddenly, there’s a shift in the air, a subtle hush.

I glance up in time to see four familiar men walk into the room, their steps synced like they’re staring in some blockbuster action movie.

I can literally feel the room vibrate with the combined force of their auras—the power coiled around them like smoke.

Alexei. Dmitri. Viktor. Mikhail.

The powerful Balshov brothers.

They move with the kind of quiet danger that commands attention without asking for it.

They all stop in front of my father’s grim-faced photo, but it’s my half-brother Mikhail who steps forward, shoulders straight, jaw set. He picks up a stalk of flower from the table and lays it over the bunch on the coffin, his expression set in stone. Then he turns around to face Irina.

She stiffens, her spine going rigid, like she’s bracing herself for impact. I would be bracing myself, too, if I had to face the son I abandoned for a man who treated me like I was nothing.

“Why are you here?” she asks stiffly.

Anyone watching would think the man in front of her was a sworn enemy and not her own son.

It is the head of the family, Alexei, who speaks instead.

“The vory council has ordered all Popov territory and bratva assets be transferred to the Balshov family.” His voice is calm, steady, almost gentle, which somehow makes the words hit even harder.

He waits a beat, then adds; “Effective immediately.”

“What?” Irina gasps in disbelief. “How dare you? This is my husband’s memorial and—”

But before she can fully unleash her fury, Andrei steps forward and my chest tightens with a familiar fondness at the sight of my brother—my anchor, my protector, the only person who has ever genuinely cared for me our whole lives.

“I’ll handle the transfer,” Andrei says to Alexei with a respectful nod, ignoring our mother’s murderous glare. “All I ask is that we get to keep Natalya’s flower shop.”

My breath catches at his words. I watch Alexei study Andrei in that unnerving Balshov way where silence says more than words. After a moment, he nods once. “You keep it. But you’ll pay the protection fee like any business under our control. And we will ensure your safety.”

Andrei accepts without hesitation.

Irina? Not so much.

She whirls around to face Mikhail, her voice shrill enough to cut through bone. “How can you do this to me? I am your mother!”

Mikhail’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, he looks bored. “You may have given birth to me, but you sent me away when I was two. Natasha Balshov raised me. My loyalty belongs to her.”

Irina’s face twists with anger, then shock, and finally humiliation before she storms off in a dramatic sweep of black fabric and crocodile tears.

And just like that…it’s done.

I continue to watch the entire exchange, feeling strangely separate from my own body, like my spirit is hovering somewhere above, observing a life I’m not fully a part of.

I should feel grateful for the arrangement, maybe even happy that I get to keep the only thing helping me stay sane in this dark, dark world of crime and chaos but I can feel my stomach sinking with disappointment.

I really thought Boris’s death would be the clean cut I need from this world.

My escape. The moment my father disappeared, I let myself believe that for the first time in my life I could step out from the shadow of organized crime.

That I could finally live as just Natalya, a woman who likes flowers, quiet mornings, and making pretty things.

Not as a Popov. Not as the daughter of a violent man with enough enemies to fill graveyards.

But Alexei’s words were clear.

My shop is still bratva territory.

Now, it’s under Balshov control..

Andrei tries. God, he tries so hard to give us a normal life. He never wanted the power our father groomed him for. Never wanted a throne soaked in blood. But relinquishing the illegal empire won’t free us completely—not when Alexei Balshov is now the one holding the reins.

My chest tightens.

I’m grateful for Andrei, but I’m also tired. Tired of being tethered to a world I never chose.

As the families continue discussing the transfer, I glance up, and instantly regret it.

Viktor Balshov stands just behind his brothers, hands tucked casually into his pockets, posture straight. It’s the first time I’m seeing him up close.

On the surface, he’s unreadable. His face is a perfect mask, calm, blank, almost cold. But something in me, some instinct I don’t understand, picks up on the tiniest shifts.

The tightening at his jaw.

The subtle change in how he breathes.

The faintest flex of his fingers.

Quiet emotion beneath solid ice.

Andrei used to tell me I notice things other people don’t.

Right now, that feels like both a gift and a curse.

Because Viktor is…

God.

He’s beautiful.

Not in the polished, golden-boy way Mikhail is.

Not in Dmitri’s composed, quietly commanding way.

And not in Alexei’s sharp, lethal elegance.

Viktor is something else entirely.

Sleek edges wrapped around a storm.

A man who could pass as emotionless until the second he decides to feel, and then he’d feel with terrifying depth.

I start to drag my gaze away, but then his eyes flick up to mine. Our gazes clash, and I suddenly forget how to breathe.

He’s looking at me.

Not casually. Not accidentally.

He’s staring intently. Intentionally. As if to undo me.

My heart settles into an uneven rhythm, heat sweeping up my neck.

What on earth is wrong with me?

Why is my entire body malfunctioning after just one look from this man?

Before I can make sense of the reaction, my mother’s voice cuts through the room like a whip.

“Natalya. Come help me upstairs. Now.”

Her voice carries a familiar fragility. I look up, and just as I expected, her face is distraught, her body trembling like a leaf.

I almost laugh at the sight, at the ridiculousness of her act. This sharp, venomous, manipulative woman pretending to be a fragile, helpless widow is the most comic sight of the century.

I give the Balshov brothers one final glance.

Alexei is giving orders.

Dmitri is watching everything with a bored expression.

Mikhail is rubbing his temple, exhausted.

And Viktor…

Viktor’s gaze is still on me.

My stomach flips, not unpleasantly, just in a dangerously unfamiliar way.

I turn away quickly and follow my mother out of the room, struggling not to suffocate in the sharp scent of her perfume. My footsteps feel uneven, my breath caught somewhere in my chest.

I’m not sure what scares me more: The possibility of seeing Viktor Balshov again someday. Or the knowledge that I might actually want to.