Bratva Shadow’s Light (Basov Bratva #3)

Chapter 1

Black Dress

Fee:

The thing about getting shot at is that your brain doesn't process the sound first; it's the way the air splits apart, like the world cracking open before it bleeds.

Thirty minutes ago, I thought my biggest problem was a man who wouldn't kiss me.

Twenty minutes ago, I walked into this boutique to forget about Anton's hands pulling away when they should have pulled me closer.

Ten minutes ago, I was holding a black dress, imagining what it would have felt like to have let him see all of me for the first time ever.

The first bullet shatters the boutique window three feet from my head.

I don't scream, there's no time. Glass rains down like deadly confetti as my guard, Cillian, shoves me toward the back exit, his hand already reaching for his gun.

Last night…

The string quartet transitions into something soft and romantic as Sage and I sway together on the dance floor, her wedding dress flowing like liquid starlight around us.

We're both a little tipsy on champagne and happiness, our laughter bright and carefree.

I'm savoring this perfect moment before real life pulls us in different directions.

Six months of planning, and it all paid off. May has dressed the night perfectly. The reception looks like something from a fairy tale, twinkling lights strung between ancient stone arches, tables draped in ivory silk, centerpieces of white roses that catch the candlelight perfectly.

Every vendor meeting, every dress fitting, every late-night phone call between Chicago and New York was worth it for this.

Plus, planning Sage's wedding gave me the perfect excuse to avoid my mother, who got summoned here from her European sabbatical the moment word reached her about Moira's pregnancy.

As much as I love knowing I'll be an aunt, a Quinn grandbaby means another round of marriage pressure for the remaining unmarried daughter.

I also helped Moira plan her arranged wedding to Lorenzo. But where Moira's wedding felt like a business transaction wrapped in white silk, Sage's feels like pure joy.

Sage chose Maks, and Maks chose her. Tonight, she's not just another Quinn bride securing an alliance.

Sage spins me around, her laughter contagious, as my dress floats around us. She's not just my cousin; she's like another sister to me, the rebellious one I aided with my skills in spying and hacking.

"Okay, but seriously," Sage says, guiding us in a lazy circle on the dance floor, her focus more on our conversation than the music. "Tell me more about these Chicago business trips. Anton's been making a lot of them lately."

I glance across the dance floor where Anton stands next to Yuri, both of them in perfectly tailored black suits, and he looks dreamy.

"It's complicated. The Basovs and Quinns started some new venture that requires his expertise. Dad won't tell me details, but Anton's been coming to Chicago regularly."

Sage raises an eyebrow, that familiar mischievous glint in her eyes. "And what have you found out about it?"

"About Anton? Nothing. And about the Chicago venture? I've found some details." I adjust my grip as we sway to the music. "But I met this person who goes by Phoenix in my calculus class. She's this serious hacker type, taught me some new tricks for gathering intel."

Sage raises an eyebrow. "You're still doing the online classes?"

"Just a few math courses. Keeps me sharp. Plus, the unexpected things you learn in advanced mathematics."

The music shifts to a different song. I catch Anton's gaze across the terrace.

For six months, we've been dancing around each other in this careful choreography of glances and brief conversations.

Anton's still watching me, and when our eyes meet again, he doesn't look away. Instead, one corner of his mouth lifts in the barest hint of a smile before he turns back to whatever Yuri is saying.

"Six months of this?" Sage whispers, following my gaze.

"He talks to me briefly when he's there, but..."

"But what?" Sage presses, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "The man hasn't taken his eyes off you for more than five minutes."

"I think I'm just getting my hopes up. What if I'm confusing courtesy with interest, obligation with attraction? What if he's just being polite because of our families, and I'm sitting here with these ridiculous hopes?"

Before Sage can answer, the DJ's voice crackles over the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, this will be the last dance for our beautiful couple. Mr. and Mrs. Sokolov, the floor is yours."

Maks appears beside us like he materialized from the shadows, his pale blue eyes soft with adoration as he looks at his new wife.

I step back, giving them space. "Go be happy," I whisper, pulling Sage into a fierce hug. "I love you, sister."

"I love you, too," she whispers back, squeezing tight.

I turn to Maks, standing on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Take care of my sister, or I'll hunt you down myself."

His killer smile makes an appearance. "Wouldn't dream of disappointing you, Fee."

I retreat to the edge of the dance floor as other couples join them, the fairy lights twinkling overhead like something from a dream. The old stone chapel ruins provide the perfect romantic backdrop, and watching Sage in Maks' arms makes my chest tight with longing.

"Ready to head out whenever you are, Ms. Quinn."

I turn to find Cillian at my elbow, his blue eyes fixed on me. He's been my shadow for six months now, ever since Dad assigned him to my detail. Loyal, competent, and completely dedicated to keeping me safe.

"Thanks, Cillian. Maybe after they leave." I want to soak in every second of Sage's happiness.

He nods but doesn't move away, positioning himself between me and the rest of the reception. It takes me a moment to realize Cillian's blocking Anton's line of sight; Cillian's broad shoulders obstruct his view of me.

Is that on purpose? Or just a coincidence?

I study Cillian's profile. He's handsome in that clean-cut Irish way, with dark hair and sharp features. Professional but warm enough that I've always felt comfortable around him.

Maybe it's just a guard instinct, keeping himself between me and everyone else.

Anton hasn't asked me to dance. Not once all night.

Time to accept reality. I imagined all of it.

Every lingering glance. Every careful conversation. Every moment I thought I caught something deeper than polite interest in those storm-gray eyes.

These men flirt like they breathe, effortlessly, with everyone. I've watched them charm women into puddles with nothing but a smile and that devastating Russian accent. Why would I be different?

Quinn princess. Untouchable. The kind of woman smart men don't fuck around with because it might literally get them killed.

Anton's probably got a woman in every city anyway. A man like that? He doesn't stay lonely.

The fairy-tale romance swirling around me suddenly feels like mockery. Sage found her happily-ever-after, and here I am, standing behind my bodyguard like he's a shield, hiding from a man who was never really looking at me anyway.

I should find someone else to dance with. Someone who actually wants me.

But God, Anton is intriguing.

I shift slightly to the left, using the excuse of adjusting my clutch to peek around Cillian's broad frame.

Anton cuts through the crowd with that predatory grace of his, weaving between dancing couples with single-minded purpose.

He's coming this way.

My heart betrays me instantly—pulse spiking, breath catching, that stupid flutter I can never control around him.

Don't read into this, my brain warns. He's just being polite. Saying goodbye.

But my traitorous heart whispers, what if he's not?

I force my expression into something casual, praying I look mildly interested instead of desperately hopeful.

The last thing I need is to broadcast my pathetic crush when he's probably just checking off his social obligations.

God, I'm a mess.

Cillian must notice the change in my posture because he glances over his shoulder, following my gaze. When he spots Anton approaching, something shifts in his stance. Not tension exactly, but awareness.

Right. The Chicago assignments.

Of course they know each other. I found out Dad's been sending Cillian, too, on this new venture. These two are now colleagues.

"Evening, Baev," Cillian says when Anton reaches us, his tone professionally cordial.

"O'Brien." Anton's voice carries that familiar gravel, and his pale gray eyes flick between Cillian and me.

Cillian takes a deliberate step back, creating space between us. "I'll be at the bar if you need anything, Ms. Quinn."

And then he's gone, melting into the crowd with the practiced invisibility of a good bodyguard, leaving me alone with Anton.

Anton stands there in his perfectly tailored black suit, looking like he stepped out of some dark fable. My heart refuses to listen to my brain's very reasonable warnings that I'm reading too much into this.

"Fee." My name sounds different when he says it, rougher somehow.

"Anton." I tilt my head up to meet his eyes.

I catch the scent of his cologne, a rich, dark fragrance that's become achingly familiar over the six months of this torture.

"You're the most beautiful woman here tonight." His voice drops to that gravelly tone that sends heat racing through my veins.

"Thank you."

"Dance with me, Fee." A command wrapped in silk, delivered with the controlled confidence of a man whose whispered words have ended lives.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I nod, not trusting my voice.

Anton's hand settles on my lower back, guiding me onto the dance floor. When we reach the center, he turns to face me, and for a heartbeat we just stand there, the string quartet's melody washing over us.

Then his arms come around me, one hand finding mine while the other stays pressed against my spine. I'm close enough to feel the controlled strength in his touch.