Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King (Rudenko Bratva #2)

Chapter One - Janice

The city swallows me whole the moment I step off the plane.

I expect New York to be loud, crowded, overwhelming in the way small-town people always warn about.

What I don’t expect is how utterly indifferent it is.

Millions of people moving in choreographed chaos, and not one of them cares that I exist. The realization settles cold in my chest as I drag my suitcase through Penn Station, dodging elbows and briefcases, trying not to look as lost as I feel.

Nineteen years old, an ocean away from everything familiar, and already wondering if I’ve made a mistake.

My reflection catches in a darkened shop window as I pass: chestnut hair falling loose around my shoulders, eyes too wide, mouth pressed thin with determination I don’t quite feel. The dress I chose this morning, soft blue and carefully ironed, already looks rumpled.

My hips strain against the fabric where it hugs too tight, pulls across my chest in a way that makes me hyperaware of every curve, the soft give of my stomach I can never quite flatten no matter how many hours I spend pretending I don’t care.

I tug at the hem self-consciously before catching myself.

I’m not here to blend in. I’m here to matter.

The internship came through at the last minute, a miracle wrapped in vague promises and a stipend barely enough to cover rent in a building where the shower only works if you hit the pipes twice.

Urban development consulting. I wrote the cover letter three times, highlighting my sociology degree, my research on gentrification, my desperate need to understand how cities work—how power moves through them like blood through veins.

They hired me to take notes and to observe. I have every intention of doing exactly that.

***

The office is glass and steel, perched high enough that the streets below look like toys. My supervisor, a woman named Marissa with sharp heels and sharper eyes, hands me a tablet and a lanyard without smiling.

“You’ll shadow me today,” Marissa says, already walking. “There’s a private event this afternoon—redevelopment project in Brooklyn. It’s controversial. Lot of money changing hands, lot of people pretending it isn’t.” She glances back, assessing. “You’re here to watch, not participate. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Wear something better next time.” Her gaze flicks down to my dress, then away. “Something that fits the room. You want them to take you seriously, dress like you already belong.”

My cheeks burn, but I nod. Marissa is already three steps ahead, heels clicking against marble in a rhythm that sounds like a warning.

I spend the morning buried in spreadsheets and zoning reports, trying to decode language that feels designed to obscure rather than clarify. Marissa answers maybe one question in five, and only when I’ve already exhausted every other option.

By lunch, my head is pounding and my eyes are crossing, but I don’t complain.

I can’t afford to complain.

At two o’clock, Marissa stands abruptly. “Time to go. Stay close, don’t wander, and for God’s sake, don’t ask questions unless I tell you to.”

***

The event takes place in a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and industrial lighting designed to look effortless.

It isn’t. Everything here is calculated; the arrangement of chairs, the placement of bar stations, even the way sunlight slants through the windows to make the room feel warm instead of cold.

I hang back near the entrance, tablet clutched against my chest, watching.

Men in tailored suits cluster in small groups, voices low but animated.

Lawyers, I guess. Developers. The kind of people who speak in acronyms and move millions with handshakes.

Women move between them—some in sharp blazers, some in dresses that cost more than my rent—carrying authority or charm depending on what the moment requires.

I feel the weight of my own body suddenly, the way my dress clings to my waist and hips, pulls across my chest, the soft curve of my stomach pressing against the fabric.

Here, in this room full of people who look like they’ve been assembled by the same architect, I feel conspicuous. Visible in all the wrong ways.

A server passes with champagne flutes balanced on a tray, offering one to me with a practiced smile. I shake my head, throat tight. I’m not here to drink. I’m here to disappear.

Marissa is already deep in conversation with a silver-haired man whose smile doesn’t reach his eyes. I stay where I am, stylus poised over the tablet screen, trying to look useful.

That’s when I notice the tension.

It isn’t loud. It’s the opposite—a held breath, a tightening of shoulders, the way certain people angle themselves toward a man standing near the far windows. He isn’t the oldest person in the room. In fact, he isn’t doing anything to draw attention at all.

Yet everyone is watching him.

Dimitri Rudenko

He stands with his back to the light, dark hair falling just past his collar, longer than the other men wear theirs.

His suit fits perfectly—tailored coat left open over a crisp white shirt, no tie.

Casual in a way that feels deliberate. He holds a glass of something amber in one hand, but he hasn’t taken a drink.

He’s listening.

A man across from him—older and red-faced, gesturing too broadly—is mid-argument. I can’t hear the words, but I can read the posture. The man punctuates his sentences with jabs of his finger, leaning in like proximity will win him ground.

Dimitri doesn’t move.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low enough that I have to strain to catch fragments. Something about zoning permits. Timeline adjustments. Legal precedent. His tone is calm, almost bored, but the other man’s face goes pale halfway through the response.

I watch, fascinated, as Dimitri dismantles him.

By the time he finishes, the older man has stepped back, hands raised in surrender, mouth working around words that don’t come.

Dimitri takes a sip of his drink and turns away.

The room exhales.

My pulse kicks up without permission. I don’t understand what I’ve just witnessed—don’t have the context or the vocabulary—but I understand power when I see it. Whatever this man has, it isn’t the kind that needs volume.

I look down at my tablet, typing notes I won’t remember later, trying to focus on anything except the uncomfortable heat crawling up my neck.

A woman beside me leans toward her companion, voice low. “That’s the third time this month Rudenko’s shut down Patterson. You’d think the man would learn.”

“Patterson doesn’t learn. That’s his problem.”

“Rudenko doesn’t forget, either. That’s his.”

They move away, leaving me with more questions than answers.

I glance back toward the windows, but Dimitri has shifted, now speaking quietly with a younger man who looks equally composed, equally controlled.

There’s something in the way people orbit around him—careful distance, calculated respect.

Fear, maybe, dressed up as professionalism.

I don’t notice the other man approaching until he’s too close.

“You’re new.”

I startle, nearly dropping the tablet. The man in front of me smiles, but it isn’t friendly. Mid-forties, expensive cologne, eyes that drag over me in a way that makes my skin prickle.

“I… yes. I’m interning with—”

“You should get me a drink.” He says it casually, like it’s a fact instead of a command.

My stomach twists. “I’m here in a research capacity, actually.”

“Research.” He laughs, low and dismissive. “Right. So what are you researching? How to look pretty in a room full of adults?”

Heat floods my face. I open my mouth, searching for something cutting, something that will make him back off without causing a scene—

“She’s with me.”

The voice comes from behind me. Low, accented, precise.

The man’s expression shifts instantly, smile vanishing, shoulders straightening. “Mr. Rudenko. I didn’t realize—”

“Now you do.”

I turn slowly, heart hammering.

Dimitri Rudenko stands less than a foot away, close enough that I catch the faint scent of expensive fabric and something darker underneath—smoke, maybe, or leather. He isn’t looking at me. His gaze stays fixed on the other man, steel-gray eyes sharp and utterly unreadable.

The businessman takes a step back. “Of course. My apologies. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“You meant exactly what you said.” Dimitri’s voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t sharpen. It simply states fact. “Leave.”

It isn’t a suggestion.

The man leaves, practically tripping over his own feet in his hurry to put distance between us.

Silence settles between us, thick and humming. My pulse roars in my ears. I should say something. Thank him, maybe. Apologize for the disruption. Anything.

Dimitri’s gaze shifts to me, and I feel it everywhere.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften. He looks at me the way someone might assess a blueprint—cataloging details, measuring angles, deciding whether something is worth the trouble.

His eyes track from my face down to where my fingers grip the tablet, lingering for a beat on the way my dress curves over my hips, the fabric pulled taut across my thighs, then back up again.

My breath catches. I hate that he notices. Hate more that I notice him noticing.

“You shouldn’t be alone in rooms like this,” he says finally.

My throat tightens. “I’m working.”

“You look too young to be working at a place like this.”

The certainty in his voice makes my stomach drop. How does he know?

“I’m twenty next month,” I reply, lifting my chin. It’s a stupid thing to argue about. I know it even as the words leave my mouth.

Something flickers across his expression. “That doesn’t make you less of a target.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Clearly.”

The word lands, cutting. My cheeks burn. I want to snap back, to prove I’m not some helpless intern who needs rescuing, but the truth is I froze the second that man cornered me. I was two seconds from panic, and we both know it.

Dimitri tilts his head slightly, studying me. “What’s your name?”

I hesitate. Giving my name feels dangerous in a way I can’t articulate. “Janice.”

“Janice.” He repeats it like he’s testing the weight of it. His accent curls around the syllables, turning them into something unfamiliar. “You should stay closer to your supervisor, Janice. Men here don’t respect boundaries unless someone enforces them.”

“You’re the one enforcing them?”

The question comes out sharper than I intend. His eyes narrow, just slightly, and for a second I think I’ve miscalculated. Pushed too hard. Said the wrong thing to the wrong person.

Then his mouth shifts. It’s not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like victory.

“Today I am,” he says quietly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

He steps past me, moving back toward the windows where another conversation is already forming. I watch him go, heart still racing, hands trembling around the tablet. The space where he stood feels suddenly cold, emptied of whatever presence he carries with him.

I don’t move for a full minute, rooted to the spot, pulse hammering against my ribs.

By the time Marissa finds me ten minutes later, I’ve managed to stop shaking. Barely.

“Do you know who you were talking to?” Marissa’s voice is carefully neutral, but her eyes are sharp.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Some businessman who thought I was—”

“Not him. The other one. Dimitri Rudenko.”

Oh.

Marissa’s expression is unreadable. “He doesn’t talk to interns. He doesn’t talk to anyone unless there’s a reason. So I’ll ask again, what did you say to him?”

“Nothing. He just… someone was bothering me. He made them leave.”

“He made them leave.” Marissa repeats the words slowly, like she’s trying to decode a foreign language. “Jesus, Janice. Do you have any idea who that man is?”

I shake my head. “I don’t recognize the name.”

“Dimitri Rudenko owns half the development projects in this city. The other half, he could own if he wanted to. People don’t say no to him. They don’t interrupt him. They definitely don’t bother his—” She stops herself, exhaling sharply. “Stay away from him.”

“I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.”

“I don’t care. Dimitri Rudenko isn’t someone you want noticing you. Trust me.” She turns, already walking away. “We’re leaving. Event’s over for us.”

I follow, glancing back over my shoulder once.

Dimitri stands near the windows, surrounded by men in suits, but his gaze is already waiting for mine. He doesn’t look away. He’s watching, expression unreadable, until I turn the corner and he disappears from sight.

My hands are still shaking when I reach the street.

I tell myself it’s adrenaline. Residual fear from the confrontation. Normal biological response to a stressful situation.

It isn’t fear.

That, more than anything, terrifies me.