The Bratva’s Temptation (Villains of New York #2)

Prologue

Dmitri

I pull up in the long driveway of Alexei's mansion, then step out of the car and look around.

The night is deceptively calm, but I can see the shadows of Alexei’s men stationed at every entrance and vital point of the estate. To untrained eyes, they're invisible, but I spot them all in an instant.

I walk inside, heading straight for the dining area. Alexei has invited me over for dinner tonight, but I know it’s never just about family with him anymore—not since he became pakhan. There’s always business to discuss.

“Nice of you to join us early, brother,” Viktor says, arching his brows sarcastically.

“Glad I didn't keep you waiting,” I reply with a smirk as I take my usual seat at the long dining table.

Viktor snorts, reaching for the half-empty vodka bottle to pour himself a glass. Mikhail’s in California, but I can hear his voice echo faintly over the speaker Alexei placed at the center of the table.

Alexei sits at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as always. He has that quiet control about him, the kind that doesn’t need to raise its voice to command obedience. The pakhan. My brother. The man who rebuilt the Balshov empire out of the ashes of our father’s insanity.

Sergei stands behind him, half-hidden in shadow, his eyes moving between us. Most people forget he’s in the room until he speaks. That’s what makes him useful.

“Anya should be about finished with dinner,” Alexei says, glancing at his watch, then over at Sergei. “She’s out with a friend from college. Go bring my wife home.”

I look up in time to catch something flicker in Sergei’s usually blank eyes, but it's gone before I can decipher it. For a moment, our eyes meet, and I get that faint instinct I’ve learned never to ignore—the kind that tells me to pay attention.

Later…I’ll think about it later.

“Yes, boss,” Sergei finally says with a stiff nod and turns around to leave.

“Let's get to business,” Alexei says the moment the door closes behind his bodyguard. “There's been a new development. My contact in the Bureau called this afternoon. The FBI has opened a new investigation. Our family is back on their radar.”

Viktor swears under his breath. I’m not surprised, though. I saw this coming long before our father’s death.

The man made a lot of messes and even more enemies.

I lean back in my chair and watch Alexei pull a file from the folder beside him. He slides it across the table toward me and Viktor.

“Special Agent Bill Turner,” Alexei continues. “Career man. Clean record. Too clean. But he’s smart. He’s already requested subpoenas on two of our shell companies. That means he’s got someone feeding him details.”

I flip open the folder. The man’s photo stares back at me: square jaw, federal stiffness, eyes that look like they’ve seen too much but learned nothing.

Boring. Predictable.

Then I turn to the next page and find myself staring at the picture of a girl with a smile so bright it's almost blinding. Long, dark golden curls frame her face, accentuating her delicate features. But it’s her eyes that stop me.

They are a unique shade of blue with streaks of silver, giving them an enchanting quality.

I've never seen eyes so beautiful…

I look away from the picture long enough to skim through her profile. Mireille Turner. Twenty-one. College student. Criminal justice major.

I return my gaze to her picture, lingering a beat too long.

“She’s his daughter,” Alexei says quietly. “She goes to Fordham University. Junior year. No record. No arrests. Not even a speeding ticket. Completely ordinary.”

She looks anything but ordinary with those bewitching eyes.

“Ordinary is good,” I say anyway. “Ordinary people don’t notice when they’re being watched.”

Viktor snorts. “You volunteering to babysit the Fed’s daughter?”

I close the folder and rest my hands on top of it. “I’m volunteering to find leverage.”

Alexei doesn't say anything for a few seconds, his expression still unreadable. “Leverage has limits, Dmitri,” he says finally, his tone quiet.

“I know mine,” I reply evenly.

“Find out who she is,” Alexei says. “If she’s useful, use her. If not—forget she exists.”

I slide the folder into my jacket and rise from my chair. “Understood.”

But I already know I won’t forget her.

Won’t forget that face.

Not after the way something sharp and inconvenient twisted in my chest when I looked at her.

The others keep talking as I walk out, but I’m not listening anymore. I have a new assignment.

And I never fail an assignment.

***

Two days.

That’s all it takes for me to learn everything about her.

Mireille Turner studies every morning at the same corner table at a café on Fifth Avenue, always with a cup of black coffee and a half-eaten croissant.

She feeds the pigeons near the fountain when she’s thinking.

Calls her father once a day, always short conversations.

Smiles easily but laughs rarely. And every afternoon, she comes here—to Washington Square Park—to play chess.

And God, does she play well.

In the past two days, I've seen her humble smug men who initially looked down on her skills. And each time, I feel my chest tighten with a strange feeling. I can't tell if it's pride…or something else.

Right now, I'm standing by the edge of the square, sunglasses on, hands in my pockets, watching her dismantle a Wall Street type who’s clearly regretting his lunch break choices. She doesn’t gloat when she wins; she just gives a polite, amused smile, like she expected it all along.

When the crowd starts to thin, I step forward.

“Mind if I play the next round?”

She looks up, and for a few seconds, I find myself drowning in those mesmerizing blue eyes.

Then she smiles and gestures to the chair in front of her. “Yes, please. You play often?”

“Not as often as I’d like.”

She studies me, her eyes flicking from my tailored jacket to the faint smirk I can’t quite suppress. “You look more like the kind of guy who invests in chess tournaments, not plays in them.”

“I prefer the control,” I reply, sitting as she starts setting the board. “Investments can be unpredictable.”

She laughs softly. “So can people.”

I make the first move, sliding pawn to E4. She arches her brows, approval flickering in her eyes.

“You don’t waste time,” she says.

“Time’s expensive.”

“Spoken like a man who’s never had to wait for anything.”

She’s sharp. Not the sweet, sheltered type her file made her out to be. There's a bite in her tone, curiosity in her eyes. Her kind of mind doesn’t just play the game—it dissects it.

Within minutes, the board becomes an extension of our conversation. She challenges my every move, and I counter each one with precision. Before long, we’re locked in an electrified silence.

Then, in the space of a breath, I trap her queen.

She blinks, realizing too late what I’ve done.

“Checkmate.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, shaking her head. “Wait—what?”

I sit back, watching her study the board again. The disbelief on her face is almost endearing. “No one’s ever beaten me here before,” she murmurs, half to herself.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’ve played more than you implied.”

“Or maybe, I’m just lucky.”

Her smile returns, slow and warm. “No, you’re dangerous.”

“Only on the board.”

She leans forward, chin resting on her hand. “You’re lying.”

I almost laugh. No one ever calls me out that easily. “Maybe.”

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

The city is moving around us—distant traffic, laughter, footsteps—but the noise seems to fade into nothingness.

Then, there’s only her, the sunlight reflecting off her dark golden curls.

She drops her gaze first, dragging her lower lip between her teeth.

It’s an innocent, probably shy action, but it’s got me thinking of the many things I could do to those lips.

Fuck.

This was supposed to be routine. A simple setup.

But sitting here, watching her watch me with those gorgeous eyes… it dawns on me that there's not going to be anything simple about dealing with Mireille Turner.

She starts packing up the pieces. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow. I need a rematch.”

“I’ll be here.”

I mean it more than I should.

She stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You never told me your name.”

“Dmitri,” I say. “And you?”

“Mireille.”

“Mireille,” I repeat slowly, tasting the syllables. Soft. Beautiful. Just like her.

“Don’t forget it,” she says with a grin.

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

She walks away, the sway of her hips drawing my eyes to her perfect body. I stay seated, staring at the empty board, every piece in perfect order– well, except me.

Because for the first time in a long time, I can’t tell if I’ve made the right move.

Is the guilt twisting in my chest because I’m betraying my brothers? Or because I’m already betraying her?

Either way, I know one thing for certain…this game isn’t over.

And I have no intention of walking away.