Bratva Bride (Buryakov Bratva #2)

Chapter 1 Nadya

NADYA

I walk into the room like I belong here. And maybe I do, now that I’ve lost everything that used to make me human. The stilettos help. So does the silence.

My heels strike the marble floor with deliberate force, each step echoing across the ornate hall like the tick of a bomb. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Cigars lower. I catch a glimpse of gold teeth glinting between parted lips, wide eyes behind tinted glasses. They didn’t expect me to show.

They definitely didn’t expect me to show like this.

There are whispers. Not loud, but constant, like the scrape of knives just beneath the tablecloths.

Konstantin walks beside me, a step behind, black suit pressed sharp as the cane he leans on.

His injuries aren’t enough to slow him, but the cane serves its own purpose—it tells them he was in the fire and made it out.

That whatever tried to kill him failed. That he’s still dangerous, maybe even more so now.

He doesn’t say a word, not yet. His silence feels heavier than mine. Like he’s waiting for the room to breathe before he decides who gets to keep breathing.

It’s been a week since the massacre.

A week since Irina died with a knife in her chest, whispering my name through bloodied lips.

A week since Lev took three bullets trying to protect us.

A week since my wedding dress, stitched in silk and dreams, went up in flames along with the bodies of our friends.

A week since Nikolai vanished from under our noses, stolen by a ghost I can’t trace, no matter how many people I shake down or how many files Konstantin and I pore over at three in the morning, too wired to sleep, too broken to stop.

And Mila…Mila hasn’t smiled once. Her laugh, the one that used to echo through the halls like music, is gone. Replaced by silence, shadows, and the sound of her dragging her teddy bear from room to room like she’s guarding a grave.

They think this meeting is about order. About rebuilding.

What they don’t realize is that we didn’t come here to rebuild.

We came to burn what’s left.

Ornate chandeliers hang heavy overhead, their golden light barely softening the hard lines of the men below.

The walls are hung with oil paintings of men who have long since turned to dust, their watchful eyes making promises no one here intends to keep.

The table is long, wide enough for a war council, littered with cut crystal, silver trays, and bottles of vodka that glint like liquid ice.

Every seat is filled—syndicate heads, their lieutenants, the old guard in immaculate suits and younger men still eager for blood. I can feel the tension radiating from their postures.

I’m still standing behind Konstantin’s chair when a voice cuts through the low rumble—a nasal tone, edged with disapproval and just enough bravado to sound braver than it is.

“And your wife…” He doesn’t bother hiding the sneer, doesn’t look at me when he says it, as if acknowledging me directly would give me too much ground. “Is this a family gathering now? We have rules, Konstantin.”

The words hang in the air, slick with old misogyny and new threat. I can feel several pairs of eyes dart my way—some eager for a fight, some just desperate to keep the peace. I stay where I am, hands loose at my sides, letting the question rot on the table.

Konstantin doesn’t hesitate. His voice is calm but cold, a warning wrapped in velvet. “She stays.”

A flicker of tension passes around the table, but before it can settle, Malenkov leans in, voice oily and falsely sympathetic. “You’re not in a position to make demands, Konstantin. Not after what has happened.”

I feel the eyes turning, waiting for weakness, for Konstantin to back down, for me to slip.

But I step forward, refusing to let him bear the brunt of their malice alone. I let my gaze sweep over the men at the table, each of them silent now, their curiosity tangled with suspicion.

“I was there. Maybe you’d like to hear the story from someone who actually survived the night, instead of listening to rumors from men who waited it out in hiding.”

The room stills. Every face turns to me, some openly hostile, others wary, a few almost impressed.

An old man near the center—his hair thin, his jaw trembling with outrage—goes red, shaking with indignation. “Don’t,” he says, his voice cracking, as if the telling itself might shatter what little dignity this room still has.

But I ignore him. I let my words cut through the silence, careful and deliberate, refusing to look away.

“I’ll tell you what happened. Our friends and family—unarmed, dressed for celebration—were cut down before they could even stand.

The woman who raised me bled out on my lawn, and nobody here lifted a finger to help her.

My husband’s closest friend died protecting us while all we could do was run.

You all talk about loyalty, about honor, about the code.

Where were you when the shooting started?

Hiding? Or waiting to see who would crawl out alive, so you could choose sides? ”

The discomfort in the room is suddenly thick enough to choke on. Some shift in their seats, others look away, and one or two men—men I thought might have hearts left—have the decency to look ashamed.

I keep going, because if I stop now, I will never forgive myself.

“Don’t lecture me about tradition or respect. I’ve lost enough. I’m not here for your approval or your permission. I’m here to make sure no one ever forgets what was done to us, or who let it happen.”

The old man says nothing. No one else dares to speak.

For a long moment, all I can hear is the ticking of the chandelier, the distant clatter of glasses as someone’s hand shakes, and the measured sound of my own breath, reminding me that I am still here, and so is Konstantin.

And for the first time, the balance in the room shifts. They can’t look away. They can’t pretend.

They can only listen.

The silence doesn’t last. It never does in rooms like this—someone always feels the need to claw back control, to poke at the wound until it bleeds. From my left, a heavyset man with expensive cuff links and restless eyes clears his throat, forcing confidence into his words.

“What about Alexei?” he asks, making sure everyone can hear. “He hasn’t been seen since that night. For all we know, you buried him along with the rest. How can we trust anything you say, Konstantin? How can we trust you at all?”

His accusation floats above the table, sour and bold, stirring the embers of suspicion. I watch the heads turn, men waiting for the show, some hungry for blood, others desperate for reassurance. It’s not really a question—it’s a challenge, a line drawn in the dust.

Konstantin leans forward, elbows on the table. When he speaks, his words are quiet enough to force everyone to lean in, but they hit with the force of a threat that can’t be mistaken.

“You want to know where Alexei is?” he says, his voice flat, cold, the edge of violence clear in every syllable. “Get off your ass and go looking for him yourself. Unless you’d rather sit here and whine.”

He pauses, letting the silence sharpen around him, the insult deliberate.

“Trust? You talk to me about trust when you’re the ones who locked the doors that night.

When you hid behind your guards and waited to see who’d crawl out from under the bodies.

If you think I buried Alexei, you’re welcome to start digging.

But if I’d wanted him dead, you’d have found a corpse with a bullet between the eyes and my name carved into his fucking skin. ”

The room goes still, breath held, no one daring to break the tension. Even the men who hate him most look away. The challenger, for all his bravado, can’t hold Konstantin’s gaze.

I can feel the entire room recalibrating, no one quite willing to meet Konstantin’s eyes now that he’s made it clear how little patience he has left for their games.

For a moment, the tension breaks on the surface—men shifting in their chairs, someone coughing into a napkin, another pouring himself vodka with hands that aren’t as steady as they pretend.

Even as the old patterns resume—talk of alliances, territories, debts still unpaid—I know the power has shifted, at least for now.

It’s not just Konstantin’s words that hold them, it’s the simple, unyielding way he sits at the head of the table, refusing to bend to any of their whispered doubts.

There’s a cold certainty to him that’s more dangerous than any weapon, a promise that he’s survived the fire and come out the other side with nothing left to lose.

As the discussion turns, as voices regain their practiced confidence and the vodka begins to flow again, I stand behind Konstantin, refusing to sit, refusing to disappear, my presence as much a statement as his.

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t break stride in his argument about business or vengeance or whatever comes next, but suddenly his hand reaches back, finds mine.

His fingers close around mine in a grip that’s firm, possessive, and just a little too tight.

To the men watching, it must look like an act of solidarity, the king and his queen, untouchable together.

I see it reflected in the hungry eyes around the table—the image we give them, the story they need to believe.

In this world, power is never singular, never solitary; you need someone who will stand at your back, someone who will not flinch.