Gilded in Sin (Bratva Bloodlines #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Artyom

The call came just after dawn. Not from him, of course. He never picks up the phone himself. One of his men delivered the message in that clipped, careful tone that means it isn’t optional.

Your father wants to see you.

I almost said no. Although I live on the estate, I try to avoid this house, and every time I step inside it feels like walking backward through time into a version of myself I thought I’d buried. But there are some things even distance can’t protect you from.

The old unease has already settled in my gut.

My father’s house smells like old cigars and power.

Rotting, perfumed power. The kind that seeps into the stone until it forgets what clean air feels like.

Every sound here carries weight: the echo of shoes against marble, the click of a cane, the soft drag of a dying man pretending he’s still king.

God, how much I hate all of this.

Vladimir Morozov sits behind his desk, the same one I used to stand in front of as a boy. Back then, it felt like a throne, but now it looks smaller.

He glances up when I enter, surprise flickering for only a second before it hardens into the usual assessment. The years haven’t softened him. If anything, they’ve made him sharper. His suit is immaculate, his tie perfect, the old silver ring still glinting on his hand.

“It’s been a while,” he says finally, the words carrying neither warmth nor reproach. Just fact.

“It has.” I stop a few steps from the desk.

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth, but doesn’t reach his eyes. “Still difficult, I see.”

“I learned from the best.”

He exhales through his nose, a quiet huff that might be amusement or irritation. “I expected you to have missed your old man.”

“Let’s not pretend either of us missed the other.”

He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing faintly, as if trying to decide whether it was worth summoning me at all.

I break the silence first. “Why did you call me here, Father?”

“Can’t a father ask to see his son?”

“You can,” I say evenly. “You just never do unless you want something. So, let’s not pretend and save us both time.”

That earns me a longer look, intended to make men squirm. I don’t.

He steeples his fingers, settling back in his chair. “Straight to the point, then.”

“Always.”

He nods once, as if conceding a minor point in a game he still believes he’s winning. The room feels smaller when he finally speaks again.

“You’ll marry Irina Petrova,” he says, voice low and deliberate. He doesn’t need to shout. He never did. “It’s time.”

I take the chair opposite him, uninvited. “No.”

A flicker of irritation crosses his face. “No?”

“You heard me.” I unbutton my jacket, slow and calm. “I won’t marry her.”

He studies me the way he used to study his enemies before breaking them.

“Boris has made it clear that the wedding must take place in one month. Thirty days, Artyom. That’s all he’s given us—thirty days to bring our families together.

You’re treating this like a request.” He leans forward, the light catching the silver in his hair.

“And what are you, if not my blood? If I tell you this is how the Morozovs survive, you’ll obey. ”

The word tastes wrong. He still says it like I’m a child, as if I’m not the one who took his place when his health failed him.

I let the silence stretch before answering. “You stepped down because the doctors said you couldn’t take it,” I say quietly. “I’m the one keeping this family alive now. I don’t obey.” I meet his gaze, steady. “Not to you. Not to Boris. Not to anyone.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “Power doesn’t change blood. You’re only sitting there because I built it all first.”

“You built it, sure,” I say. “I’m the one who kept it from falling apart.”

His jaw tightens. “You think that makes you better than me?”

I shrug. “No. Just not as rotten.”

The air feels heavier. The smoke from his cigar hangs between us, thick and bitter. I’ve hated that smell since I was a kid, but he loves it—loves the way it fills a room until everyone breathes what he wants them to.

He takes another drag, the tip burning red. “Boris Petrov runs Queens and Long Island. Irina’s his heir. This marriage ties everything together—money, protection, legacy.” He looks at me over the smoke. “You’d really throw that away because your conscience suddenly woke up?”

“I’d rather not tie our name to human trafficking.”

He scoffs. “A moral Pakhan. The world will laugh.”

“The world already daes,” I say. “They think you’re too old to matter.”

That lands, making a vein pulse in his temple.

He rises slowly, using the cane like it’s part of the performance. “You’re my son, Artyom, don’t forget this” he says. “And sons don’t defy their fathers.”

I rise. No Morozov ever allows another to tower over them, this is what I’ve been taught and a rule I keep until this very day.

“You call it loyalty, but it’s tyranny. You abdicated, Father.

When I took your throne, your rule ended.

I won’t serve in its shadow and you know very well my approach is different than yours.

I won’t deal with human trafficking and I certainly won’t follow Boris’ lead and agree to his ridiculous schemes. Why on Earth would I marry Irina?”

He takes another drag, watching me like he’s measuring weight for a moment, then smiles. “You’ve grown arrogant.”

“I’ve picked up a few habits,” I say.

He gets up and walks the length of the desk, slowly coming towards me, and stops close enough that the tobacco is on my skin. “Do you know what happens to arrogant men, Artyom?”

“I’ve killed enough to know.” The words come out flat.

His eyes go sharp, like something there just woke up inside him. “Irina loves you. And she’s such a pretty girl.”

“She doesn’t love me, she barely knows me,” I answer.

“That’s enough.” He taps the desk with two fingers, as if marking time.

“She despises Mikhail, they have a history, he did something to offend her in the past,” I say.

“That’s not your problem.” He shrugs. “This is politics.”

“It is my problem when I have to share her bed.” The sentence lands harder than I expected.

He snorts. “When did you start caring whose bed you’re in? You’ve slept with women across half of Europe.”

My jaw tightens. “There’s a difference between someone you sleep with and a contract you must sign. Don’t confuse them.”

“You sound like a petulant child,” he says.

I step closer until his chin tilts up to meet my eyes and the room narrows. “A child would have left your empire in ashes, not made it more powerful.”

He studies me a long time; the quiet between us feels sharp. Finally: “You forget—men like Boris demand respect. Refuse his daughter and he’ll take what you have.”

“We are allied anyway, Father, why the fuck would I agree to marry his daughter?” I ask.

He shakes his head, slowly. “Power isn’t permanent. One bad move, one broken promise, and everything you’ve built falls apart.”

“I will not marry Irina Petrova,” I say, plain.

He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding whether it’s worth repeating himself, then turns and walks back to his chair. When he sits, his voice is calm again. “Fine. Then tell me—what should I tell Boris when he calls tomorrow to confirm?”

I set the glass down and look at him. “Tell him I’m already engaged.”

His head snaps up. “To whom?”

“You taught me discretion,” I say. “Consider this one of your lessons.”

“Don’t make a fool of me.”

“I’m not,” I answer. “I’m simply… protecting what we have.”

He stares at me, trying to read whether that’s bravado or a plan. “If she doesn’t exist,” he says, “Boris will tear us apart.”

“Of course she exists. I’m not a psycho that’d lie and say I had a fiancée if I didn’t. I just don’t bother sharing my personal life with you.”

Vladimir exhales through his nose, something between anger and reluctant amusement. “You’ll have to bring her to Italy then and present her to our allies,” he says, dry.

“Will do,” I say as I head for the door.

I don’t look back. The corridor outside is colder; the chandeliers throw hard light across the marble. Portraits of men who thought fear would save them look down on me; it never did.

By the gate my phone is already in my hand. I dial Lev with one motion.

“Da, boss.”

“Find me a woman.”

There’s a pause. “Specifics?”

“She has to look posh. Not fragile. Smart enough to stand with me and not be a problem.”

He whistles low. “Short list.”

“You have until morning.” I don’t soften the deadline.

“What is this about?” he asks.

“She needs to pretend to be engaged to me,” I say. “Make it look true.”

“Understood.”

I hang up and step outside. The wind catches my jacket, pulling at it as I walk, but I don’t slow down.

I keep thinking about my father’s face when he realized I wasn’t afraid of him anymore, how quiet he went after that.

Let him rage, let Boris make his threats.

They can keep their deals, their daughters, their politics. I obey to no one.

As it turns out, I am a psycho. And a need a fake fiancée now.