Vitaly (Las Vegas Petrov Bratva #3)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

VITALY

Nine years ago…

I wonder if Mila Alexseev is truly a virgin.

Of all the thoughts I could have while staring out the window of my father’s study, this is the one that strikes me. The woman forced upon me could be a viper, a doe, or an absolute bore, but the only thing that truly matters in my culture, the only true dealbreaker, is if she doesn’t bleed on the wedding night.

How old-fashioned.

My lips lift as a burst of air blows through my nostrils, a chuckle trapped in my chest. I don’t know how humorous I find the situation, but the entire thing is so ridiculous, it’s almost comical.

When I feel my father’s eyes, I flatten my smile.

“Is something funny?” he asks, his voice hard as stone. It isn’t telling of anything. He always sounds like this. Hard. Serious .

“No, sir.” I turn my head to face him. “I’m just thinking about my new bride.”

He blinks at me, unsmiling, and doesn’t respond. I’m told we look so much alike, and in some ways, we do. His sharp, squared bone structure matches mine, as do his broad shoulders. I’ve grown past his six one frame, but only by an inch. You can certainly tell I’m his son.

But it’s my mother’s amber eyes I stare into when I brush my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror. In photographs, it’s her smile my lips pull into and her soft brown, curly hair I wear combed back. No one ever tells me I look like her, even though it’s obvious I do.

I wonder if my sons will look like Mila Alekseev. I wonder if everyone will say they look like me anyway.

I sigh. “I know things worked out for you and Mama. I do. I think it’s wonderful. But… Isn’t it possible that arranged marriages are getting to be a bit dated?”

That strong jaw of his clenches.

“Okay, you’re right, tradition is tradition. But…” I grip the back of my neck. “Does she have to be from Russia? I mean, does this girl even speak English?”

“If she doesn’t, you’ll teach her,” my father says, as if it’s that simple.

My shoulders slump with amazement. “You have to be fucking kidding me.”

His eyes narrow, but he gives me no other response. This is his style. Silent criticism.

I grind my teeth and face the window.

“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t taking this seriously?” he asks.

I don’t answer. There is no respectful answer I could give. All I can think about is whether or not I’ll ever laugh again. If my father chose this woman, she’s bound to have the sense of humor of a brick.

What if she’s a shit cook? What if she’s one of those women who sings off-key at the tops of their lungs? What if she wants me to travel to Russia with her? What if… Oh Jesus Christ…

What if she’s ugly ? She could be a fucking dog. Am I really going to be expected to go through life with a woman I find grotesque in my bed? As the mother of my children? Fifty fucking percent of their DNA?

“What criteria did you have for choosing this woman?” I ask through gritted teeth. “Did you even look into her, or is her name all you cared about?”

When I turn to glare at him, he clasps his hands behind his back and wanders to the window. I turn to follow his gaze as an SUV pulls past the gate, making this dreadful fate real.

“In time, you’ll see why I’ve chosen her… For now, you only need to trust me.” He adjusts his collar as he turns to face me. “It’s time to grow up, Vitaly. Accept your responsibilities.”

I scoff and throw my hands up, pushing off the windowsill. “As if I haven’t begged you for more responsibility. You want me to take on more, please, give me more. Let me prove myself. Managing a housewife isn’t going to teach me how to be Pakhan.”

My father shakes his head in disgust. “You are nothing but a spoiled boy . I’m trying to teach you to be a man. A leader . That starts in your home. If you can’t lead your family, you’ll never be worthy of leading the Bratva.”

He steps up close, but he’s no longer capable of towering over me. Despite the constant criticism, my time as a boy has passed. I’m taller than him. Stronger than him. And soon, I’ll be the leader he fails to see I can be.

He does nothing but underestimate me. Nothing but disrespect me.

My nostrils flare while his face sinks like I’m wearing him down.

“Don’t mistake that girl for a project, Vitaly. She’s the woman you’re to give yourself to. You’re to protect her with your life, and you’re to honor her as the worthy bride she is. I didn’t choose her without care.”

“Then why did you choose her?” I demand, hoping to see the one thing I’ve been missing that can make all of this seem worthwhile.

He insists he didn’t choose her because of her family name. Insists that there’s little we’re getting from this arrangement. If that’s the case, it’s difficult to see the point in this. So I don’t buy it.

A knock sounds on the door, and my father turns that way while I stare at him, waiting on my answer.

“They’re ready for you,” my uncle, Nikita, says, sounding annoyingly chipper. I wonder how ungrateful he must think I am for this opportunity . As the second son of my grandfather, he’ll never be granted more power than he’s given by my grandfather, then my father, then me, if he isn’t dead by the time the gauntlet has passed. Which means there are little expectations put on him in terms of his personal life. He could marry a fucking rock for all they care.

If he feels envy, he shows none of it.

“Thank you, Nikita,” my father replies with a nod.

With nothing but a brief glance my way, my father heads for the door, his shoulders back, his chin high. I take a steadying breath, my eyes closing for a moment before I follow behind, my uncle giving me an encouraging wink and mouthing happy birthday as I pass him.

Yes. Happy birthday indeed. Others may get a car or a cake for their eighteenth birthday. I get a burden.

I try to smile and nod my thanks, but there’s a tightness in my lips that must give away the bitterness I feel. I’m flooded with it, but slowly, as my father and I make our way to our guests, it mixes with the tiniest bit of hope. I don’t like being told what to do, but there’s still the chance this could work out for me.

I could get my own place. I’ll stop hearing the constant nagging from my mother, the constant chiding from my father. There are plus sides to this arrangement.

If my wife is grotesque, I’ll get a mistress. I’ll probably do that anyway. And if she sings off-key, I’ll tell her not to sing. I’ll tell her we’re not going to Russia to visit her family. I’ll tell her whatever the fuck is necessary to make life tolerable.

Like my father said… If I can’t lead my own home, how will I ever be able to lead the Bratva?

My father blocks my view as we enter the sitting room, but I can feel the tension exuding from the girl like a thick fog. Or maybe it’s from her father. The power he’ll gain from this arrangement means there’s much more riding on this for him than for her.

My hands tuck into my pockets, although I feel anything but casual. I know my face appears relaxed, but my pulse jumps. When my father steps out of view, I lock onto a set of brown eyes that shine with forced fierceness. False bravery. Fear.

And youth.

My jaw slackens as I roam my gaze over her round face, no older than fourteen, but I would guess younger. Her breasts are barely developed. Her legs are lanky and thin beneath the white, knee-length dress she’s wearing.

“Fyodor,” my father says in a warm voice as he steps up to the man and holds out his hand.

“Vlad.” Fyodor grasps my father’s hand and leans forward in a sort of bow. “How are you, friend?”

My stomach roils as I stare at the girl, tuning out my father and Fyodor.

Girl. Not woman, girl.

Her head is hung submissively, letting brown hair a shade lighter than mine act as a curtain for her face. Her hands are clasped in front of her like the good little slave they must’ve taught her to be. I look down at the flats she’s wearing and wonder if she’s even capable of wearing heels.

My father wants me to marry a child.

A weak , docile, little fucking girl.

He cannot be serious.

This cannot be real.

But it is. My father claps my shoulder and clicks his tongue as the two let their polite conversation die. “Vitaly, this is Mila.” He gestures to the girl before nudging me forward, clearly wanting me to introduce myself. Shake her hand. Welcome her into our home. Into her home, before the wedding.

I swallow the bile that crawls up my throat, but my nausea is nowhere near quelled.

I didn’t want an ugly woman. Or a shrew. Or someone horribly incompatible. I was willing to go through with my father’s wishes for the sake of earning his trust, propelling myself closer to the status I want to hold.

But this? This is unacceptable.

“No.” I shake my head as I peel my eyes off the girl to face my father. “Pick someone else.”

His lips press together just before his face reddens. He tries to tell me in a look what he wants, what he expects from me, but this time, it isn’t enough. Not this.

I glance at the girl again and shake my head. “Not her. Jesus Christ, look at her.” My hand lifts toward Mila. If I were kind, maybe I’d speak low. Keep my dissatisfaction private.

But I’m not kind.

Her once fearful eyes look pained as she peeks up at me, a mole beneath her right eye somehow adding to her youthful appearance. Her lips part, and every bit of her innocence appears in this one gaze. She looks hurt. Like she’s surprised that I don’t want this. Like she wants this. Like she really is some brainwashed robot they trained to be a child-wife.

My lip curls in disgust.

“Vitaly,” my father warns, his anger barely contained.

“No.” I shake my head again and again, seemingly unable to stop until I turn and storm from the room, jerking from my father’s grasp when he goes to stop me.

“Vitaly!” he calls after me, following me up the stairs to my room. When I swing open the door, he slams it shut and shoves me against it, both our teeth bared.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” my father growls. “Do you think there aren’t consequences for your behavior?”

I shove him off of me, sending him stumbling into the second-floor railing. His eyes go wide, like my strength is such a surprise.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what her family can do for you, Vlad . I’m not your fucking pawn. I don’t care what deal I’ve ruined. I’m not marrying a child .”

He pushes off the railing, his eyes pinning me with a glare. “Not the consequences for me, you idiot. The consequences for her . What do you think it means for her if you refuse to marry?”

“I don’t care!” I bark out a humorless laugh, full of frustration, and spear my hands through my thick hair. “What happens to her is on you, not on me. You’re the one who brought her here.”

His wide eyes search me. What he’s looking for, I don’t know, but I don’t think he finds it.

“We will wait until she’s eighteen. Five years. She will live in our home, and you will make her feel welcome, but you won’t bed her until your wedding day.”

“ No .” My tone is stern, final , the skin of my face tight. “You chose a weak servant, not a warrior. If I’m to be Pakhan one day, I won’t do it with her by my side. Send her back, or I swear to God, I’ll get rid of her the day you’re in the ground.”

I wait for the anger to wash over his face, for his hands to clench into fists, but the disappointment on his face never leaves. It only deepens. He stares at me while I seethe, silently begging him to challenge me. But he doesn’t give me the satisfaction.

He turns his feet toward the stairs and slides his hands into his pockets. It isn’t defeat. Vlad Petrov never admits defeat. But he’s tabling this for now.

“She’ll stay in the South quarters until your wedding day,” he says, taking a step toward the stairs. “If you become Pakhan, I suppose you’ll have to decide if I was as incorrect as you thought and make your decision then.”

“ When I become Pakhan,” I correct.

He pauses and looks at me seriously. “Leadership is not a right, Vitaly. It is earned, even by Petrovs. Those unworthy will always fall… Please remember that.”

I scoff, but his words hit deep, striking a target only he knows how to aim for. All I’ve ever wanted was to make my father proud. Nothing I’ve done has ever been good enough. “You think I’m unworthy?”

“Yes,” he says simply, shoving in the arrow at the base of my self-worth. “I don’t know where I went wrong with you, son… But one day, I hope you’ll prove me wrong.”

When I say nothing, I think he’ll leave, but he hesitates, his mouth opening and closing. After a few seconds, he gives his head a shake and continues down the stairs.

My teeth gritted, I storm into my bedroom and slam the door, my forearms tensing. I press my back against the wood and slide down to the carpet before closing my eyes and massaging my temples.

When my phone buzzes, I pull it from my pocket, sighing before reading the message scrolled across the screen.

Got the info on the drop.

There’s no name attached, but I know who it is. It’s a freelancer who does work with several organizations, including the Armenians. He and I bullshitted last week after a poker game, talking trash mostly, but this isn’t about trash talk. This is about a conversation I had while intoxicated and not thinking clearly. One I shouldn’t have been having at all.

Everyone in Vegas knows the Armenians and Polish are tight, or at least their business goes back long enough they have trust between each other. Their drops involve no contact exchanges, the safest way to do things in terms of law enforcement.

The Armenians put product at a certain location. The Polish go pick it up, leave the cash, then the Armenians go pick it up shortly after. There’s a short window in between. Clean. Simple. Effective.

And if an outsider happened to know about the locations and times of these exchanges… It would be so goddamn simple to scoop the profits and ruin their trust for good.

But this was just talk. Stupid talk. It would be too dangerous.

Another text comes through.

3 mill.

Three million dollars. Three million dollars of easy money.

They would never suspect the Bratva. This isn’t our style. They would go around tearing apart our competition while we sat back and watched.

But it’s dangerous.

And stupid.

I shake my head and put my phone down. When it buzzes again, I drum my fingers on my thigh.

It isn’t a good idea. We would have to get the time exact , otherwise, we’d what? Run into a couple of Armenians?

How hard could they be to take out?

I wouldn’t do this alone. I could get Alik. Gavriil. Maybe even Stone. That would be plenty of guys to take care of a couple of Armenians.

My father is never going to give me opportunities to prove myself worthy. How am I supposed to prove to him that I am if I don’t create the opportunities?

It’s easy money.

It stirs up our competition.

And if we get caught… Call it a message. No one is to be trusted in Las Vegas. You're welcome for teaching that lesson.

I rub the back of my neck while picking up my phone to read the text.

Want to meet?

My tongue slides over my lower lip as I consider it. If anything, this is just a meet. It’s just bullshit. Just consideration.

What’s the worst that could happen?