40. BRAXTON
Chapter forty
T he early morning light pushed in through the cabin’s porthole blinds, slanted and soft. It was just after seven, and the quiet hum of the engines indicated we were still making good time. It had been thirty-two hours since we’d slipped out of St. Petersburg, and the Valkyrie was somewhere in the Baltic Sea, cutting through open water. Currently we were on our way toward the Norwegian coast. We weren’t in the clear yet—Finnish and Swedish patrols were still a factor—but compared to the chaos we’d left behind, things were calm. Despite the problems we’d encountered—the Russians attempting to chase us and various maritime authorities making enquiries—we had settled into life onboard a boat. To say we were safe would be a stretch, but our current situation beat the hell out of where we’d started.
I’d never spent this much time on a boat before, not even during fishing trips with my brothers, and I’d definitely never been on anything close to a cruise. But somehow, my body had adjusted fast. No nausea. No nerves. I was getting used to the steady roll of the water beneath us and the strange quiet that surrounded us. It surprised me how quickly I’d adapted—how fast it all had started to feel normal.
My arm was draped over Daria’s waist, her bare back warm against my chest. She fit perfectly there—long, lean, and soft. My thumb rested just above her navel, the other fingers curled loosely around her lower belly. I tightened my hold a little, like that might keep the moment from slipping away.
During our time together yesterday, she had started to look more peaceful. The storm that usually lived behind her eyes was beginning to recede.
God, she was beautiful. Not just in the obvious way—though, yeah, her body had the kind of lines that stopped time—but also in how she carried all her damage without letting it define her. Her strength was threaded through every part of her, woven so deeply that even she didn’t always realize how formidable she was.
Since she and I had crossed paths, I’d been watching her fight—not just soldiers and bastards like Malinov but life itself. She never gave an inch unless she had a damn good reason. She was quick, lethal, and she moved like someone who’d been fighting since she could walk. Maybe she had.
She may have looked delicate, but without a doubt, she was the toughest person I’d ever met—man or woman.
And she was here. In my bed. In my arms.
I didn’t deserve her—but damn, I wanted to try.
Slowly, I traced a line over her belly, stopping just before I got to the curve of her breast. She stirred, her muscles shifting as her breathing deepened.
Then she moved—pulling my arm tighter around her, pressing my forearm up under her chest like I was her shield.
My heart rate kicked up.
She wiggled her hips back against me, and I groaned, half-laughing. “Careful,” I murmured into her hair. “You poke the bear, you might get attacked.”
She let out a tiny huff. “I’m not afraid of cuddly teddy bears.”
My hand drifted lower, tracing slow, teasing circles just below her ribs, before moving down over her hip. I skimmed the edge of her thigh, never going quite where I knew she wanted me.
She shifted again, slower this time. Then her knee lifted, her hand found mine, and she placed it between her legs.
“Bossy,” I whispered, grinning against her shoulder.
“You like it,” she said, her voice low and husky.
“Oh, I do.” I curled my fingers exactly where she wanted them, her heat already pulling me under her spell. “Happy wife, happy life. Whatever my beautiful wife wants…”
She let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a purr.
I worked methodically, drawing tight circles around her clit with my fingertips, then dipped lower. She was soaked. My cock throbbed against her, already pulsing with need. I slid one finger inside her, then another, curling until she pressed back into me.
I didn’t need any more invitation.
I pulled her hips toward me, lined myself up, and slid deep inside her.
Her breath hitched. Mine stopped altogether.
She was so damn perfect.
I moved slowly at first, keeping her held flush to me, with my hand splayed across her lower belly as I rocked in and out. Then I found her clit again and started stroking in time with my thrusts. Her moans filled the space between us—soft, desperate sounds that made it almost impossible to hold back.
“Braxton…” she gasped, her fingers clutching the sheet.
“Come for me,” I growled against her shoulder. “I want to feel you lose it.”
And she did.
With her body locked around me, she cried out into the pillow and shattered in my arms. I barely held on long enough to register her pulsing heat squeezing around me and her body trembling before I was gone too. Buried deep, I poured everything I had into her with a groan that came from someplace I hadn’t even known existed.
We lay there for a few heartbeats, breathless and tangled, her body still twitching in the aftershocks.
I pressed a kiss to her neck. “Maybe you oughta rethink that divorce,” I murmured with my lips against her skin. “Could be worth staying married after all.”
She let out a slow breath, then turned her head just enough to glance at me. “I should probably wait until I meet my husband’s family first.”
That did something to me.
“Husband,” I repeated. “You say that again and we’re not leaving this bed for the rest of the damn day.”
“Then I won’t say it again,” she said, stretching. “Because I’m starving.”
She slid away, twisted to face me, and gave me a few soft kisses—sweet and unhurried—before rolling off the bed and padding to the bathroom.
I watched her go, a grin tugging at my lips. “God, I love a woman with a good appetite.”
She laughed, and just like that, the morning kept getting better.
I rolled out of bed and followed her to grab my clothes off the bathroom floor, then headed for the cabin door. I wasn’t going to bother dressing just to walk down the hallway to change.
“Seriously?” she said, cracking up as she peeked out of the bathroom. “You’re just gonna strut out of here like that? No shame?”
I shrugged. “What’s the point? My room is just a few yards down the hallway.”
“The crew might be stealthy, but they exist, you know. They have eyes.”
“Then I hope they enjoy the show,” I said, grinning as I walked out, boots in one hand, clothes in the other.
Behind me, she muttered something in Russian I didn’t catch but assumed was less than polite. I laughed all the way to my room.
When I came back fifteen minutes later, fully dressed in a navy Henley and cargo pants, Daria was tying her shoes. Her hair was still damp from the shower, her cheeks a little pink, probably from laughing too hard at my expense. She seemed relaxed—and she looked damn good in a snug pink hoodie and black leggings.
“You’re different,” she said, glancing up at me, “from any man I’ve ever known.”
I dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Because I’m American?”
“Maybe, but I think you’re an anomaly.” She paused, head tilted. “I’ve hardly ever woken up next to a man, much less one who takes his time to make love to me. They usually disappear and act like the night before didn’t happen. And if they do stick around, it’s usually because they have ulterior motives. And then…there’s your whole constant touching thing.”
“Is it a bad thing?”
“No. It’s…confusing. Good. But new.” She stood, pulling down the hem of her hoodie. “The men I know are more selfish. They take what they want and move on. They act like affection is weakness.”
I stood and stepped in close to her, brushing a kiss across her temple.
“If all you American guys are anything like the ones in Svetlana’s romance novels,” she added, “Russian women are missing out.”
I chuckled. “I’ve never read a romance novel, so I don’t know how I stack up.”
“Well, keep doing what you’re doing.”
I wrapped my arms around her waist and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “All I want is to make you happy, for you to give me half a chance.”
Her mouth curved up into a smile. “We’ll see, as long as you never lie to me again.”
“At least that wasn’t a no, ” I quipped, releasing her and grabbing her hand. “Come on. I’m starving.”
She shoved me aside with her hip and sprinted for the stairs. “Second one there starves! Try to keep up, Boy Scout.”
I laughed and chased her up to the main deck.
The lounge was quiet and bright; morning light spilled in through the large windows. The sea outside stretched into the distance, gray and endless, the low hum of the engines the only background noise.
Since Nik’s tech setup occupied the dining table, the crew was laying out a buffet-style breakfast on the bar—eggs, smoked salmon, warm rolls, fruit, and enough coffee to fuel a platoon.
Daria stopped to grab a plate, and I stepped up behind her, bracing my arms on either side of her waist and trapping her between the bar and me.
I leaned in and kissed her neck. “So do I get to eat?”
“I guess. Since you were a close second. Besides, I think we both need lots of fuel to keep our strength up.”
“You planning on getting a workout in?”
“I don’t think we’ll be lacking physical conditioning options,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.
I nuzzled her neck and nipped at her earlobe. She hummed and turned, then kissed me—hard. Her hand found the back of my neck, pulling me in deeper. She tasted like mint and desire.
A throat cleared behind us.
We broke apart to see Nik standing in the doorway, one brow raised, his arms crossed.
“Weeeell,” he said, dragging the word out. “What a difference twenty-four hours makes.”
Daria stepped to the side and grabbed a scoop of scrambled eggs as if nothing had happened.
Nik shook his head. “Yesterday, she was ready to kill us both. Today she’s sucking face over mimosas.”
“There are no mimosas,” she said without looking up.
“Not the point,” Nik quipped, walking toward the bar.
He helped himself to a cup of coffee.
“I knew it,” he said, taking a sip. “Making her your wife was clearly the right move.”
I raised an eyebrow. “There’s still a fifty-fifty chance she divorces me the second we step foot on American soil.”
“True,” Daria said, scooping some fruit onto her plate. “I’m excellent at disappearing. But I need to stick around long enough to figure out what this PB&J sandwich is all about.”
Nik squinted. “PB and what?”
Daria and I laughed, and I kissed her cheek before grabbing a plate and piling it high with a bit of everything.
We moved to the sectional at the far end of the lounge, situated toward the stern. Daria curled up beside me with her plate, tucking her legs under her. I stretched out, resting my shoulders against the cushion and balancing my food on my lap.
Nik followed, holding a full plate of his own, and dropped onto the opposite side of the sectional, scowling like we’d ruined his morning.
“You two keep this up,” he said, stabbing a piece of melon, “and we’ll have to rename this yacht the Fifty Shades on Open Waters .”
I chewed a bite of toast and shrugged. “You’ve mostly been holed up with the captain. I’ve hardly seen you since we hit the gulf. Why do you care?”
Nik leaned back. “Because while you two were playing honeymoon, I’ve been negotiating with half the Baltic and hacking the rest—trying to keep us invisible so we don’t get boarded or blown out of the water.”
Daria glanced at him. “You need to get laid.”
He grunted. “I need more coffee.”
I grinned and raised my mug. “Or vodka.”
Nik jabbed his fork in my direction. “Vodka puts hair on your chest. It also keeps a man sharp while he works.”
Daria nudged me with her foot. “Maybe he’s not all bad.”
I leaned over and kissed her again.
“Debatable,” I said, smirking. “But at least breakfast’s good.”
“All right,” Nik said after biting into another slice of melon, “now that you two are acting like horny newlyweds instead of enemies, we need to talk about the real shit that’s coming.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “That’s a hell of a segue.”
He waved off my comment and leaned back with his coffee. “We’ve made solid time, but we’re not in the clear. The Kremlin still wants Daria dead. So does your new father-in-law—who, in case it slipped your mind—controls a major chunk of the Russian Bratva and has more money and influence than either of you may realize. The military might not be looking for us openly, but we’ve pissed off enough people that someone’s got to be watching.”
Daria paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “What about the weather?”
Nik glanced toward the window and narrowed his eyes like he could already see the storm systems ahead. “We’re heading south after we fuel up in Norway. There, the water is warmer and the cover will be better. But it’s still September. There’s always a chance we could run into something nasty between here and the Azores. The Atlantic doesn’t care how stealthy we are. If we get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, it could get bad.”
He tapped the side of his mug. “So we move fast. We don’t linger. If we give anyone enough time to pin our position or flag the ship, we’re screwed.”
Daria leaned in, her expression sharpening. “And when we finally reach Manhattan?”
Nik glanced from her to me. “We meet with Luca.”
Her brows pulled together. “Who’s Luca?”
Nik took another drink, then set his mug down. “Luca Genovese. Old-school Italian-American mafia. Ruthless as they come—calculating, methodical. He runs the Genovese family out of Manhattan, but don’t let the zip code fool you. He’s the boss of bosses on his side of the Mississippi. Practically owns the underworld of the Eastern US—drugs, extortion, ports, unions, politics. All of it traces back to him. His roots go deep, into the old Sicilian bloodlines. He didn’t just inherit the business—he evolved it.”
“I’ve heard of the Genovese and Moretti families,” Daria said. “But what do they have to do with you?”
Nik exhaled through his nose and gave her a tight smile. “My father was playing a long game. A twisted one. Years ago, he decided the Volkovi Notchi needed to expand—plant roots in America. But not just any roots. He wanted a merger. Bloodlines. Legacy. His goal was to infiltrate and eventually take over the New York mafia from the inside out.”
Daria’s brow lifted. “You mean…through marriage?”
Nik nodded once. “Exactly. He figured if he could link our name to theirs—if a Volkov married into Luca Genovese’s family—the two syndicates could combine, and our influence would stretch from Moscow to Manhattan.”
My stomach twisted. I already knew most of this, but hearing it laid out like it had been some corporate takeover made it worse.
Nik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “My aunt Elena—my mother’s sister—was his first pawn. She moved to New York years ago. Found her way into Luca’s life and seduced him. Convinced him they could be the next global power couple—Genovese and Volkov. It worked. Luca fell for her. Hard.”
Daria’s expression darkened. She already saw where this was headed.
“But,” Nik went on, “there was a problem. Elena couldn’t have kids, which meant there’d never be an heir. No blood tie between the families. And for guys like Luca and Viktor, blood is everything.”
He paused, rubbing at the wrinkles crossing his forehead.
“So Viktor made a new move,” he said. “He sent my sister, Anastasia, to the States. Ripped her out of our house in St. Petersburg and shipped her off to a boarding school in upstate New York when we were twelve. Put her under Elena’s care. That was the setup—groom her to be a mafia bride, perhaps even Luca’s if he got rid of Elena.”
Daria went stiff beside me, her spine locked straight like a steel rod.
Nik caught my eye and smirked bitterly. “You can imagine how well that sat with me. Anastasia was just a kid. But to Viktor, that didn’t matter. He saw her as an asset.”
Daria’s eyes narrowed. “Did it happen?”
“No,” Nik said flatly. “Thank God. Though, at some point, Viktor made a few side deals with the Moretti family, promising them a connection to the Volkov bloodline if they helped him sideline Luca. The Morettis figured that, if they had a Volkov heir, they wouldn’t need the Genovese family anymore. It was all about leverage. About power. Luca agreed to give Anastasia over to Franky Moretti as his wife, confident the Morettis were firmly in his corner after years of successful deals and family ties strengthened by multiple intermarriages. Both families had supposedly agreed it was in their mutual interest to keep other Russian mafia syndicates out of the US—unaware that Elena was more than willing to stab all of them in the back. That plan fell apart when Braxton’s brother, Atticus, and his now-fiancée, Samantha, got dragged into Viktor’s bullshit, leading to my sister meeting and falling for the other brother, Conan, following a car wreck in Tacoma a month or so before she was contracted to wed Franky Moretti.”
He leaned back in the chair, his expression turning colder. “And the wedding… That turned into a war zone. Several members of the Moretti family were taken out, along with Viktor, Valentina, and Elena. Or so everyone was told.”
Daria glanced at me quizzically, and I forced myself to keep my expression neutral.
Nik and I were sitting on one hell of a secret.
He grabbed his coffee and took a slow sip. “So, yeah. Everything blew up. Luca lost his shit. He was pissed at Elena for lying to him, pissed at Viktor for playing both sides, and pissed at Valentina for going along with it. But he and I”—Nik shrugged—“we came to an understanding. I stay out of his way, keep the Bratva wolves off his turf, and he lets me run the Volkovi Notchi my way. I stay out of his business, and he doesn’t put a bullet in my head.”
He turned to Daria, his eyes narrowing, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “But thanks to you, I’ve been exposed as a Russian traitor who gave safe passage and protection to a woman working for Ukraine. Worse—one who spit in the face of her own Bratva bloodline.”
“You didn’t have to help me,” she said evenly.
“No,” Nik agreed, “but I did. And now I’ve got to manage the fallout. The old guard in my syndicate already thinks I’m too young and too westernized. The younger ones? They want cleaner ways to make money, such as tech, crypto, and security firms. They’re sick of human trafficking and blood-soaked ledgers. I can offer that future, but only if Luca’s on board.”
“So that’s what the meeting’s about,” I said.
Nik crossed one leg over the other and leaned back. “He wants to make sure we’re all still useful, that his ties to my family still mean something, and that other Russian syndicates won’t be stepping onto his territory.”
Daria’s lip curled in disgust. “So…classic mafia bullshit.”
Nik laughed. “Exactly.”
She turned to me. “You do understand, right? That your family’s tied in now. You and your brothers—whether you like it or not—you’re part of this.”
I shook my head. “We don’t have anything they want.”
Nik dropped his foot and leaned forward, his eyes dark. “You have the one thing they always want—blood. Take Anastasia, for example. If they ever get their hands on her, they’ll control me. And now you?” He pointed at me. “You’re married to the Tambovskaya Bratva’s only heir.”
Daria flinched slightly.
“Alexey might’ve disowned her, wiped her name off the books,” Nik went on, “but her blood is still Melnichenko. If she ever has a child…” He let the words hang in the air. “That kid becomes a bargaining chip. Or a target.”
The weight of that slammed into my gut. I reached for Daria’s hand and gripped it tight. “No one will ever know who she is. I’ll make damn sure of that.”
She gave me a soft smile, lifting one brow like she didn’t quite buy it…but wanted to.
“That’s sweet,” she said, “but you don’t get how deep this runs. They never forget. Never let go.”
Nik nodded. “That’s why you both need to have each other’s backs. Always.”
“Understood,” Daria said without hesitation.
I squeezed her hand again. “We’ll figure it out. We made it this far. We’ll handle the rest.”
I took the back of Daria’s head and pulled her in for a kiss.
Nik sat up and groaned. “If I’m going to be stuck on this boat with you two honeymooners for the next two weeks, someone better start pouring me vodka.”
I broke the kiss and grinned. “Pretty sure that’s your go-to regardless.”
Leaning back toward Daria, I pretended to whisper, “When you were first taken and he was hunting for you, I brewed a lot of coffee and bought countless bottles of Beluga.”
Nik snorted. “Coffee and vodka—the perfect combo to keep your ass alive and get shit done.”
Daria raised her mug in a mock toast. “To surviving the next two weeks.”
I clinked mine against hers. “And keeping our clothes on at least some of the time.”
Nik groaned. “God help me.”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and set his plate aside.
“We’ll hit the fueling port in Norway by morning. Which means it’s time for you two to get your story straight.”
Daria arched a brow. “Our story?”
Nik gave her a look like she was slow. “You’re Dasha Thorin. You two are married American citizens, traveling on a private yacht. You’ve been on a scenic European honeymoon. Sweet. Simple. Don’t screw it up.”
I took another bite of smoked-salmon-topped toast and said with my mouth half full, “We’re not planning to leave the boat. Just fuel up and go.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Nik said. “Norwegian customs officials are professionals. Tight procedures, tighter bullshit radar. If they board—and they probably will—you’ll need to be confident. Any hesitation, any inconsistency, and they’ll crawl right up our ass.”
Daria sat up straighter. “What do you think they’ll ask?”
“Standard stuff—names, countries of origin, purpose of travel. How you met. Where you got married. Your route, your itinerary, maybe even your friends. They’ll want to know why you’re on this yacht, where it’s registered, who owns it, why it’s not on commercial tracking.”
I set my plate down. “So…improv’s a no-go.”
“Exactly,” Nik said. “You’re both private enough on paper to fly under the radar, and the trick is to make it boring. Married couple. Artsy wife who comes from money. Husband who’s a paramedic, a blue-collar type who fell for the city girl. You’re on your honeymoon. Simple. No drama.”
He stood, walked over to the table with all his computer gear, and retrieved a thick folder. He returned and dropped it in front of Daria.
“Everything you need to be Mrs. Dasha Thorin. Passport. Social security card. Washington State birth certificate, driver’s license, medical records, school records, contact information for fake relatives—hell, even a notice for a dentist appointment you supposedly missed last March.”
Daria opened the folder and flipped through the documents, her fingers moving slowly. Her face didn’t change, but I saw her throat bob when she swallowed.
Nik turned back to his table, opened a black case, and pulled out two sleek new phones, handing one to each of us.
“They’re clean. Running my OS. Secure. Untraceable. I can ping you anytime without it leaving a footprint. You’re ghosts with reception.”
I turned the phone over in my hand. “What happened to my old one?”
“Bottom of the gulf,” he said. “Don’t worry—I scraped your data, transferred everything over. You didn’t have anything incriminating, just some pictures, texts, and…an unfortunate number of memes.”
Daria snorted. “Let me guess. Bad dad jokes and worse puns?”
I grinned. “They’re classics.”
Nik moved back to his computers.
Daria tapped the folder. “We need to memorize this.”
“Then get to work,” Nik said over his shoulder. “You’ve got until tomorrow morning before we dock. You’d better nail down your story and sound like a real married couple, or we’ll all be fucked.”