Preview of Possessive Bratva DaddyKarina
PREVIEW OF POSSESSIVE brATVA DADDY
Karina
T he long boardroom doors loom ahead. My steps echo across the polished marble floors, and the click of my heels might as well be screams of a dying animal to the ears of the vultures waiting inside.
Jazmin, my assistant, straightens at the sight of me. There’s a faint look of relief in her doe-like eyes, as if she’s counting on me to bring the storm that knocks everyone back in line. My pulse hammers in my ears with anticipation.
Inside, the air smells like cheap lemon polish and stale coffee. A new investor, a pompous man whose name barely registers in my memory, adjusts his gaudy watch and examines me like I’m an untested show pony. His gaze travels from my pressed charcoal blazer to my neatly brushed hair. That watch looks heavy enough to weigh down his entire sense of decency.
Silence spreads across the table as I reach the head seat, the place my father occupied for years. The cushioned leather armrests still hold the shape of his arms. I doubt I could fill them even if I tried.
My fingertips press against the table’s edge. “Apologies for running late,” I say in a voice that holds steady despite the pressure. “Traffic.”
It’s a flimsy excuse. New York traffic can be blamed for everything, including the tension in the room. They probably think I was rehearsing lines in front of a mirror or pacing my office. They don’t realize I’m not the type who needs to practice confidence. I have experience nobody here does.
The investor tilts his head. The rest of the board shifts in their chairs. No one volunteers to break the uncomfortable hush. The investor flips open a folder, taps a document. His thick fingers drum on the paper. “We were discussing the future of Sokolov Industries under new leadership.” A muscle in his jaw moves. “Some remain unconvinced that you, Ms. Sokolov, can steer this ship without your father’s… experience.”
My heart accelerates, though I keep my posture still. The fluorescent lights shine on my reflection in the polished surface, catching the tension in my jaw. “Sokolov Industries is doing more than fine,” I reply. “Our quarterly profits have climbed two percent since the last fiscal year, even with the… recent changes in management.” That’s code for my father’s death and the unexpected disappearance of my late fiancé, Dima. It’s a neat little euphemism for the tragedies that turned my world upside down.
A woman near the end of the table clears her throat. She’s been on the board for years, one of the few who favored me stepping up. She scrolls on her tablet. “Yes, though there have been concerns about whether Ms. Sokolov can maintain the momentum.” Her tone might sound supportive if not for the sideways glance she gives me.
I inhale. The coffee here always ruins your mouth, though I suspect the dryness in mine comes from stress. “You have reports in front of you.” I gesture at the stack of files that my assistant painstakingly compiled. “A new marketing push, targeted expansions in Europe, and streamlined technology in our manufacturing plants—my father never even considered these modernization proposals. He was conservative with strategy. I’m not.”
The man with the watch lets out a long breath. “Too many changes at once can destabilize the board’s confidence. We need steady leadership. An older hand.” His lips press together. “We were discussing a vote on new CEO appointments. One possibility is to cede control to the Markov family, which holds equal shares. Aleksei Markov, in particular, has the connections to?—”
My stomach tightens. That name slides into the room like a gust of icy wind. “Aleksei Markov is not the CEO,” I cut in, tension creeping into my voice. “I am.” It’s a rehearsed line, the one I use every time someone suggests the Markovs know better.
He opens his mouth as if to argue, but a sudden change in the atmosphere halts him. The door swings open behind me, heavy oak crashing against the wall. A hush suffocates every sound. My spine goes rigid.
Footsteps—slow, deliberate—approach. The mild buzzing of conversation ceases in an instant, replaced by expectant silence.
A figure steps into view, tall and broad-shouldered in a dark, impeccably tailored suit. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes like flint. His presence crackles with authority. My hand clenches around the table’s edge. Recognition jolts into me as soon as I catch sight of his face.
The older brother of my late fiancé. The man who inherited the Obsidian Network after his father’s death.
Aleksei Markov.
He moves to the center of the room as if it’s his rightful place. The air reeks of tension, along with the faint hint of his cologne—something dark and expensive, like teakwood. Someone shifts in a chair, but nobody speaks. Everyone stares at him, hypnotized by the confidence in his stance.
My chest grows tight, though I keep my expression neutral. I can’t allow anyone to intimidate me.
Aleksei looks around the table slowly. “Leave the room. All of you.” There’s no rise in his voice, yet the command is absolute. His accent is subtle, a trace of Russian that shapes each word into something a little more alluring. Toxic, even, like one too many shots of vodka.
Chairs scrape the floor. Papers shuffle as board members pack their belongings in haste. Indignation bristles in my gut. My seat remains occupied. I fold my arms and dig my nails into my palms.
This is my boardroom, and before that, my father’s. Nobody outranks me here.
I stare at the back of the man with the watch as he gathers his files and leaves, sheepish but too intimidated to protest. Doors close. The quiet that follows weighs heavily, like the tense hush before a predator pounces.
My gaze meets Aleksei’s. The overhead lights accentuate the angles of his face. He doesn’t blink. Heat crawls along the base of my neck. I remain at the head of the table, refusing to give up even an inch of ground. My father’s death stripped me of enough.
He lifts his chin. “Good morning, Karina.”
I press my lips together so hard that my jaw creaks. “You don’t belong here,” I say firmly.
He steps forward, his polished leather shoes echoing on the tile floor. “I have some business with you. Apologies if your meeting was inconvenienced, but it seemed… repetitive.” A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. “Your father always loved these gatherings, didn’t he?” His gaze lands on the empty seat once occupied by my father. “Formalities.”
My fists tighten beneath the table. “You have no right to dismiss my board members.”
He cocks his head. “I have every right. My shares in this company match yours. My father and yours arranged that little detail years ago. Dima’s shares defaulted to me when he died. You know how it works. If you disagree, you can bring your protests to the majority shareholders… me included.” He smiles but it never reaches his eyes.
My pulse pounds in my ears. “Sokolov Industries is under my leadership. I won’t let you or anyone else barge in and issue commands.”
My father’s face appears in my mind, scowling at the idea of any Markov interfering in his domain. He never trusted them, not fully, though he used them. Business alliances. Engagement deals. My dead fiancé was just another transaction in their chess game. I was a pawn too, until now.
Aleksei’s gaze drifts around the room. He drags a fingertip along the polished surface of the table. “That confidence suits you. It would be a shame to see it crumble.”
I stand, ignoring the slight tremor in my legs. “You can leave. We have no business to discuss.”
He unbuttons his suit jacket and leans against the table’s edge. Sunlight from the wide windows glints on his silver cufflinks. “We have plenty to discuss. The acquisition, for starters. The Markov family is deepening our involvement with Sokolov Industries. I came to inform you that your future, and the company’s, is under my protection.” He pauses. “Whether you approve or not.”
A chill sends goosebumps down my arms. “I didn’t ask for your protection.”
His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Requesting it would be redundant. I’m not in the habit of offering second chances.” He studies me as if I’m a puzzle. “We can make this easier by combining our interests in a more permanent way. A marriage arrangement would strengthen your position and guarantee security for your father’s legacy.”
My stomach twists, and I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. “You can’t be serious.”
His expression doesn’t flicker. “Your father would have approved. You were already engaged to my brother, after all, and there is a contract. A small shift to ensure everything remains in the Markov-Sokolov family. A convenient alliance.”
My breath hitches. “I’m not some bargaining chip. That arrangement died with Dima.”
He tilts his head. “There are other arrangements to be made. One phone call, and this entire board will bend to my decisions. If the contract remains unfulfilled, you’ll cede a considerable portion of your shares, so… Your father used to say a leader must adapt or perish. Which will you choose?”
My father’s favorite motto has been turned against me and it makes me utterly sick. “I run Sokolov Industries now. I’m not stepping aside, and I’m not marrying you,” I snarl.
Aleksei exhales slowly. “Stubbornness can be admirable. It can also be your downfall.” A faint smirk curves his mouth. “I’ll let you think it over. I always prefer negotiation to force.”
I lift my chin and glare at him. “Threatening me into marriage is your idea of negotiation?”
He straightens, adjusts his cuffs. “You can label it however you wish.”
He watches me for several heartbeats, then pivots toward the exit. A subtle tension in his shoulders suggests he’s not entirely indifferent, though he masks it well. His cologne lingers in the air when he’s gone. The silence left behind feels suffocating. My throat goes dry.
A wave of furious energy surges through me. I stride around the table, gather the scattered files the board members left, and dump them into a neat pile. My heart slams in my chest so hard that my ribs ache, but I keep my breath even.
That horrible monster of a man is not stealing my birthright.
Rage simmers in my chest, battling the unsettling flicker of something else—some primal reaction to his commanding presence.
My father’s warnings swirl in my mind: Never trust Aleksei Markov. He’s the real puppet master of that family. Dima was the peacemaker. The good guy. I was supposed to marry the hero.
Now, all I’m left with is the villain.
An urgent tapping on the door startles me. Nicholas enters, eyebrows drawn tight. “Karina.” He glances around. “What just happened? Everyone’s talking about how Aleksei Markov stormed in here.”
I keep my voice calm. “He had business to discuss.” I fold my arms across my chest. The warmth of my frustration seeps into each muscle. “He claims Sokolov Industries is under his watch now. That I should just… hand things over.”
Nicholas steps closer, concern etched on his face. “He can’t do that without the board’s consent.”
A sharp laugh escapes me. “He can if enough of them support him. His shares match mine.” I toss a document onto the table. “I’m not giving up. His presence here is nothing more than intimidation, and I don’t bend to psychological tricks.”
A glance at Nicholas reveals he’s clenching his jaw. He’s been my father’s loyal VP for years, the same man who guided me through the transition when Dad passed. He’s always had a calm, measured approach. The tension in his eyes warns me he’s rattled too, that this might not just be intimidation and tricks.
This is something much more serious.
Nicholas runs a hand through his neatly styled hair. “I worry about your safety,” he says. “Maybe we can have security escort him out next time. You shouldn’t face him alone like that.”
I lean against the table, arms now uncrossed. “He left. Security can’t solve everything. I’ll handle him. I’ve dealt with powerful men my entire life and he’s nothing compared to who my father was.”
Nicholas’s gaze flickers to the door. “That’s not always enough, especially if he’s as dangerous as rumors claim. He could hurt you.”
My shoulders tighten. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m not cowering from him. I have a charity gala tonight, and I plan on showing everyone that I’m in control of this company. My father never missed that gala, and I won’t either.”
Nicholas rubs his temples. “The gala is optional, you know. It was your father’s event. You don’t have to go.”
My chin lifts. “I do. I’m the face of Sokolov Industries now.” My father’s memory stands at my back, a heavy presence that demands I uphold every expectation he set. “Canceling would look like I’m running from him.” I drop into a seat and flip open a file. “Your job is to ensure everything goes smoothly. Please handle the logistics and let me handle everything else.”
He nods, adjusting his crisp tie. “I’ll make sure your father’s usual VIP table is ready, with an additional donation in his name.”
A tension in my chest eases. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.” I aim a reassuring look his way. “I promise.”
Nicholas offers a small smile, though shadows linger in his eyes. He backs out quietly, leaving the door ajar.
I glance around the empty boardroom and my breath escapes in a sharp exhale. My father always warned me about him. Dima was the Markov with the pleasant face, the one who used words instead of threats. Aleksei is the one who wields raw power.
A hint of grief stirs at the reminder of how I ended up here, my fiancé murdered at my father’s side. It would’ve been a lot worse if I had loved him, but I’m incapable of that. Business is business, and in this world, emotions have little say in how things go.
A swirl of conflicting emotions churns inside, but I quell them and gather my files to return to the office. Action keeps my mind from diving into regret. I refuse to dwell. There’s no time for that.
My office is a sleek space with glass walls that my father designed for transparency. He believed it projected honesty, which is ironic considering some of his shadier dealings. I perch behind my wide oak desk, ignoring the dryness in my mouth. Spreadsheets fill my screen, each line a sea of numbers about production cost, overseas expansions, and brand realignment. That’s the part of the job I can control.
The buzzing in my head persists, though. Aleksei Markov and his ultimatum overshadow every statistic I examine, refusing to let me get through the documents.
I shift my attention to a pile of letters that sits in the desk drawer. I open it, rummaging, catching my breath at a photograph. Me, at eight years old, on stage in a stiff pink tutu, beams of stage lights overhead. My father’s hand rests on my shoulder, a proud grin on his face. I set the photo on the desk and my throat constricts.
My father was cold and controlling in many ways, but he still had moments of genuine warmth, especially when he thought I was following his grand designs. Now that he’s gone, I cling to the fragments of those memories because they remind me I’m not a machine built solely for corporate war.
Footsteps approach outside. My assistant’s voice recedes down the hall. A knock on the open door. She peeks in. Her posture stiffens when she sees my face, though she tries to smile. “Just a reminder… The foreign investors’ meeting is tomorrow at ten A.M.”
I swipe the moisture from my eyes before tears can fully form. “Thank you. Please notify them that I’ll be ready when they arrive.”
She glances at the photograph I’m holding, and her gaze softens. “Of course, Ms. Sokolov.”
After she leaves, I rest my elbows on the desk, bracing my forehead against my palms. Images of Aleksei’s cold eyes keep intruding, but so do those softer memories of dancing on that stage. If I had to choose, I know which way I’d go, but there’s no choice anymore. It’s do or die, and I’m not willing to join my father just yet.
The phone rings, sending a jolt through me, but once I settle back into my chair, I choose to ignore the distraction. All these calls and notifications can wait while I sort out my thoughts.
My father’s pen glints in its holder beside a stack of documents. That pen used to terrify me when he’d click it in disapproval as we discussed how I needed to do better and be better. My chest tightens with a complex surge of anger and longing. All the pressure should have passed with his death, but now I understand why he was cruel at times.
He was preparing me for this.
A snippet of Aleksei’s words resurfaces.
Adapt or perish.
My skin prickles. That man thinks he can stride in and declare everything is his. He’s mistaken if he believes I’ll roll over. My father might have wanted me married off for the sake of an alliance, but I won’t let that define my life now that I’m at the helm. I’m certainly not honoring an unwanted contract for something as archaic as being the sacrificial bride in a marriage of convenience to a man who… unnerves me… the way Aleksei does.
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