Arranged for the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #9)

Prologue - Viktor

The collision sent coffee cascading down Viktor’s shirt, and he should have been pissed.

Should have grabbed the clumsy bitch by the throat and made her understand what happened when you fucked with a Nikolai.

Instead, he found himself staring into hazel eyes that sparkled with mischief, watching those plump lips curve into a smile that made his cock twitch.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” She pressed a hand to her mouth, but he could see she was fighting laughter. “I swear I’m not usually this much of a disaster. Well, that’s a lie. I totally am, but today’s been especially chaotic.”

“Has it now?” He stepped closer, ignoring the way his ruined shirt clung to his chest. The scent of her perfume hit him like a punch to the gut, something floral and intoxicating that made him want to bury his face in her neck. “And what’s made your day so... chaotic?”

She gestured wildly with her hands, nearly knocking over another passerby.

“Work meeting ran late, missed my lunch, spilled mustard on my favorite dress, got caught in the rain without an umbrella, and now I’ve basically baptized you in caffeine.

” Her laugh was rich and genuine. “I should probably buy you a new shirt. Or at least a coffee to replace the one currently decorating your very expensive-looking suit.”

He couldn’t help but grin. When was the last time someone had made him smile without trying to get something from him?

“I think I can manage to survive the coffee assault. But you’re right about owing me.

” He let his gaze travel down her body slowly, taking in every curve.

“Let me think of how you can make it up to me.”

The blush that spread across her cheeks made him want to see it covering her entire body. “I’m listening.”

“Coffee. With me. Right now.” He nodded toward the café across the street. “Consider it... restitution.”

She bit her bottom lip, and fuck, he wanted to do that for her. “I don’t usually accept coffee invitations from strangers I’ve just assaulted with beverages.”

“Viktor.” He held out his hand. “Now we’re not strangers.”

“Anka.” Her palm was soft against his, but her grip was firm. Strong. He liked that. “And I suppose one coffee couldn’t hurt.”

The café was crowded, tourists and locals crammed together in the afternoon rush, but he spotted a small table tucked away in the corner. Perfect. He guided her through the crowd with his hand on the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

“So, Anka,” he said once they’d settled into their seats, their knees brushing under the tiny table. “Tell me about this disaster of a day.”

She launched into a story about her boss, some prick who apparently thought yelling was an acceptable form of communication, and he found himself hanging on every word.

Not because the story was particularly fascinating, but because of the way her eyes lit up when she talked, the way she used her whole body to tell the story, the way she unconsciously leaned closer to him as she spoke.

“Your turn,” she said, stirring her latte. “What do you do when you’re not getting coffee dumped on you by clumsy women?”

“Import and export.” The lie rolled off his tongue easily. He’d perfected it over the years. “Family business.”

“Sounds boring.”

He laughed. If only she knew. “It has its moments.”

She was studying his face, those hazel eyes searching for something. “You have interesting scars.”

His hand automatically went to the thin white line above his left eyebrow, a souvenir from his fifteenth birthday when his father decided he was old enough to start learning the family trade the hard way. “Occupational hazard.”

“Must be some dangerous imports.”

Before he could respond, she leaned across the table, her fingers trailing along his jaw. “I like them,” she whispered. “They make you look dangerous.”

“Maybe I am.”

Her pupils dilated, and he could see her pulse fluttering at her throat. “Promise?”

That’s when he snapped. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, hard and desperate, like a man dying of thirst who’d finally found water. She tasted like coffee and something sweeter, something that was purely her, and when she moaned into his mouth, he nearly lost his fucking mind.

She was kissing him back with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He could feel every curve of her body pressed against his, could smell her arousal mixing with that intoxicating perfume.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, she was looking at him like she wanted to devour him whole.

“Well,” she panted, “that was...”

“A preview.” He traced his thumb across her swollen lips. “Of what I’m going to do to you when we’re alone.”

Her cheeks flushed deeper. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Both.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. “I’m going to strip you naked and map every inch of your body with my tongue. I’m going to make you come so hard you forget your own name. I’m going to fuck you until you’re screaming mine.”

She shivered, and he could see her nipples hardening beneath her dress. “Viktor...”

“But first,” he pulled back, enjoying the dazed look on her face, “I’m going to take you to dinner. Somewhere with good wine and terrible lighting so I can spend the entire meal thinking about all the wicked things I want to do to you.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.” He was already mentally rearranging his schedule, pushing back meetings and adjusting his obligations. Nothing mattered more than this woman, this moment. “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

She gave him her address, writing it on a napkin in careful script, and he tucked it into his wallet as if it were made of gold.

When they finally left the café, he walked her to her car, a beat-up Honda that had seen better days.

It was such a stark contrast to the luxury he was used to, but somehow it fit her perfectly.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she said, keys jingling in her hand. “And for not being a complete asshole about the whole assault thing.”

“Thank you for the assault. Best thing that’s happened to me in years.”

She stood on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “See you tomorrow, Viktor.”

He watched her drive away, his chest tight with an unfamiliar feeling.

Contentment, maybe. Or happiness. Fuck, when was the last time he’d been genuinely happy?

Not the twisted satisfaction he got from breaking his enemies or the temporary high of closing a profitable deal, but real, honest happiness.

The next evening, Viktor stood outside her apartment building at exactly eight o’clock, holding a bouquet of white roses and feeling like a fucking teenager on his first date.

He’d spent an hour getting ready, changing clothes three times before settling on a black suit and tie.

He wanted to look good for her, wanted to be worthy of the goddess who’d stumbled into his life.

Eight fifteen. Still no sign of her.

He called her phone. It went straight to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. I’m downstairs. Take your time, beautiful.”

Eight thirty. He tried again. Still voicemail.

By nine o’clock, the first tendrils of worry were creeping in. Had something happened? Was she in trouble? He knew the risks of being involved with him, knew that his enemies wouldn’t hesitate to use her against him if they discovered her existence.

He called Kostya. “I need you to trace a phone number. Now.”

“Jesus, Viktor, it’s Friday night. Can’t whatever crisis you’re having wait until—”

“Now, Kostya.”

Kostya must have heard something in his voice because he didn’t argue. “Send me the number.”

An hour later, Kostya called back. “Phone’s been turned off since yesterday afternoon. Want me to send someone to check on her?”

“No.” Viktor needed to handle this himself. “Just get me everything you can on Anka...” He realized he didn’t even know her last name. “Fuck.”

“Anka what, brother?”

“I don’t know. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, drives a blue Honda Civic, lives at...” He rattled off her address.

“On it.”

Viktor spent the weekend going out of his mind with worry. By Monday morning, he had Ilya’s best men combing the city, checking hospitals, calling in favors with contacts in law enforcement. She’d vanished completely, like she’d never existed at all.

It took them two weeks to find the truth.

“You’re not going to like this,” Ilya said, sliding a thick file across Viktor’s desk.

Viktor opened it with hands that weren’t quite steady.

Inside were photographs, surveillance reports, and background checks.

And there, staring back at him from a family photo, was his Anka.

Except her name wasn’t Anka. It was Anka Volkov.

Sister to Matvei Volkov, one of their biggest rivals.

Daughter of a crime family that had been at odds with the Nikolais for decades.

Every conversation they’d had came rushing back with new meaning. The way she’d deflected questions about her family. Her mysterious job that kept her so busy. The fact that she’d paid for her own coffee despite wearing designer clothes she’d claimed to have gotten on sale.

She’d played him. Every smile, every touch, every breathless moan had been a fucking lie. She’d gotten close to him to gather information, to find weaknesses in their organization. And like an idiot, he’d fallen for it completely.

The roses he’d brought her that night were still sitting on his kitchen counter, brown and withered now. He swept them into the trash with violent satisfaction, but it didn’t ease the rage burning in his chest.

“Viktor.” Ilya’s voice was careful, like he was talking to a wild animal. “What do you want to do?”

Viktor stared at the photographs, memorizing every line of her face. The way she’d looked at him in that café, like he was the only man in the world. The way she’d kissed him, like she was drowning and he was her salvation. All of it had been an act.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Yet.”

“Yet?”

Viktor closed the file and locked it in his desk drawer.

“I’m going to make her pay. But not today.

Not tomorrow.” He looked up at his cousin, letting him see the cold fury in his eyes.

“Someday, when she least expects it, when she thinks she’s safe and happy, I’m going to destroy everything she loves. Just like she did to me.”

“Viktor, maybe we should consider that she might have had her reasons. Maybe her family forced her—”

“Don’t.” The word came out like a whip crack. “Don’t make excuses for her. She made her choice.”

Ilya nodded reluctantly. “What if you never get the chance? What if your paths never cross again?”

Viktor smiled, and even Ilya could see how cold and cruel it was. “Oh, they will. I’ll make sure of it. And when that day comes, Anka Volkov will learn exactly what happens when you break a Nikolai’s heart.”

The file stayed in Viktor’s drawer for years, but he never forgot. Every deal they made, every alliance they formed, every move they planned, part of him was thinking about her. Waiting for the perfect opportunity. The perfect revenge.

And finally, after four long years, it had come.

His sister had fallen in love with Anka’s brother. The irony was almost too perfect to believe. Matvei Volkov, the head of the family that had used his sister as a weapon against him, was now begging for an alliance. And he was willing to offer anything to get it.

Including his sister.

Viktor had made sure of that. A few carefully placed suggestions, some strategic pressure applied in just the right places, and suddenly marriage was the only way to cement the deal. A marriage between him and the woman who’d ripped his heart out and left him bleeding.

She thought she’d gotten away with it. Thought she’d walked away clean while he nursed his wounds in private. But he’d been planning this for years, and now it was finally time.

Anka Volkov was going to be his wife.

And then she was going to learn what real heartbreak felt like.