Accidentally Knocked Up by the Bratva (Zolotov Bratva #9)

Chapter 1 - Abram

The clinking of tableware and muted laughter tell me everyone’s having a wonderful meal, yet I push the overcooked steak around my plate. The rich aroma of garlic and herbs wafts up, but my appetite remains stubbornly absent.

"What's wrong, Brother? American food not agreeing with your delicate Russian palate?" Denis teases, elbowing me playfully.

I force a wan smile. "Just adjusting, that's all."

My eyes wander over the modern restaurant—all metal sculptures, white floors, and minimalistic walls. So different from home, where it’s all opulent wooden floors and crystal chandeliers. A pang of homesickness hits me unexpectedly.

"I miss the borscht," I admit softly. "And the pelmeni. Even the way the cold bites at your face when you step outside."

Our cousin Lev raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? You miss that icy hellscape?"

I shrug. "It's home. Or was."

"Well, you're in America now, Abram," Mark says, raising his glass. "Land of opportunity. And much better weather."

"True," I concede. "I am glad we came. Though it's strange—having an American mother but never setting foot here until now."

"Better late than never," Denis says.

I nod, gazing out the window at the twinkling city lights. So different from Moscow's snow-capped domes. But perhaps, in time, this too could feel like home.

The conversation takes an abrupt turn as Boris leans in, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Speaking of business, we've got a situation with that new guy in accounting. Seems he's been running his mouth to the wrong people."

Boris’s younger brother Damien’s eyes narrow. "Who?"

"Petrov," Boris spits. "Rookie mistake, but it could cost us big."

"We should teach him a lesson," Mark suggests, cracking his knuckles. "Remind him what happens to loose lips in our world."

I set down my fork, the metallic clink cutting through the tension. "Gentlemen, surely there's a more… civilized approach."

Lev scoffs. "Civilized? Since when do we care about that?"

"Since always," I counter, leaning back in my chair. "Violence is messy; it draws attention. Why not hit him where it truly hurts?" I pause, letting the idea simmer. "His wallet."

Denis tilts his head, intrigued. "Go on."

"A significant cut to his commissions," I explain. "It's clean, sends a message, and keeps our hands metaphorically clean."

Mark frowns. "But where's the fun in that?"

I smirk. "The fun, dear brother, is in watching him squirm, knowing exactly why his paycheck's lighter but unable to complain without admitting his own guilt."

A slow grin spreads across Denis’s face. "I like it. Devious, but elegant."

"That's our Abram," Boris chuckles. "Always finding an educated solution."

I raise my glass. "To creative problem-solving, gentlemen."

***

The next morning, sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows as I pad barefoot through my new home. The hardwood floors are cool beneath my feet, and the space echoes with possibility.

I pause in the living room, envisioning where each piece will go. "A Kandinsky there," I murmur, gesturing to a bare wall. "And perhaps a Chagall to complement it."

My fingers trail along the mantle, feeling for imperfections. Everything must be perfect, a reflection of refined taste that my brothers, for all their strengths, simply don't possess.

"They'd think I was mad," I chuckle to myself, "fussing over throw pillows and color palettes."

But this space is mine, and I intend to craft it into a sanctuary amidst the chaos of our world. Each piece is carefully chosen, each detail is meticulously planned.

I make mental notes as I move through the rooms. The dining room must have a statement chandelier. The study should home the perfect leather armchair. And the bedroom…

A smirk plays at my lips as I consider the possibilities for that most intimate of spaces. Luxurious linens, of course. But perhaps also something unexpected. Something to catch the eye of any lucky visitor who might find their way there.

Not that I have much time for women. Or perhaps I haven’t yet come across the right one.

But…one never knows.

"All in good time," I remind myself, turning back to the task at hand. There's still so much to do, so many details to perfect. But that's half the pleasure, isn't it? The anticipation of creating something truly extraordinary.

A sharp knock at the door interrupts my musings. I turn to see Danyl, my ever-efficient assistant, standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Zolotov. I finalized the bookings for the art curator and interior designer last night, as you requested."

I nod, pleased. "Excellent work, Danyl. And the credentials?"

"Impeccable, Sir. The art curator comes highly recommended. Multiple degrees, extensive experience with private collections and space design. She’s the go-to for the ultra-wealthy in New York and has even acted as a consultant for the Met."

"Perfect," I say, a smile playing on my lips. "She sounds like an expert in the field. I’m sick of all these curators trying to shove god-awful, almost blank canvases down my throat in the name of modern art."

Danyl clears his throat. "There is one more thing, Sir. The art curator has arrived early. She's waiting in the foyer."

My eyebrows raise in surprise. "She's here already? Well, that's… unexpected."

"Shall I ask her to return later?" he asks, ever ready to smooth over any inconvenience.

I wave my hand dismissively. "No, no. Punctuality is a virtue. I'll meet with her now."

As I follow my assistant toward the foyer, I find myself oddly excited. It's been too long since I've had a stimulating conversation about art. I picture the curator in my mind—likely an older woman, grey-haired and bespectacled, with decades of experience etched into her face.

"This way, Sir," Danyl says, gesturing toward the foyer. I straighten my jacket, ready to greet my new advisor and decorator.

***

I step into the foyer, and the world seems to tilt on its axis. Instead of the seasoned professional I'd imagined, I'm face to face with a vision that takes my breath away. She's young, impossibly young, with porcelain skin and eyes that spark with intelligence. She’s in a skirt and blazer, the buttons tight around her curves, the cut of that blazer endearingly seductive. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in waves, and her red lips curve into a slight smile as she meets my gaze.

I stop in my tracks, my hand held out in her direction in mid-air. She looks at it with a small smile and raises an eyebrow. I immediately extend it forward wholly. She takes it, her hand delicate and small in mine, and an electric current seems to pass between us. Perhaps I hold on to it a little too long but I eventually pull away.

"Mr. Zolotov," she says, her honey-brown eyes locked on mine, her voice a silken melody that sends a shiver down my spine. "I'm Zara Lyons, your new art curator."

I struggle to find my voice, my usual composure shattered. "Ms. Lyons," I manage to say. "I must admit, you're not quite what I expected."

Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches delicately. "Oh? And what did you expect, Mr. Zolotov?"

I hesitate, knowing I'm treading on dangerous ground. "Well, given your impressive credentials, I assumed… aren't you a bit young for this role?"

Zara's eyes flash, and I realize I've made a grave mistake. "Fresh ideas require fresh perspectives, Mr. Zolotov," she retorts, her voice sharp. "Unless, of course, you prefer your art collection to be as stale and boring as last century's aesthetics."

I'm momentarily stunned by her audacity, then find myself grinning. "Touché, Ms. Lyons. Please, allow me to show you around."

“Zara, please,” she insists, lowering her head just a little, giving me a glimpse of the longest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen.

“Abram,” I say, my voice hoarse. I extend out my hand, allowing her to walk ahead of me in the direction I lead her toward. She steps forward, and I catch the sight of her perfectly curvaceous ass, a sculpture of its own in that tight-fitting black skirt she has on.

As we move through the house, I'm acutely aware of her presence. The scent of her perfume—something light and floral with an undercurrent of musk—fills my senses, making it difficult to concentrate. I watch as she assesses each room, her keen eyes taking in every detail.

"Your taste is… eclectic," she comments, running a finger along a mahogany sideboard with neon inlay work.

I can't help but be entranced by the graceful movement of her hand. "I prefer to think of it as diverse," I reply, my voice huskier than I intended.

“If it’s diverse that you want,” she says, breaking into a smile that cuts out the sweetest dimples on her round cheeks. “Then it is diverse that you’ll get.”

Oh, I want a lot more than diverse, I find myself thinking, my eyes running to her full lips.

She turns away, heading to another room. I follow Zara into the study, my senses heightened by her proximity. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, a constant reminder of her presence even when she moves ahead of me. I watch as she assesses the room, her keen eyes taking in every detail.

"This space has potential," she muses. "But it lacks… personality. It feels disconnected from the rest of the house."

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "And how would you suggest we remedy that?"

She turns to face me, a challenging glint in her eye. "Well, Mr. Zolotov, that depends on what kind of man you are. Do you want this room to intimidate or inspire?"

The question catches me off guard. I've never given it much thought, but her line of reasoning makes me self-reflect. "Perhaps a bit of both," I admit. "I appreciate beauty, but in my line of work, a certain… edge is necessary."

“And what is it you do?” she asks, tilting her head curiously.

Well, I can’t exactly come out and tell her I lead a Bratva family now, can I? She’ll probably run in the other direction.

And so, I go with a concealed truth, omitting a detail or two irrelevant to our situation. “I run a family business,” I tell her. “In a highly competitive environment.”

What I mean to say is dangerous.

Zara nods, a small smile playing on her lips. "That must be quite something,” she says, almost wistfully, a look of her being elsewhere crossing her eyes briefly. But within a few seconds, she finds her composure again, leaving me curious as to the nature of her fleeting thoughts.

“For now,” she says, “let's start with the artwork. Something provocative yet refined. It should make a statement without screaming it. What do you think of Kandinsky?"

Instantly, I’m impressed. I was thinking of Kandinsky just this morning, and to know she read me this well is refreshing. I can almost shut my brain off, trust her to take over with designing my home.

As she speaks, moving gracefully around the room, I find myself captivated by more than just her words. The way she carries herself, confident yet unassuming, is so different from the posturing I’m used to.

"Tell me, Zara," I comment, genuinely intrigued by how her brain works. "Where did you study again?"

She pauses, turning to face me. A small flicker of uncertainty crosses her face. “Nowhere famous,” she admits, tilting her head a little. She bites her lower lip, a nervous tick, I assume. And the corner of her lip turns red, so delicious and red. I look away, afraid she might be able to read my mind.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say gruffly. “It is the results that matter. America is, after all, meritocratic.”

“Yes, I suppose,” she says gently. “Quite different from Russia, isn’t it?”

“How did you know I was from Russia?” I ask, intrigued.

“Your accent.” She shrugs.

So, she’s beautiful, smart, and perceptive. I find myself drawn in even further, curious to see where this will lead.

"In that case, I better work on it," I concede, a small smile tugging at my lips. "And please, call me Abram. Mr. Zolotov makes me feel older than I’d like to be."

I instantly regret bringing in age. I worry. Might she find me too old now that I pointed it out? She’s young, early twenties. And I? Thirty-five, to be precise.

But Zara's eyes meet mine softly, holding my gaze for a moment longer than necessary. "Abram, then. Shall we continue to the next room?"

This is the first time she says my name, a sound so thrilling on those juicy lips, and the truth is, I’m hooked. My brain goes on overdrive, thinking of all the million ways I’d love to hear her say it.