Gilded in Lies (Bratva Bloodlines #2)

Prologue

IRINA

I can’t believe I’m being buried alive in three thousand yards of Chantilly lace, and everyone in the room is laughing and clapping at my funeral.

Not funny.

"Oh, Gospodi , Irina! You are a vision!" Maria, the lead stylist, gushes. She tweaks a microscopic fold in the heavy, ivory skirt of my wedding dress. Her eyes keep darting toward the heavy oak door.

Everyone’s is nervous today. They know what happens if a Petrov bride doesn't look like a porcelain doll or worse, if she looks like she’s reconsidering the deal.

I stare at the stranger in the three-way mirror of the St. Regis penthouse.

I see the reflection of a girl with high, sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes.

My golden-brown hair is pulled into a sleek, careful knot, pinned with enough diamonds to fund a small revolution.

It’s a crown of thorns disguised as high fashion.

"I look like a doll," I say, my voice flat, cutting through their nervous chatter. "A very expensive, very suffocated doll."

"You look like the future Queen of New York, Miss Petrova!” another stylist chirps, her voice a pitch too high as she pins a veil so long it feels like it has its own zip code.

I’m really trying not to be rude. I know what is on the line for everyone involved but… I can’t do this… I can’t ? —

"I can’t breathe," I snap, the stubbornness I’ve spent twenty-five years honing finally bubbling to the surface. "Get out. All of you."

Maria pales, her hand fluttering to her throat. "B-But the ceremony starts in twenty minutes, Ira. We still need to?—"

"I need to be alone," I cut her off, my gaze dropping to the silver Orthodox cross around my neck. It’s the only thing I’m wearing that is actually mine. "Unless you’d like to see how a bride looks when she has a full-blown panic attack and ruins ten thousand dollars worth of makeup? Out. Now."

They scurry. The click of the heavy door closing behind them is the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all day. Finally, silence. I try to take a deep breath, but the corset—cinched so tight it feels like my ribs are trying to trade places—refuses to allow it.

I want to cry, I want to ruin things or scream like in the movies but I can’t, my lips are trembling and my fingers shaky.

Is this the life I’m expected to lead?? This?

I’m not just a bride. I’m an apology. A political correction for the fact that Artyom Morozov, the Ice King himself, looked at the alliance my father offered and chose a nurse instead.

I’m an unwanted leftover.

Not that I actually care about Artyom’s rejection.

What burns is the way my father simply pivoted.

Artyom said no, so the great Boris Petrov just pointed his thick finger at the next brother in line as if he were choosing a different bottle of top-shelf vodka.

I am being passed around like prized cattle, a bargaining chip traded for territory and peace, and today, the trade is Mikhail.

A heavy, measured knock sounds at the door. I don't need to ask who it is. That rhythm belongs to only one man. The air in the room seems to grow colder before he even enters.

The door opens, and my father steps in, a wall of a man, six-foot-one and broad-shouldered, carrying the thick build of someone who broke bones for a living before he started breaking empires.

His salt-and-pepper hair is cut very short, and his dark, heavy-lidded eyes scan me with the same cold calculation he uses for a shipment of contraband.

"Stand up straight, Irina," he commands as soon as his eyes land on me. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates in my chest like a warning.

I don't move from the velvet stool. "I’m already standing as straight as the wire holding this dress together allows, Papa."

He walks toward me, the gold rings on his thick fingers catching the light. He smells of expensive cigars and a sharp, metallic cologne that lingers long after the man is gone. He reaches out, catching my chin in a grip that isn't quite painful, but is definitely a reminder of who owns whom.

"Look at me," he says. I force my eyes to look into his. "After the mess with Artyom, after the shame you brought upon this house by being discarded, you should be on your knees thanking me for this day."

"Thanking you?" I let a dry, sassy laugh escape, though my heart is drumming a frantic rhythm against my stays.

"For marrying me off to the Morozov brother who likes to set things on fire for fun? Mikhail is a volatile mess, Papa. I’ve heard the stories about what he did in Naples.

The men he left in the streets. What good is having a predator like that for a husband? Are you trying to get me killed?"

"Mikhail is a Morozov," Boris growls, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second, just enough to make me wince.

"And you will do something beneficial for this family for once.

This wedding isn't just about a name, Irina. It’s the gateway.

You will go in, you will play the dutiful wife. Do you understand?"

His eyes are ominous, glinting with a hidden intent I can't quite place, something that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up. There’s something he isn't saying—something about the way he’s been whispering with Mikhail’s father, Vladimir Morozov, in the dark corners of the club.

"I was supposed to marry the Pakhan," I whisper, the stubbornness in my voice replaced by a sharp, defensive edge. "Artyom was manageable. He’s cold. He’s predictable. I could have lived in his shadow and found a way to survive. But Mikhail... he’s different."

"What about him?"

"He doesn't look at people, Papa. He hunts them. I can’t... I can’t be controlled by him. He makes me feel like I’m going to shatter just by standing in the same room."

Boris scoffs, letting go of my chin with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "You are a Petrov. Don’t embarrass yourself. I’ll be waiting downstairs. Fifteen minutes. If you aren't at the top of that staircase, I will come back up here, and you won't like the way I walk you down."

He turns on his heel and leaves. The door thuds shut, and the lock clicks from the outside—a subtle reminder that I am a prisoner in a castle made of silk and gold.

But he forgot one thing. I’ve been a Petrov for twenty-five years. I know how to pick a lock, and I know how to bribe the help. I’ve been preparing for this fifteen-minute window for months.

The second the sound of his footsteps fades, I spring into action. I don't have fifteen minutes. I have ten.

The hell I’ll sit like a smiling fool while being forced to marry a mad man.

I reach under the bed, pulling out the small, black backpack I hid there two days ago.

My hands fly to the back of the dress. The silk-covered buttons are a nightmare, designed to be undone by a husband, but I don't have time for a husband.

I grab a pair of sewing shears from the vanity and—with a jagged, cathartic rip—I slice through the back of the "vision. "

The lace falls away like dead skin. I step out of the ivory prison, standing in my silk slip, my heart hammering against my ribs. I feel lighter, but the terror is still there, a cold weight in my stomach.

I need to do this before I chicken out.

I pull on the black leggings, the oversized hoodie, and the sneakers I’ve kept hidden. I don't look like a Russian princess anymore. I look like a ghost. I shove my dark golden hair into a cap, sliding on the sunglasses despite the dim room.

I walk to the window. The penthouse is on the first floor of the garden wing, overlooking the manicured grounds of the hotel. I’ve spent weeks studying this view, calculating the distance between the guards' rounds.

I unlock the window and push. The cool New York air hits my face, and for the first time in six months, I can actually draw a full breath.

"Psst! Miss Irina?"

I look down. Standing in the shadows of the hedges is Tomas, a hotel employee whose gambling debts I paid off last month. He’s holding a sturdy gardener’s ladder against the stone ledge, his face pale and sweating.

"Is the coast clear, Tomas?" I whisper, my voice trembling with adrenaline and pure fear.

"The guards are all at the front entrance for the groom’s arrival. You have five minutes before the rounds change," he says, his eyes darting toward the corner of the building. "Are you really doing this? They’ll kill us both if they find out. Mikhail... he isn't a man who forgives."

"Then don't let them find out," I say, swinging my leg over the sill.

I climb down the ladder, my sneakers hitting the grass with a muffled thud. I don't look back. I run through the hedges, staying low, my eyes fixed on the gap in the wrought-iron fence I found during my "walks" last week.

As I round the corner of the west wing, I stop for a split second. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand ballroom, I can see the guests. It’s a sea of black suits and blood-red roses. And there, standing at the altar with his brother Artyom, is Mikhail.

Even from here, he’s unnerving. He’s six-foot-three, his frame athletic and lean, draped in a flashy Italian designer suit that Artyom would never be caught dead in.

His dark golden hair is tousled, and even from fifty yards away, I can feel the weight of those dark blue eyes.

He isn't standing like a man waiting for his bride; he stands like a wolf waiting for the cage to open so he can find someone to tear apart.

He looks bored. He looks dangerous. He looks like a man who doesn't believe in vows, only in victory.

I shudder. Artyom would have been a cage of ice—cold, but steady.

Mikhail is a cage of fire. He unsettles me in ways I can’t name.

He doesn't just see people; he looks through them, searching for the cracks. I’ve heard the whispers of his time in Naples, of him.

The way he smiles when he’s about to break a man.

When he looks at me, I don't feel like the polished heiress; I feel like a mark.

"We have to go!" Tomas whispers from the fence.

I tear my gaze away from Mikhail. "I'm coming."

We reach the corner of the hotel. A non-descript grey sedan is idling at the curb. I slide into the back seat, the upholstery smelling of stale coffee and cheap air freshener.

A man in a baseball cap is in the driver's seat. He doesn't look back. He just holds out a hand. I reach into my bag and pull out a thick envelope of cash—all the jewelry I could pawn without Papa’s guards noticing.

He hands me a small, dark blue booklet. I open it. My photo is there, but the name says Elena Sokolov .

"It’s a clean ID," the driver says, as he turns on the engine. "The flight is in three hours. Do you want to tell me where you're going, or is that a secret too?"

As the car pulls away, I look at the window of the hotel one last time.

Somewhere in there, a bell is ringing. The fifteen minutes are up.

My father is walking into an empty room, and his rage will be a storm the city hasn't seen in decades.

Mikhail is standing at an altar, waiting for a bride who is already miles away.

The scandal will be tectonic. The Petrov and Morozov alliance will turn into a cold war.

"Somewhere warm," I say, my voice steadying despite the tremor in my hands. "Somewhere very, very warm."

"Good," he says with a shrug, shifting the car into gear.

"Keep driving," I say, sliding the sunglasses into place. "And don't stop until we're at JFK."

I close my eyes. I can still feel the ghost of Mikhail’s predatory gaze on the back of my neck the day we first met.

He’s going to come for me. I know it. He’s not the type of man to let a humiliation like this stand.

He’ll hunt me to the ends of the earth, not because he loves me, but because I’m a piece of the board he was promised, and I’ve dared to move myself.

But for now, I am free. I am no longer an asset. I am no longer a vision.

I am just Irina, and I have a responsibility.

The car speeds through the streets of Manhattan, the neon lights of the city blurring into long streaks of color. I look at my hands. They’re empty. No rings. No lace. No diamonds.

My fingers brush the small, faded photo I have tucked into the hidden pocket of my leggings. It’s the only thing that matters.

"I’m coming for you," I whisper into the dark of the car, my voice cracking once before turning to iron. "I don't care what the Bratva says. I don't care what anyone thinks. I am coming for you."

The car races toward the airport, and for the first time in ten years, I don't feel like a pawn. I feel like the Queen.

And the Queen is off the board.