Silver Sin (Belov Bratva #1)

Prologue

Bella

T hey say every girl dreams of her wedding day. You know the one—flowing white dress, flowers everywhere, a dashing groom gazing at her like she hung the moon. A fairy tale.

This? This is a horror story.

“Do you, Isabella Marquez, take Konstantin Belov to be your lawfully wedded husband…” The priest’s voice drones on, thick with the kind of reverence that makes me want to scream.

Isabella Marquez. That’s my actual name. But standing here in this ridiculous couture wedding dress, under vast chandeliers, I barely recognize myself. I’m supposed to be selling houses, not starring in some mob boss’s nightmare masquerading as a wedding.

In a room of three hundred guests, you’d think I’d spot at least one familiar face among them. But then again, it’s not like I had any say in the guest list for my own wedding.

How did I get here? Oh, right. Desperation.

Two weeks ago, on my birthday, my life turned into a masterclass in how to screw up spectacularly—the kind where your inner voice gives up and just starts slow-clapping in disappointment.

First, I broke into a house.

Not just any house, mind you, but a sprawling fortress perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. I told myself it wasn’t really breaking in because the gate wasn’t even locked. That should have been the first red flag.

Second, I smoked a joint.

A bonus present from my best friend Elena, who thought I needed to “chill out.” Spoiler alert: I did not chill out. Instead, I wandered deeper into the mansion, marveling at the kind of luxury that makes you question all your life choices. Marble floors, gold fixtures, silk curtains that went on forever.

And then came mistake number three: I got turned on by a portrait. Yes, you heard me. A massive, brooding portrait of a man hanging above the fireplace in the master bedroom. He had storm-gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a gaze so intense it felt like he could see right through me.

I ended up sprawled across sinfully soft silk sheets, clutching Elena’s “happy birthday” gift and imagining all kinds of inappropriate scenarios involving the man in the painting.

That’s when I found out the man wasn’t just art. He was very real. And very present.

“To have and to hold…” The priest keeps going, oblivious to the fact that I’m sweating under about forty pounds of satin. I dart a glance at my soon-to-be husband, who looks like sin personified. Tall, brooding, and entirely too composed, Konstantin Belov is the kind of man you’d swipe right on… if you were also swiping for your own death warrant. The worst part? That portrait that got me into this mess didn’t even capture half of how dangerous he looks in person.

Stop. Stop. STOP. The word pounds in my head with each heartbeat, but my mouth stays shut.

My legs feel like they want to run on their own, but I’m rooted in place. I feel his stare—sharp, heavy, and way too close. Eleven inches. That’s the gap between us—and trust me, I know my measurements. Selling million-dollar properties means I can eyeball square footage in my sleep. Right now? I’m measuring something else entirely. Because there’s Konstantin Belov in his perfect Armani suit, and my traitorous eyes are sliding down to the impressive bulge of—

Oh, for the love of God. Focus.

I drag my eyes back up, but not before my brain unhelpfully supplies: This man is packing, and not just in the murdery, mafia-boss sense. My cheeks heat as I force myself to look at his face. A head taller than me, Konstantin is just staring down like he’s got all the time in the world. Judgy, gorgeous, and utterly terrifying.

His gaze locks onto mine with the intensity of a predator who’s found something interesting to play with, and a jolt of something—panic, maybe lust, definitely regret—shoots through me. He looks absurdly calm, like this is just another day in his murdery, mafia-boss calendar. Married strangers? Probably. Sent them to their doom afterward? Yeah, I’d bet my uncomfortable satin underwear on it. A billionaire, mob boss, and single dad all wrapped in an Armani suit. Pick one lane, sir.

I don’t even know this man. Oh, wait. I do know four things:

He’s Konstantin Belov, Big Sur’s most terrifying property mogul-slash-mob boss. A real-life devil in an expensive suit.

He has three kids. I met one of them this morning—a tiny assassin with pigtails and a death glare.

I’m 99% sure this man is going to get me killed. The other 1%? That’s just hoping he does it quickly.

I, Isabella Marquez, signed a contract to marry him.

Why? Because when your options are to marry the billionaire mob boss or get crushed under a lawsuit you can’t afford, you pick the lesser evil. And let’s just say, thanks to my boss running Elite Properties into the ground—delaying payroll, drowning in debt, and ultimately selling the company for ten bucks and a lifeline—I now have exactly zero leverage against Aunt Peggy and Uncle Mike, who are this close to selling my family home out from under me.

And Konstantin? His offer wasn’t just a lifeline—it was the only line. He promised me the money to fight back, keep the house, and protect my siblings. I didn’t even hesitate. I couldn’t. You don’t when it’s family on the line.

But now? Now I’m stuck staring at this man who’s all sharp edges, quiet menace, and way too much self-control, wondering if I just made the worst decision of my life.

In case it wasn’t obvious, I probably did.

“For better or worse, in sickness and in health…”

Worse. Definitely worse. The priest has no idea how bad “worse” is about to get.

But I can’t tear my eyes away from my soon-to-be husband, the embodiment of sex, danger, and way too much power. He’s standing there all calm and brooding, watching me like he’s deciding whether to devour me or let me rot.

Honestly, it’s probably both. The man is absurdly gorgeous—absurd enough to make you forget he’s also absurdly deadly.

“If anyone here has just cause why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace,” the priest announces, pausing dramatically.

I hold my breath. Surely, someone in this room can help me. Maybe his mafia underlings? His impossibly beautiful ex-wife? A rogue FBI agent hiding in the shadows? Anyone ?

Silence.

Not even a cough.

God.

Help.

Me.

Great. Guess everyone’s on Team “Bella Dies First.”

Konstantin steps closer… nine inches and my stomach flips. His hand brushes mine, steady and commanding, and I’m not sure if he’s offering support or making sure I don’t bolt. Probably both. The silk of his tie matches the steel of his eyes—cold, sharp, and entirely out of my league. This is exactly the type of man every true crime documentary warned me about. Too bad they didn’t mention he’d also be devastatingly good-looking in Armani.

“Say yes,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “Or this will end… badly.”

Oh, sure. Because this is going great.

“I…” My voice cracks. I glance down at the bouquet in my hands, so tightly gripped that one of the roses is missing half its petals. It’s symbolic, probably. I’m dying here. Just… slowly.

“… do,” I finally choke out.

His lips curl into a smile—not a happy smile, but the kind that says he’s won. He’s probably imagining my headstone. Here lies Isabella Marquez , dead because she couldn’t keep her vibrator in her purse.

The priest beams. “You may kiss the bride.”

My heart jumps, slamming into my ribs like it’s trying to make an escape. I tell myself it’s nerves. It’s not nerves. It’s the fact that, for all my snark and survival instincts, I actually want him to kiss me. Oh God, what is wrong with me?

Konstantin doesn’t move right away. Instead, he stares down at me, his eyes a frosted mix of blue and gray, pinning me in place. The heat in his gaze is slow and deliberate, full of promises I’m absolutely not prepared to unpack. My breath catches, my lips part, and my brain unhelpfully whispers: Please just do it already.

He leans in, the movement impossibly slow, deliberate, like he has all the time in the world to unravel me. My heart thuds loudly in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears as his lips hover just a breath away. Close enough to feel the heat of him but not close enough to touch.

My body tenses, caught between wanting to lean into him and the desperate need to pull away before I do something stupid. My fingers twitch at my sides, fighting the urge to grab his tie and pull him the last inch closer.

He pauses, his lips so close I can almost taste him, and I swear I catch the faintest smirk—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. The bastard.

My breath stutters, and just when I think he’s about to close the gap, to finally, finally kiss me—

A sharp, clear voice cuts through the priest’s well-rehearsed monotone.

“Wait!”

Every head in the room swivels, including mine.

Down the impossibly long aisle, a little girl with pigtails and a dress so frilly it could double as a cupcake emerges, marching toward us with the confidence of someone who’s not just delivering a ring but a decree.

It’s her. The tiny assassin. Konstantin’s daughter.

She stops in front of us, holding a velvet ring box aloft like it’s the Holy Grail. Her face is as solemn as a judge sentencing someone to life. Probably me.

“You forgot this,” she says, her tone laced with just enough sass to make the entire room hold its breath.

The priest nods, clearly startled, and adjusts his glasses. “Ah, yes. The ring…”

She doesn’t wait for instructions. The box snaps open with a dramatic flair and inside rests a diamond that could blind a small village. I half-expect her to toss it at him and walk off, but instead, she holds it out to Konstantin like she’s knighting him.

“Don’t drop it,” she warns.

For a split second, I swear I see the ghost of a smile on his face—gone so quickly I might’ve imagined it. He takes the ring, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the weight of her glare is a physical force.

“Thank you, Alya,” he says, his voice carrying the same lethal calm it always does.

She smirks—a miniature version of her father—and then glances at me. “Good luck,” she whispers, low enough that only I hear. It’s not encouragement. It’s a warning.

And with that, she spins on her tiny designer heels and skips back down the aisle, her job complete, her judgment delivered.

Konstantin turns to me, holding the ring between his fingers like it’s a weapon. For a second, I think he’s going to say something ominous, but instead, he captures my hand in his, his touch firm and inescapable.

“Give me your hand,” he demands.

I obey, mostly because I’m afraid not to. His fingers are warm, his grip unyielding, as he slides the ring onto my finger with excruciating precision.

The diamond catches the light, refracting tiny shards of brilliance across the room. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous, even. And it feels like a shackle.

“There,” he says, his voice smooth and final, like he’s just closed a deal.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The priest beams, oblivious to the tension radiating between us. “You may kiss the bride.“

Konstantin’s gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, everything else fades—the murmurs, the stares, the absurdity of it all. It’s just him and me and the suffocating knowledge that I’ve just signed my life away.

He leans in once more, deliberate and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to make me second-guess my choices. The faint scent of his cologne wraps around me—dark, smoky, dangerously addictive.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my dress, clutching it like a lifeline as I will myself to stay composed.

Don’t react. Don’t let him see what he’s doing to you because every muscle is tensed and strung tight.

The heat of his body is a tangible force, pulling at me like gravity, threatening to make me buckle like a drunk girl at prom. And my panties? They’re clinging to me, begging me to keep my damn head on straight, praying I won’t lose control of my very, very turned-on body, a shameful response to the way his lips hover just a breath away.

When his lips meet mine, it’s not a question; it’s an answer. Soft but firm, he doesn’t just kiss—he claims. It’s a warning of the power he holds, a promise of everything I’ve just agreed to, and a declaration that there’s no turning back. My brain short- circuits, every rational thought drowned in the pure, unrelenting heat of it.

If this is a warning, I’m already in trouble.

If it’s a promise, I’ll take two.

And if it’s a declaration? God help me, I might be okay with that, too.

By the time he pulls back, I’m officially ruined . I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Also, my knees? Yeah, they’re filing for divorce from my spine because they are done holding me up.

And just like that, it’s over.

The room erupts in polite applause, but all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears—and maybe the sound of my dignity quietly packing its bags and leaving town.

I glance down at the ring glittering on my finger like it’s laughing at me.

I’m his.

I’m Mrs. Konstantin Belov now.

Signed. Sealed. Delivered—to the Russian mob.