Bratva's Lethal Obsession

Prologue

OFELIA

Everyone knows that mirrors lie. I’ve lived the lie so long, I almost believe it myself.

Almost.

Truth is the fading scars the mirror doesn’t show.

My obsession with the man who made them.

Knowing that if those secrets are ever revealed, both our lives are over.

“Ready to face the enemy?” my stepmother asks around the bathroom door.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

Darya and Papa don’t understand why I’m having my twenty-first birthday here, in Granada, instead of two hours away at our family finca in the south of Spain.

“Have people begun to arrive yet?”

“Just family, so far.”

Just family?

If only it was that simple.

She touches my shoulder. “You look absolutely perfect, if that helps.”

It doesn’t.

Perfection I mastered a long time ago. As far as the mirror goes, at least.

Elegant blonde chignon. Antique diamond and pearl earrings. Midnight silk gown with a crossover neck and hanging back ties. Stiletto mules.

My dress isn’t too low, and my heels aren’t too high. My chignon is neither sleek or messy, my makeup is neither theatrical nor too casual.

Perfection is easy.

Perfection is part of the lie.

Perfection has nothing to do with why I’m still upstairs staring at myself in a mirror, instead of downstairs, drinking champagne and waiting for my guests to arrive.

Darya puts her cheek next to mine. “I love you,” she says to my reflection.

I lean my face into hers. “I love you, too.”

It’s true. I know many people hate their stepparents, but my siblings and I have adored Darya from the moment she entered our lives.

“Ofelia,” she begins.

Oh, fuck.

I recognize her concern in the lightly furrowed brow, the penetrating stare.

Darya has been giving me these covert looks for years, ever since my sister Masha and I were kidnapped by the Orlovs.

Darya was once their prisoner herself, so unfortunately she has firsthand knowledge of their brutality.

I know she’s always wondered if I told the truth when I said they didn’t harm me.

I did tell the truth.

The Orlovs never harmed me.

They just gave the orders to the man who did.

Since that man happens to be Darya’s brother, there’s no chance in hell I can tell her, or anyone else in my family, the truth.

Not ever.

Instead I mimic her concern, as I always do. “Darya.”

It works, as it always does.

“Fine.” She kisses my head. “I won’t ask.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. “But if those nerves turn into full-blown jitters tonight, or if you need rescuing or a moment alone—hell, if you need me to turn up with a gun and a shovel. Anything.”

“I know, I know. Code word Poppins.” It’s an old joke, dating from the days when Darya was our nanny. Poppins is the code we use when we require rescuing from any situation, a fail-safe that triggers immediate action, without question.

“Just so long as you know.” Blowing me a kiss, Darya closes the door behind her.

This entire night is a Poppins, I think as I give myself a final once-over. Or maybe it’s just my entire life.

That makes me smile, which I figure is a good note on which to make my appearance.

The clink of glasses and low murmur of conversation reach me long before I emerge onto the mosaic-tiled terrace.

The Carmen de la Victoria juts out from the Albaicín hillside, half covered by a long pergola of wisteria.

Arabic fountains bubble beneath arbors of jasmine, low lighting casting everything in soft shadow.

Across the valley the ancient Moorish Alhambra palace glows in sensuous ocher curves, its arched windows dark and mysterious.

“I’m surprised your parents didn’t hire out the entire Alhambra.” Lourdes gives me a conspiratorial smile as she kisses my cheek.

“Big events aren’t really their style.”

It’s true. Papa might drive me and my siblings mad with his overprotection, but nobody could ever accuse him of ostentation.

He avoids attention even more pathologically than I do.

If my twenty-first had been an informal dinner at our family home, none of these people would be here at all, and Papa would probably be happier for it.

An informal dinner at our family home would also have been easy for Alexei Petrovsky to find an excuse to miss, which is why I’m here, having a party I couldn’t care less about.

“Take this.” Lourdes hands me a glass of champagne, the last on a black tray she tucks beneath her arm.

“I can’t believe you’re actually working tonight.” I sip the champagne without tasting it, scanning the crowd for the only face that matters, unsure whether I want to find it or not. “I would literally have paid you to be here as my moral support human tonight.”

“I can better serve you from the shadows, milady.” Lourdes gives me a mock curtsy. “And I’ll be at the after-party. But all this?” She tilts her head at the milling crowd of designer evening gowns and tailored tuxedoes. “It’s all a bit out of my league, chica.”

“It’s not really my scene either.” I turn the champagne in my hand without sipping it.

“Maybe not.” She gives me an assessing smile. “But you’re doing an awesome job of looking the part. In a few hours the formal torture will be over, and we can hit the Mae West nightclub and get properly messed up, London style.”

I laugh despite my jitters. “You almost managed to sound Cockney when you said that.”

“Bien.” Lourdes looks rather smug. “After tres anos of suffering terrible English food, I should hope so.”

She was born and raised here in Granada, in the medieval alleyways of the Albaicín.

We met at the Royal College of Music in London, where I was studying classical piano and she won a scholarship to study classical guitar.

After graduation we’ve both come back to Spain for the summer.

She’s as short as I am tall, and round in all the places I am slender.

Lourdes has a wicked smile, a sharp sense of humor, and a staunch belief that a party should never end until long after sunrise.

“Did somebody mention getting messed up?” A slim, dark-haired, extremely good-looking man inserts himself between us with a wicked grin.

“Believe me,” he says conspiratorially, “given the smorgasbord of men on offer, by the time tonight is over, I’m going to need more than just alcohol to take the edge off. ”

“Behave, Benny.” I nudge him affectionately in the ribs. “Aren’t you supposed to be playing right now?”

Benny’s real name is Binyamin, followed by a stack of Arab names that end in Al Sudairi. He’s a minor Saudi royal and an exceptional cellist, who is currently supposed to be playing with the string quartet in the corner.

“Relax, bitch.” He kisses me roundly on the cheek.

“We’re taking a break. Not least because you look tense enough to shatter that champagne glass.

” He plucks it from my hand and takes a deep swallow.

“Oh, God, that’s good.” He shakes his head.

“I should make you two perform instead, so I can get drunk and seduce all these deliciously rough-looking men.”

He gives one of Papa’s bodyguards a seductive smile that makes the man redden and turn hastily away.

“I’d advise you not to try it,” I warn him. “You need fingers to play cello, don’t forget.”

“Oooh.” Benny shivers with mock excitement. “You know how to turn a girl on.”

Benny’s family might tolerate him doing a degree in music, but they’d never accept an openly gay son.

As a result, he remains on this side of the Mediterranean as much as possible and is almost as pathological about staying out of the press as I am.

He’s the only friend I have who isn’t intimidated by Roman Borovsky’s legendary, if somewhat mysterious, reputation.

Even those outside the criminal world have heard about Mercura, my father’s invitation-only, untraceable cryptocurrency platform used worldwide for black-market transactions.

They know my family is worth billions—and one look at the hard faces of our security detail, and the ink faintly visible under a lot of the handmade tuxedo shirts, is enough to give even a casual observer a pretty good idea what kind of world produces those billions.

It’s easy enough for casual observers to be intrigued by the world I come from. Seduced by it, even.

They don’t have to live with the bombs, guns, and death that are an integral part of the Russian bratva.

They’ve never felt the hard edge of a blade against their skin.

I shiver despite the warm July night.

“Joder,” Lourdes swears as the ma?tre d’, who is also her brother, glares in her direction.

“Carlos will kill me if I don’t actually do some work.

He got me this gig.” She points a warning finger at Benny.

“Look after her.” She squeezes my arm, then moves off into the crowd, pulling a face at her brother as she goes.

“So.” Benny leans his head briefly against mine. “Pirate Boy still not here, then?”

“No.”

He has a nickname for every man who comes into our lives.

Thanks to Alexei’s eye patch, he’s been Pirate Boy ever since Benny laid eyes on him at my first solo piano recital in London last year.

The two have never met, nor have I told Benny about the dark history we share.

But Benny, for all his camp facade, is one of the most insightful people I know.

He rubs his cheek gently against my head. “He’ll come, baby girl.” He goes back to the stage, sending me the ghost of a wink as he raises his bow and resumes playing.

I’m deeply grateful he’s here tonight. After three years of living in each other’s pockets, Benny in particular has become my family and helped make London a home. I know my parents expected me to celebrate my birthday in that city.

But tonight is a carefully calculated balance, one I spent months thinking through.

All with a single goal in mind: how do I create an event impossible for Alexei to avoid?