Cruel Romeo (Gubarev Bratva #1)

Chapter 1

SIMA

Whoever said wedding planners just play with flowers clearly never had to fish a kid out of the koi pond one hour before the vows.

The boy’s little tux is soaked, one of his shoes is missing, his bow tie is either somewhere between the lily pads or in the stomach of a hungry koi, and I’m ninety percent sure his screams are setting off the flower girl’s eczema.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I coo, wringing out his sleeve. “Why don’t we go find your mommy?”

He wails louder.

Behind us, the koi ripple away in terror. One’s probably texting his therapist about this. Lord knows I’d love to talk to mine.

I glance up and spot the mom. She’s a checklist of bad parenting.

Glass of champagne? Half empty.

Inappropriate laughter? Full volume.

Maternal instinct? Not a drop of it to be found.

She’s wearing sequins and a boa and a vibe that says, Someone else will deal with this.

She is correct. That someone is me.

“Ma’am?” I call out, my voice the exact pitch of someone one hiccup shy of a breakdown. “Did you want to come comfort your son?”

She waves me off like I’m suggesting a tax audit. “Oh, he’s always like this.”

Fabulous. I’m elbow-deep in a meltdown and the only adult with parental authority is picking French bubbles over her own crotch spawn.

“Okay, then,” I mutter under my breath. “You cry, I’ll do damage control, and the koi will start a support group.”

The boy’s wails start piercing the sound barrier.

“Sammi! Good, you’re here,” Jemma huffs as she rushes to my side.

She’s my best friend as well as my assistant, but right this second, I am so not happy to see her.

That creased look on her face is inevitably the last thing I see before I hear some very bad news. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Well, you found me.” I give an awkward smile and an even more awkward finger-guns gesture, because that’s just how this day is going. “Hey, do you think we should fence off the pond? ‘Cause I feel like it’s really worth considering—”

“No time.” She claps her hands like it will make all of our problems disappear. It never works, but Jemma’s nothing if not made of hope and glitter. “Catering messed up. There’s tuna in the vegan tarts.”

My jaw nearly joins Tux Kid’s missing shoe at the bottom of the pond. “There’s what?”

“I know, right?” She throws her arms up. “According to them, it’s not red meat, so it’s fine.”

Kill me now. This is a disaster. Half of the bride’s guests are vegan or vegan-adjacent. The reception starts in two hours, for God’s sake. “Please tell me they stuck to zucchini pies for the lunch menu.”

“I mean, sure… if you want me to lie.”

I bury my face in my hands. Then I realize they’re still smelly with koi water and hastily wipe them on my pants, which is great, because now, I smell like a fish from head to toe.

“Okay,” I breathe, even though it’s patently not okay. “This is fine. It’s only the biggest wedding of the season.”

Jemma sighs, arms limp in defeat. “I’ll shepherd the soggy kid back to Mother of the Year over there and you’ll fix the food?”

I’m definitely getting the shit end of the stick in that delegation of duties. But if it means five minutes scream-free, I’m willing to take both ends. “He’s all yours,” I agree, pushing him into Jemma’s arms. “If you can’t get his mom, Child Protective Services are always an option.”

“Perf. I got them on speed dial after the Kasparov wedding.”

My body is wracked with an involuntary shudder. Christ, the Kasparov wedding. The memory of that day alone almost makes me reconsider my family’s horrific track record with weddings.

Almost.

I slap my cheeks and center myself. Then I repeat the mantra I’ve spent years perfecting in my mind.

I have no family.

I come from nowhere.

I am no one.

Works like a charm.

The second I’m back down on Earth, I ring Caterina, our emergency go-to Italian grandmother. She works out of her basement, has a list of OSHA violations longer than the years she’s been alive, and she always, always delivers.

“Hi, Mrs. Mancini? Yes, it’s me. Listen, I know it’s really short notice…”

After ten minutes of haggling, I manage to extort vegan lasagna for two hundred cranky PETA members in two hours. Yes, the pasta will be premade; yes, the pesto will be straight from the can; no, I could not care less. When faced with a three-digit count of hangry guests, quality takes a backseat.

In fact, quality gets bound, gagged, and tossed in the trunk, with no one around to hear it scream.

I organize the pick-up for the lasagna, then put down the phone and exhale. The crazy thing is, I’m not even mad. This—the chaos, the crisis management, the high-stakes mishaps—is what I’m good at. It runs in my blood.

Literally. No matter how hard I’ve tried to exorcize those demons out of me.

You can’t outrun your genes, after all.

I slump against the cool marble wall of the venue. It occurs to me, for neither the first nor the millionth time, that I shouldn’t be working weddings. It’s the height of irony, really, that this is what I do for a living.

And yet, here I am. Sima Danilo, once heir to a vast, bloody dynasty, has now been rebranded and reborn as Sammi Banks, wedding planner extraordinaire with zero connections to the criminal underworld.

Some days, I almost can’t believe it. That I ever agreed to step foot in a reception hall again, after what happened to…

Don’t think about it. I take a deep breath and force the tears back down. Don’t think about Lara. She’s gone now. You can’t save her. You tried.

I give myself a good shake and swallow the lump that has formed at the back of my throat.

Quitting the wedding industry won’t give me my sister back.

What it will do is get me kicked out of my ratty apartment, and I cannot have that.

Not when I’ve come this close to fully emancipating myself from my past.

And I won’t let that happen. You can’t outrun your genes, no—but you can sure as hell outrun the people you share them with.

I grab my phone and pull up my savings account. It reads $29,671, exactly $5,329 short of what I need to start a new life. Luckily, the wedding of the year comes with a hefty bonus check.

And then I’ll be free.

After this nightmarish day is over, I can finally quit the agency. I can flip my boss Bob the middle finger, take Jemma with me, and never have to bow my head to anyone ever, ever again.

I’ll be free.

After today, I’ll be free.

It feels like a dream. All those Cup Noodle dinners, every winter spent cocooned beneath three comforters because I couldn’t afford to splurge on pesky luxury goods like heating—it’ll all finally be worth it.

My gaze flits back to Tux Kid. He’s stopped screaming now that his mother finally deigned to put down her bubbles to kiss his boo-boo better. I’m not a fan of other people’s kids—event planning will do that to you—but I’ve always nursed the hope that, one day, I’d have some of my own.

I can’t afford it now, but once my company is up and running… once we’ve earned back the start-up capital and our accounts become flush with cash, in a few years’ time… then who knows?

You’d need a husband for that, the obnoxious voice at the back of my head reminds me. Somehow, it sounds exactly like my dad’s. You could have had one if you’d stayed. If you’d done your duty, like your sister did.

Lara understood. Lara knew what burdens she had to bear.

I shake that ugly thought off and stride towards the gazebo. I may make a living helping others barter away their freedom to the highest bidder, but you won’t catch me dead doing it. I’ve looked at the price tag—it’s never worth it.

Marriage is not for me.

I’m halfway through mentally coordinating emergency salads when I catch sight of the plaque. Not “a” plaque—the plaque.

The one that changes everything.

It’s being mounted just outside the chapel doors, all shiny brass and bad font choices.

Because nothing says “forever” like tacky serif engraving.

I glance at it out of habit, just double-checking the spelling, making sure nobody has accidentally commemorated the wedding of “Kevyn with a Y” to “Kayleeeigh with three E’s. ”

And then I stop.

Blood: cold.

Breath: caught.

Life: very much fucking over.

Because the groom’s name reads: Petyr Gubarev.

That name doesn’t belong here. Not in this fairy tale venue, not in this idyllic corner of upstate New York, not anywhere near the civilian life I’ve spent years duct-taping together.

But there it is. Petyr Gubarev. The new pakhan of the Gubarev Bratva—as of last week.

Panic seizes me by the throat. I remember the story that’s been dominating the news this month: famed Russian crime boss Vladimir Gubarev was shot in broad daylight on his way to church, killed on the spot.

Dimitri Gubarev, his eldest son, took a bullet, too.

He was spared the same quick death his father got, but he’s currently comatose. The prognosis is grim.

Then I recall the clips that followed: Petyr Gubarev, Vladimir’s second son, giving a public speech to assure the company’s shareholders that the family business was in good hands. Only, it sounded more like a threat to whoever dared to aim a gun at his kin.

That “whoever,” I’m fairly certain, was my dad.

I can’t know for sure, but I was in that life long enough to read the writing on the wall. I remember how my father operates, the lengths he’ll go to secure his power.

Usually, he prefers to do it through arranged marriages.

Then again, I didn’t give him much of an opportunity to barter me away.

I’ve spent years avoiding the Gubarev name. Keeping a low profile, ducking my head so far below their radar they’d never think to check. And why would they? I have a new name. A new life.

I’m no longer the twelve-year-old Bratva princess in pigtails they called “Sima.”

I’m just Sammi now.

And yet, cold sweat still breaks across my back. In the Bratva world, bad blood never fades—it just festers. And when it eventually spills, it spills ugly.

Which means one thing: I have to get out of here.

Every instinct is screaming at me to bolt, right this fucking second. If anyone recognizes me for who I truly am, I’m either getting ransomed or executed, and honestly, I’m not sure which one would be the worse family reunion.

But I can’t blow off this job. Not when my entire escape plan depends on the bonus check I’m supposed to get at the end of the night.

So I do the only thing I can do.

I lie.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” I tell Jemma, clutching my stomach for emphasis. “You know—nausea, chills, a concerning churn in my lower regions.”

She eyes me with suspicion. “Is this about the ringbearer eating the boutonniere again?”

For the sake of my own sanity, I pretend I didn’t just hear that. “Can you be point person for the rest of the day? I’ll be nearby, just… less visible. Like a wedding fairy.”

Jemma rolls her eyes, but she nods. “Fine. But if I find out you’re having a mental breakdown in the broom closet again, I’m sending the flower girl to drag you out.”

“Thanks.” I resist the urge to hug her. If I do, Jemma will definitely know something’s up. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I want a five-percent bump on my future salary for this,” she yells after me. “And I get to name your firstborn!”

After granting Jemma permission to do whatever she wants with my nonexistent descendants, I head for my office, grab the client file, and stuff it into my purse like I’m packing for exile.

Then I make my way to the only place in this entire building where I might actually be left alone: a tiny storage room off the service hallway.

I slip inside, close the door quietly behind me, and finally—finally—let myself exhale.

Safe. Out of sight, out of mind. That’s the plan. No one knows me here. I’m just another overworked wedding gremlin having a panic attack next to a bottle of turpentine.

Until I see him.

Muscles. Scars. Jawline sharp as hell, but nose crooked enough to commit tax fraud.

Light brown hair cut short at the sides and back, with thicker curls at the top.

Rich golden brown eyes, the color of good whiskey.

A sea of tattoos covering his entire upper body, from his ridiculously sculpted eight-pack to the lines of his knuckles.

I know who this man is.

This is Petyr Gubarev.

That Petyr Gubarev. As in, the actual groom. The man I came in here specifically to avoid.

And he’s standing six feet away from me in nothing but his boxer briefs.