Accidental Bratva Daddy (Bratva Blessings)

Chapter 1Natalia

1

Natalia

T he champagne fizzes on my tongue as I take another sip, the bubbles a stark contrast to the heavy weight settling in my stomach.

All around me, Moscow's elite mingle and laugh, riding the high of another successful Orlova Couture fashion show. My latest ready-to-wear designs dazzled on the runway, drawing gasps and applause from even the most jaded critics. By all accounts, this after-party should be a moment of triumph.

So why do I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a deep abyss from which there will be no escape?

I scan the opulent hotel ballroom, taking in the glittering chandeliers and flowing champagne. My gaze lands on my father, Igor Orlov, his salt-and-pepper hair easy to spot as he works the room with practiced charm. Even from here, I can see the slight strain around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders that betrays his easy smile.

The unease in my gut grows. Something's off tonight. I can feel it.

"Did you hear?" A hushed voice from nearby catches my attention. "The Orlovs have some nerve showing up with all the rumors swirling about their family."

I freeze, my glass halfway to my lips.

"What rumors? I normally don't ask, but in this case..." Another voice asks, laden with poorly concealed eagerness for gossip.

The first voice drops even lower, but in the sudden lull of conversation around me, the words cut like a knife. "Igor Orlov got caught meeting with Kirill Baranov. By his own brother’s assistant, no less! Mafia ties, they say."

The crystal stem of my glass creaks ominously as my grip tightens. These whispers, these accusations… They're nothing new. For years, they've stalked our family's footsteps, casting a shadow over everything we've worked for. But to hear them here, tonight, after everything I’ve worked for…

White-hot anger bubbles up inside me, threatening to spill over. Before I can stop myself, I'm striding towards the gossiping pair, my emerald green gown swishing around my legs.

"Excuse me," I say, my voice dripping with icy politeness. The two women—vaguely familiar faces from countless society events—turn, their eyes widening as they recognize me. "I couldn't help but overhear your fascinating conversation. My family seemed to be the topic of concern."

The taller of the two, a bottle-blonde in a dress at least a size too small, has the decency to look embarrassed. "Natalia, we didn't mean?—"

"Oh, I'm sure you didn't," I cut her off, my smile sharp enough to draw blood. "After all, what could be more entertaining at a celebration of art and fashion than rehashing baseless rumors? Tell me, do either of you actually know my father? Or my uncle? Or are you simply parroting whatever scraps of gossip you can scavenge to make yourselves feel important?"

They gawk at me, clearly unused to being called out so directly. The shorter one, a mousy thing in an unremarkable black dress, stammers out an apology. But I'm already turning away, my piece said.

"Next time," I toss over my shoulder, "try having an original thought. It's far more becoming. And the two of you need all the help you can get."

As I make my way back to the bar, adrenaline courses through my veins. I shouldn't have done that. Making a scene, drawing attention—it's exactly what we've been trying to avoid. But I'm so tired of the whispers, the sidelong glances, the way people who once fawned over us now treat us like we're contagious.

I know my outburst isn’t going to change anything, but it feels good to get it off my chest. The longer I let people talk about my family within earshot, the bolder they become. Maybe this will take some of the volume out of their words, at least.

"Quite the show," a deep, richly accented voice says from beside me. "Though I have to say, I preferred the one on the runway."

I turn, a biting retort on the tip of my tongue, only to have the words die in my throat. The man standing next to me is, without exaggeration, the most devastatingly handsome person I've ever laid eyes on.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he cuts an imposing figure in a bespoke suit that probably costs more than most people's cars. His dark hair is artfully tousled, as if he's just run his hands through it, and a hint of stubble graces his strong jawline. But it's his eyes that truly capture me—a piercing, icy blue that seems to see right through me.

Paired with his impressive, muscular build, I would say that he both belongs on the runway, and he should stay far away from it. He seems too good for high fashion, if that makes any sense at all.

I realize I'm staring and quickly gather myself. "I'm glad you enjoyed the show," I say, aiming for professional detachment. "Though I don't believe we've been introduced, Mr...?"

His lips quirk into a half-smile that does dangerous things to my insides. "Volkov," he supplies. "Luka Volkov. But please, call me Luka."

The name tickles something in the back of my mind, but I can't quite place it. I offer my hand. "Natalia Orlova."

Instead of shaking it, Luka brings my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles. The gesture is old-fashioned, almost courtly, but there's nothing chivalrous about the heat that flares in his eyes. "Oh, I know exactly who you are, Ms. Orlova."

A shiver runs down my spine, equal parts excitement and trepidation. There's something dangerous about this man, a coiled intensity that sets every nerve ending on high alert. And yet, I find myself drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

"You handled those harpies beautifully," Luka continues, nodding towards where I'd confronted the gossiping women. "Though I have to wonder if it was worth the energy."

I bristle slightly at his presumption. "Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself. For your family."

"Ah, yes. Family." His tone is neutral, but something flickers in his eyes—an emotion I can't quite name. "A noble sentiment. But in my experience, engaging with rumors only gives them more power."

"Is that your sage advice? To just ignore it when people slander your loved ones?"

Luka chuckles, the sound low and rich. "Not at all. I'm simply suggesting there might be more... effective ways of dealing with the kind of problems your family is having.”

There's a weight to his words that makes me wonder exactly what kind of "effective ways" he's hinting at. I narrow my eyes, studying him more closely. "And what would you know about my family's problems, Mr. Volkov?"

His smile doesn't falter, but something dangerous flashes in his bright eyes. "More than you might think, Ms. Orlova. Moscow is a small world, after all."

Before I can press further, a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.

"Natalia! There you are!"

I turn to see my younger sister, Alina, weaving through the sea of glittering dresses and dark suits. She's a vision in powder blue, her chestnut curls bouncing as she hurries over. I’m relieved to see her—though a strange sort of irritation goes through me that she’s interrupting my conversation with this delightful new stranger.

"Sorry to interrupt," Alina says, flashing a quick, curious glance at Luka. "But I wanted to remind you about our flight tomorrow. To Isla Miramar?"

I resist the urge to groan. With everything going on, I'd almost forgotten about our impending family vacation. A week on a tropical island sounds heavenly in theory, but the reality of being cooped up with our entire extended family—including Uncle Viktor—is far less appealing.

"Right, of course," I say, plastering on a smile. "How could I forget? We're meeting at the airport at...?"

"Nine AM sharp," Alina supplies. "Don't be late, or Mother will have both our heads."

I nod, already dreading the early wake-up call. As Alina turns to go, a thought strikes me. "Wait. Is Uncle Viktor here tonight? I haven't seen him."

Alina rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "You know how he is. Never shows up for anything the day before traveling. Says it's bad luck or something."

With a little wave, she disappears back into the crowd, leaving me alone once more with the enigmatic Luka Volkov.

When I turn back to him, I find his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat. It’s not just the stress of the event. He has some kind of power over me that I’ve decided I don’t like at all. No man should be able to make it hard for me to breathe, especially not one who seems entirely too confident in his ability to do so.

"Sounds like quite the family gathering," Luka says, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "Isla Miramar, was it? I've heard it's lovely this time of year."

"Oh?" I arch an eyebrow, a hint of challenge in my voice to cover up the tension that sits alongside it. "And where are you vacationing, Mr. Volkov?"

His smile widens, revealing a hint of perfectly straight, white teeth. "As it happens, I had a meeting canceled tonight. We were meant to meet at my hotel bar, and now my evening is free. What a... fortunate coincidence."

My heart rate kicks up a notch. Is he flirting? The logical part of my brain screams that this is a bad idea. I know nothing about this man beyond his name and the fact that he oozes danger from every pore. But there's something magnetic about him, a pull I can't seem to resist.

"And what hotel are you staying at tonight?” I ask, surprised by my own boldness. I hate him for how he makes me feel, but I’m drawn to him like the shimmering red promise of death written on the underside of a black widow spider.

"The Grand Resort," Luka replies. "I've heard good things. Especially about the bar.”

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. "Well, then I'm afraid you've been misinformed. The bar at the Executive Lodge is far better. Much more... exclusive."

Luka leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. "Is that so? Perhaps you'd care to show me what I'm missing out on?"

The invitation hangs in the air between us, loaded with possibility. I know I should say no. I have a family vacation to prepare for, a business to run, a reputation to maintain. Getting involved with a mysterious stranger is the last thing I need right now.

And yet...

"You know what?" I say, meeting his gaze steadily. "I think I would. What do you say we get out of here?"

Luka's eyes darken with approval and something that looks a lot like hunger. "Lead the way, Ms. Orlova."

As we make our way towards the exit, I can feel the weight of eyes on us. No doubt this will set tongues wagging even more than my earlier outburst. But for once, I find I don't care. Let them talk. Let them wonder.

Just as we reach the door, a commotion erupts from across the room. I turn to see my father, his face ashen, engaged in a heated conversation with a man I don't recognize. Their voices are too low to make out the words, but the tension is palpable even from here.

I hesitate, torn between investigating and following Luka out into the night. As if sensing my indecision, Luka places a hand on the small of my back, his touch electric even through the fabric of my dress.

"Come," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. "Whatever's happening, I promise you'll want to be far away when it all goes down."

His words send a chill down my spine. What does he know? But before I can ask, he's guiding me out the door and into the warm Moscow night.

As we step into a waiting car, sleek and black with tinted windows, I can't shake the feeling that I'm making a terrible mistake. And yet, as Luka's hand finds mine in the darkness, I realize I don't care.

Whatever consequences await, they're a problem for tomorrow's Natalia. Tonight, I'm going to lose myself in the arms of this dangerously appealing stranger and worry about the fallout in the morning.

If only I knew just how high a price I'd pay for this one night of reckless abandon.