Purchased & Bred by the Bratva (Bred By The BRATVA #18)

Chapter 1

Dez

" Y ou have one year."

My father's words hung in the air of his study like cigar smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore. Ivan Moretti, king of the Russian bratva around these parts. The pakhan .

I stood in front of his desk, hands clasped behind my back, spine rigid. The same posture I'd held since I was eight years old and he'd first started grooming me to take over the family. Over twenty years of training, of proving myself, of bleeding for the Moretti name.

And apparently, it still wasn't enough.

"One year," he repeated, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority.

He didn't look up from the documents spread across his mahogany desk filled with contracts, probably, or kill orders.

With my father, it was hard to tell the difference.

"Take a wife, start producing heirs, or I'll name Nikolai my successor. "

Nikolai. My youngest brother, who could barely manage to protect a fly without turning it into a goddamn circus. Out of my four siblings, he’d chosen my youngest brother as a jab to my pride. He’d been unsuccessful. We both knew that if he meant what he was saying, I was going to do it. But did he?

"You're serious." It wasn't a question.

"Dead serious." He finally looked up, his gray eyes were flat and emotionless.

"You're twenty eight, Dante. Almost twenty nine.

The families are starting to whisper. They think you're weak.

Damaged. That you prefer men, or you're secretly dying, or you're too fucking picky to do what needs to be done. Whatever the fucking reason, you’ll do this because it’ll show how much power you really have. How much we really have."

"I'm not?—"

"I don't give a shit what you are." He cut me off with a wave of his hand. "I care what they think . Perception is reality in our world. You know this. Because if they think that you’re weak, they’re going to come for everything we have."

I did know this. Had it beaten into me alongside proper trigger discipline and how to make a man disappear without leaving evidence as well as other survival tools for this world.

"The Outfit needs stability," my father continued, using the old name for our organization like he always did.

"We're expanding into new territory. The Italians are pushing back.

The Colombians are getting bold. We need our allies to be confident that the Moretti line will continue.

That we're strong. That we’re not afraid to do what it takes to survive. "

"And a wife proves that?"

"A wife and an heir prove that." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Preferably multiple heirs, in case one of them turns out like Nikolai."

Despite everything, my mouth twitched.

"One year," I said slowly, tasting the timeline. "And if I don't?"

"Then you'll still have a place in the family. You're too valuable to waste. But Nikolai becomes my heir. The business goes to him when I step down." He paused, letting that sink in. "Along with everything else. The houses. The offshore accounts. The respect."

The knife twisted, exactly as he'd intended. This time the jab landed exactly where it needed to. He knew that I could never let our family’s survival depend on Nikolai. Not because he wasn’t capable, but because he hadn’t been trained for this.

While he knew what we did, he’d been spoiled and running around being the playboy.

He was always at the hottest parties, with the skankiest girls, making sure that he spent every bit of his allowance on shit that didn’t matter.

Giving him the keys to the throne would guarantee his death.

He wasn’t me, and honestly, I hoped he never was.

I'd spent my entire life preparing to lead this family.

Had killed for it. Had buried friends, lovers, pieces of my own soul in service to the Moretti name.

The thought of watching Nikolai—reckless and impulsive—take what should be mine and that I wanted to protect him from, made something dark and violent coil in my chest.

"Understood," I said, my voice carefully neutral.

My father nodded, already looking back down at his papers. Dismissed.

I turned to leave, my hand on the door handle when he spoke again.

"Dez."

I paused.

"Don't pick some empty-headed socialite who'll embarrass us. I need someone strong. Someone who can handle this life." His eyes met mine. "Someone worthy of the Moretti name."

"Of course."

I left his study and walked through the marble hallways, my footsteps echoing. Several soldiers nodded as I passed. I barely saw them.

One year.

Twelve months to find a woman, convince her to marry me, and get her pregnant.

No pressure.

I found Gianna in the ballroom she'd commandeered for whatever charity event she was planning. My sister was twenty-eight, beautiful, and terrifyingly competent. She stood in the center of the space, gesturing animatedly at someone on the phone while simultaneously directing the decorating crew with her free hand. She would make a better second choice than Nikolai. That’s how I knew my father wasn’t going to give the entire farm to him.

But he meant business about me securing my place.

"No, I said burgundy roses, not red. Red is pedestrian. This is—yes, I know it's for Valentine's Day. That's precisely why we need to be—" She spotted me and held up a finger. "Reed, I have to go. Fix it or I'll find someone who can."

She ended the call and turned to me, her expression shifting from irritation to concern in half a second.

"That bad?"

"He gave me an ultimatum."

"Shit." She crossed to me, heels clicking on the parquet floor. "Let me guess. Get married or lose your inheritance?"

"How did you?—"

"Please. Papa's been muttering about grandchildren for months. I'm honestly surprised he waited this long." She studied my face. "How long did he give you? Six months? A year? Two?"

"One year."

"Well." Gianna straightened her shoulders, and I recognized the look in her eyes. Battle mode. "Good thing I'm throwing the perfect party."

I glanced around the ballroom. Heart-shaped decorations hung from the ceiling. The crew was draping red silk across the walls. It looked like Cupid had vomited everywhere.

"If you're about to introduce me to one of your trampy groupies?—"

"God, no." She laughed, the sound sharp and delighted. "You'd eat them alive. No, this is different."

"Different how?"

"It's a Valentine's Ball, yes. But not the kind you're thinking of." She pulled out her phone, swiping through something. "I've been working with an event coordinator who specializes in... alternative fundraisers. The guest list is very carefully curated. People with particular tastes."

I raised an eyebrow. "Gianna."

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not running a brothel.

" She rolled her eyes. "It's an auction.

But the prizes aren't dinner dates and chaste kisses.

Each participant submits a detailed list of preferences, boundaries, kinks.

The winners get one night—fully consensual, fully negotiated, fully protected. "

Interest flickered despite myself. "And the money?"

"Goes to the children's hospital. Well, seventy percent does. The participants get thirty percent." She smiled. "Everyone wins."

"You're auctioning off people for sex."

"I'm facilitating connections between consenting adults while raising money for sick kids." She gave me a look that was pure Moretti steel wrapped in Chanel. "Don't be such a prude."

I wasn't. Far from it, actually. But I'd kept that side of myself locked down for years. Too risky. Too vulnerable. Too many people would love to use it against me.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need a wife, and the kind of woman who shows up to this party?

She's not going to be scared of you." Gianna moved closer, her voice dropping.

"She's not going to faint at the sight of blood or cry when you have to disappear for three days to handle business.

She's going to be strong. Interesting. Real. "

"Or she's going to be a liability."

"Maybe." She shrugged. "But you don't have a lot of time to be picky.

And besides..." Her smile turned wicked.

"When's the last time you actually enjoyed yourself?

Had a night where you weren't the heir, the soldier, the weapon?

Just a man with a woman who wants exactly what you're offering?

When's the last time that you were fucked, dear brother? "

Far too fucking long.

"I'm not getting on an auction block," I said flatly.

"I know. You're too controlling for that." She patted my arm. "But nothing says you can't bid on someone else. Whatever you’re into."

I looked around the ballroom again, seeing it differently now.

Not a Valentine's nightmare, but an opportunity.

A room full of women who wouldn't expect me to be gentle.

Who wouldn't want promises I couldn't keep or romance I didn't have time for.

Women who understood that some things were best negotiated in the dark.

"When is this happening?"

"Valentine’s Eve. The night you have alone with her will be Saturday night.

Valentine's Day. Black tie. Very exclusive.

" She was already texting someone. "I'll put you on the list. VIP section, so you can see who you want before the auction starts. See who catches your eye. Maybe you’ll find one or two who can help you figure all this out. "

"And if none of them do?"

Gianna looked up at me, her expression softening into something almost sympathetic.

"Then you have eleven more months to find someone Papa will accept." She squeezed my hand. "But Dez? Try to find someone you don't completely hate. It'll make the breeding part a lot easier."

I left her to her decorating, my mind already racing.

One night. That's all this auction promised. One night with someone who wouldn't flinch from what I wanted. Who might even want it too. It wasn't a solution to my problem. But it was a start.