BRATVA’S Traitorous Bride (BRATVA’S Dangerous Brides #5)

Matilda

I wake to the sound of glass shattering.

A brutal explosion of a window giving way under force. The house screams around me, alarms, voices, boots pounding against marble floors. My bedroom door slams open hard enough to crack against the wall, and before I can even sit up, rough hands are on me.

I’m dragged from the bed in nothing but a thin, cotton nightdress, my bare feet scraping across the floor as I try to find purchase. I twist instinctively, and earn myself a sharp squeeze on my upper arm that promises worse if I keep fighting.

"Easy," a voice says, bored. "She’s not the one we're here for."

Not the one.

The words stick as I’m hauled down the stairs, past paintings my mother curated and rugs my father imported. Past the illusion of safety my family paid dearly to maintain. Every light in the house is on now, flooding the space with a cruel brightness that exposes everything.

They shove me into the living room, and I fall onto my knees beside my parents and younger siblings. I gather my younger sister, Katya, into my arms, soothing her as silent tears of fear and shock roll down her cheeks.

"Everything will be okay." I don’t know why I say it. I have no idea what is even going on, but I'll bet my life that it has something to do with my older brother.

My mother is crying openly, robe clutched to her chest, hair falling loose around her face. My younger brothers are frozen beside her, pale and still. My father kneeling beside them like a shield that’s been cracked down the middle.

And standing opposite them, perfectly calm in the middle of our home, is Gennady Petrov.

His men fill the room with quiet menace, guns loose at their sides, eyes everywhere. He looks exactly like a man who owns every aspect of his world, but I suppose he does. He is the Pakhan of his branch of the Bratva. The branch my family are also part of.

The alarm finally stops its wailing, but the relief is only short-lived.

"Where is Sergei?" Gennady asks mildly.

My father swallows. "We can fix this," he says quickly. "Whatever he’s done, whatever he owes…we can make it right."

Gennady’s gaze doesn’t even flicker. "No," he replies. "You can’t."

The finality in his voice settles heavy and absolute.

"He’s our son, Pakhan," my mother sobs, tears flowing freely now. "Please—"

She looks pathetic, and I know I should feel sorry for her but I can't seem to summon the empathy. I feel empty and exhausted where love should be. A coldness settles over me then, acceptance sliding into place.

"I don’t care," Gennady says, without cruelty. Just truth. "Your son stole from me. Lied to me. Disrespected me. But worst of all he laid hands on my sister."

It's the first time he has shown anything other than a bored calmness tonight as it gives way to the rage simmering beneath.

The news that Sergei has done something he shouldn't to a woman he has no right to be anywhere near, doesn't surprise me. I only hope he didn't hurt her. He has a mean streak a mile wide, one I thought only extended to me.

As kids he would pinch me, pull my hair, break my things. As we got older, he escalated to stealing my pocket money, cutting up my clothes, the odd slap here and there...

The Pakhan gathers himself with a deep breath. "That doesn’t end with apologies. It ends with me putting him in his rightful place."

My father’s jaw tightens. "Well, he obviously isn’t here."

Gennady studies him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. His black shirt is open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up. He came here to work, not for formal pleasantries or business negotiations.

Tonight was only ever going to end one way.

My eyes trace the black ink that starts on his neck and trails down beneath his shirt, reappearing on his right forearm. I find myself wondering what they mean. These twisted symbols that are important enough to be permanently scarred onto his skin.

His eyes land on me. I hold his gaze, keeping my sister against me with one arm and adjusting my night gown with the other. It became trapped under my knee when I fell, and now I’m conscious that the neck is too low, revealing too much of my cleavage beneath a frill of torn white gauze.

I feel the blush creep over my face and silently scold myself for being embarrassed at a time like this.

"Sergei is sneaky," Gennady continues, his eyes returning to my father. "He always has been when he knows he has fucked up. But there’s no way he knew we were coming, so he couldn’t have gotten far."

My father’s face shifts, just slightly. Too slow to hide.

Gennady’s eyes cut back to me like a hand closing around my throat.

"You," he says calmly. "Do you know where he is?"

I feel every gaze in the room snap to me.

"No," my father says sharply. "She doesn’t."

I say nothing, because I know exactly where he is.

The servants’ passage behind the dining room. An old corridor sealed off decades ago, forgotten by everyone except the boy who used it to hide when he broke something, stole something, ruined something, and needed somewhere to wait until the storm passed.

Until I cleaned it up or paid the price.

"Matilda," my mother whispers, pleading. "Tell the Pakhan you don’t know where your brother is."

I look at her, the woman who told me to be patient. To forgive. To keep the peace. Who told me family meant endurance, not fairness and this would only ever be a man’s world.

I look at my father, whose pride always bent around my brother’s failures until they became mine to fix. Who punished me with silences and neglect if I ever dared to stand up for myself.

I look at Katya, and know she will receive the same treatment as I did. That she will always be second best to my brothers, and it breaks my heart.

I feel something cold and quiet settle in my chest.

"No," I say.

My father stares at me. "What?"

"I’m done cleaning up his mess. I’m done paying for his mistakes. I’m done being told this is what family looks like and that I have to be okay with that. I'm done."

"You can’t," my little sister whispers, horrified, pulling away from me with a look of shocked disgust. "We are family."

"If you do this," my father snarls, leaning toward me, "you are no longer a Lazovski."

The words are meant to frighten me, hurt me. But twenty-three years in this house, this family, have hardened me beyond feeling.

I shrug.

"I’m ashamed of the name," I say evenly. "If this is what it costs to be free of it, I’ll pay."

The silence that follows is total.

Then I turn to Gennady.

"I’ll tell you where he is," I say. "And in exchange, you will take me with you."

A flicker of interest sharpens his gaze. "You’re offering yourself in exchange for what, precisely?"

"No, I'm not offering myself." I correct. "I will tell you where Sergei is, and you will take me with you. I’ll work for you and rebuild my life without them." I don’t look back at my family. "Alone. Safe."

My mother lets out a broken sound. My father lunges toward me and is grabbed by one of Gennady’s men.

"You ungrateful little bitch—" he snarls, and I believe in that moment that he hates me. That he would never have felt any other way for me, no matter how hard I tried. I would never be a boy. I would never be his firstborn. I would never be good enough.

Gennady lifts one hand. "Enough," he bellows, his attention snapping back to me. "Tell me."

"The servants’ passage," I reply. "Behind the back wall of the dining room. The third panel from the left opens if you press the top right corner."

He nods once. A man moves immediately.

My father roars. My mother screams Sergei's name like a desperate plea.

The shot rings out before I can process it. Deafening against the silence that only exists in these early morning hours.

My mother collapses forward onto the floor, shrieking as she curls into the fetal position. My father drops back onto his haunches, fury and horror twisting across his face before turning to devastation.

I don’t look toward the sound. I don’t take my eyes from Gennady. We both know he is my only way out. If he leaves me here, I’ll be tortured and left to rot.

That’s the price for betrayal. And I just betrayed my family in the worst possible way.

Gennady closes a firm, unyielding hand around my arm as he lifts me to standing.

"Looks like you’re with me," he says, as he pulls me toward the door.

My family’s voices rise behind us. Rage, grief, betrayal, tearing through the house that once defined everything about me.

The front door slams shut behind us.