Wed to the Bratva King (Mafia Silver Foxes #4)

Chapter 1

Ryder

The air has teeth tonight.

It bites at my cheeks the second I step out of the car, cool and sharp enough to wake me all the way up, and the door shuts behind me with a quiet click that sounds loud in the empty street.

Savannah in January is stripped of tourists and noise; the sidewalks are wide and bare, as if the city is holding its breath.

I hate it; business is hard to hide in the quiet months.

My father’s text still glows at the top of my screen.

Be here at ten. Time you see how a deal is done.

No hello. No explanation. He’s Hinto Moreno, leader of one of the biggest drug trafficking rings in the south. He doesn’t need either.

I tell myself I should be proud. For months he’s kept me on the sidelines, smiling faintly while men twice my age make decisions that will shape my future and what I’ll inherit.

Men I’ll be leading one day, who should be learning to respect me, but instead are learning that they don’t need to acknowledge my presence.

Tonight, though, he asked for me specifically. That has to mean something. Right?

Even if the feeling in my stomach says something is off.

The church rises out of the darkening streets, pale stone glowing under the streetlamps, all columns and tall windows and old Southern grandeur.

It looks like the kind of place people get married in or buried at, not somewhere you close a “business deal.” Suspicion tingles down my spine.

My father was never one for religion, even though my abuela was deeply committed to the cross.

I smooth my dark turtleneck, tug my sleeves straight, and check the line of my slacks. Neutral. Professional. Unimpressive on purpose, and asexual as I can get while still being able to move comfortably. I’ve learned that if men underestimate me, they talk more.

If he wants me to start acting like an heir, I can play the part.

The main doors are heavy when I push them open, the hinges groaning softly as warm air rolls over me. The smell of polished wood and incense wraps around my senses. Off to the left, rows and rows of little prayer candles glow; a nostalgic sight that settles me a bit.

Surely nothing bad could happen here. Surely my father isn’t that stupid.

My boots whisper against the tile as I step inside, and the sound echoes up into the high, vaulted ceiling.

White and blue arches sweep overhead like ribs, the lights glowing gold and soft, almost cozy. It should feel welcoming, peaceful even, but the back of my neck prickles the way it does right before something goes wrong. It’s what makes me a good intelligence lead.

My steps slow automatically.

I scan the space without thinking, counting exits, side doors, and alcoves while noticing the distance between pews. It’s a habit I picked up young and never lost. Always know where you’d run. Always know who could trap you.

There’s movement near the front of the church. A small group stands by the altar.

My father is impossible to miss, even here.

Of course he wore a Hawaiian shirt. The bright pattern looks obscene against all the marble and stained glass.

It looks like he enjoys disrespecting the setting.

He’s standing in a relaxed fashion, shoulders loose, hands in his pockets, like he owns this place.

Maybe he does… priests aren’t hard to pay off, and Hinto Moreno loves irony.

Next to him is an older woman with glasses and a neat stack of paperwork. She looks like someone’s accountant or a notary, flipping pages with bored efficiency.

My pulse ticks up. Paperwork. Something legal, perhaps. Why aren’t we meeting in a boardroom, in broad daylight?

Then I glance toward the last figure.

He doesn’t look like any of the people my father usually runs with—not flashy or loud. Not laughing in a holy place.

No, this man stands next to the woman with his hands folded neatly at his hips.

Clean lines and quiet control in a simple white button-up and slacks.

His thick, dark hair is combed back, and the amber light plays in the silver at his temples.

There’s something unnervingly composed about him, like nothing in this room could surprise him.

Men like this are the ones to worry about.

His eyes lift and catch mine from across the church. The look is steady and assessing. It lands on me with enough weight that my breath stutters before I can stop it.

I don’t know him personally, but I know exactly who he is. In fact, we spent a few hours in each other’s company once. I found it thrilling and stimulating. Especially when he looked like he wanted to wrap his massive hands around my throat and squeeze until I was gasping.

Liev Demsky.

Right hand to the Bratva Pakhan. It’s not entirely alarming.

After all, my father has been working closely with the Bratva.

Renting space in their ports, using shipping routes at their discretion.

But even now there’s a flicker of annoyance in his gaze as he stares down Demsky.

Hinto Moreno has never liked being told what he can and can’t do, and the moment he stepped foot in Savannah, the Bratva had the upper hand.

So what the hell am I doing here between the two of them?

I don’t rush; running toward anything my father arranges has never ended well for me.

I take my time as I walk up the aisle, the sound of my boots soft against the tile, but somehow still too loud in the cavernous room.

The church seems to stretch longer the closer I get to them.

The distance wraps around like a bad dream where the door keeps sliding away no matter how fast you move.

My pulse drums in my ears, steady and heavy.

I keep my chin up and my shoulders loose, pretending I’m calmer than I feel while my eyes flick between the three figures waiting at the front.

My father stands relaxed; he’s almost cheerful. He looks like this is a family dinner instead of whatever midnight meeting he’s dragged me to. The older woman adjusts her glasses and straightens the papers, the crisp shuffling sound carrying across the pews. Official documents. Contracts, maybe.

And then there’s Liev Demsky.

Even from halfway down the aisle, I feel the gravity of him.

I met his boss once, Kazimir Baranov, under the worst possible circumstances. Seven months ago he had me tied to a chair and used me as leverage against my father. Most people would call that trauma. I call it education.

Baranov had been cold, precise, terrifying in a way that made sense. A man who calculated losses before he made a move and never fumbled the math.

The opposite of my father.

What was particularly interesting about that situation was that he did it all for a woman, Alyona Demsky.

She is the daughter of the man standing in front of me.

From the bits of rumor I’ve caught on the intelligence side of things, Kazimir fell hard for Alyona.

And when my father found out, he threatened the woman, which was a mistake.

Kazimir made him pay. In part by kidnapping me, and then later by laying down rules. My father hates rules.

If Baranov has tightened his grip on Savannah and decided we only get to keep our foothold here by proving our value, maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe they want me more involved. Maybe this is a step up.

It’s a stupid, hopeful thought, but I let myself have it for three seconds. Because I still have no idea what the hell is going on. And I hate the effect Liev Demsky is having on me.

I don’t know what I was expecting tonight, but it wasn’t him.

He must be close to twice my age. On the boat all those months ago, I’d passed the time needling the old man just to get a rise out of him. Watched the color climb up his thick neck, watched his eyes darken as I joked and insulted him.

Ugh. A memory flashes of how turned on I’d been and how my body responded to the promise of pain in his eyes.

The memory of the situation sends prickles down the back of my neck as I walk down the aisle toward Liev Demsky. There’s no chance in hell we wouldn’t kill each other before the hour was out, but damn, I wouldn’t mind spending a night with him.

My thoughts alone are desecrating the church. It’s a wonder I don’t burst into flame.

Part of me expects Liev’s lip to curl in disgust; there’s no love lost between us, but tonight he looks calm. Almost resigned.

When I finally reach them, my father beams as if I’ve just come home from college with straight A’s. Which I did, but he didn’t care then.

“Mi nina,” he says warmly, opening his arms. The endearment makes my skin crawl and my hackles rise. He uses it only when he wants something.

“I’m here,” I reply carefully, my voice even. “What’s the deal?”

The older woman clears her throat and flips open a folder. Behind me, something shifts. Or rather, someone.

Leather creaks. Shoes scrape.

I glance over my shoulder.

Four of my father’s men have moved closer without me noticing. One is near the pews and three are by the door. Their stances are loose, but deliberate. They’re not guarding the exits; they’re blocking them.

My stomach drops.

When I turn back, Liev is watching the repositioning too. His eyes are sharp and narrowing slightly as they move from me to my father and back again. It’s like he doesn’t love whatever choreography is happening either.

That should comfort me.

It doesn’t.

“This won’t take long,” the woman says briskly. “We just need signatures. I’ll spare you both the poetics.”

“Signatures for what?” I ask.

My father steps beside me and rests a hand on my shoulder, heavy and possessive. “A partnership,” he says smoothly. “A very important one for our future.”

My heart races harder, like it already knows.

“A marriage license and certificate,” the woman adds, not even bothering to look up. She seems as though she orchestrates surprise marriages every day of the week.

“Excuse me?”

She adjusts her glasses. “Between yourself and Mr. Demsky. The ceremony will be brief. Legal recognition tonight, formalities later. Names and,” she gestures between us, indicating apparently ‘everything that goes along with marriage,’ and “whatever else.”

For a moment, the world tilts.

The church seems too bright, too warm, and it suddenly feels like I’m breathing through a straw.

“A marriage contract?”

“Your marriage,” my father says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. I am his child, but I’m also twenty-four and the leader of his entire intelligence and tracking team. “It’s the smartest move, Carino. Bratva and us, united. Miami, Savannah, everything connected. You’ll be safe. Powerful.”

He smiles like he’s giving me a gift.

I stare at him.

“You’re marrying me off,” I whisper.

His hand tightens slightly into a fist. “Don’t be dramatic, Ryder. You were always going to get married, of course.”

Was I? Somehow, I’d never really considered the possibility. After graduating, going home to Miami, coming to Savannah and straightening out the mess that was my father’s cartel, I assumed someday he’d hand it over to me.

Not to some man who would tack his last name onto me and hog all the blankets.

My gaze snaps to Liev. He hasn’t said a word.

He looks tense. Not smug. Not pleased. Just tightly controlled, like this isn’t what he expected, but he’s still following some unspoken rule.

Heat rushes up my spine.

“No,” I breathe.

My father’s smile falters. “Ryder—”

“No.”

The word tears out of me louder this time, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “I’m not going to marry some cabrón just because you want more territory. Fuck you.”

I stumble back, shaking my head, and dragging air into my lungs as they tighten with panic. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to decide my life like I’m a shipment or a piece of land.”

“Ryder,” Liev says quietly, stepping forward.

Fight or flight?

I only make it two steps before a hand clamps around my wrist. Strong. Unyielding. I whirl, and it’s him.

His grip isn’t cruel, but it’s iron.

“Wait—”

That’s all he gets.

My body chooses for me.

Fight.

My knee comes up hard and fast, slamming into the side of his. I feel the impact on bone and muscle. I hear the sharp grunt he can’t quite suppress as his leg buckles.

His fingers loosen just enough.

I rip free. Chaos erupts behind me as my father swears in Spanish and his men surge forward.

One grabs for my arm, and I duck under it, slamming my elbow back into his nose, hearing the crack. Another tries to block the aisle, and I shove a pew into his knees, wood screeching against tile as he stumbles.

“Ryder!” my father shouts.

“Go to hell!” I fire back, my voice breaking. “You’re nothing but Kazimir Baranov’s lapdog!”

I sprint down the aisle past the empty pews toward the doors that suddenly feel miles away. My heart hammers so hard it hurts.

This is how it happens, I think wildly. This is how girls disappear into marriages and contracts and never belong to themselves again.

Not me.

Never me.

I slam into the heavy doors with both hands and shove them open. Cold night air crashes over me as I burst out onto the street and run like my life depends on it.

Because tonight, it does.