Cruel Russian’s Sold Bride (Safin Bratva #5)

Chapter 1 - Avit

“Lev tell you the ladies are coming to the club tonight?” Pyotr asked as he strolled into my office at Drakon, the main nightclub owned by the Safin Bratva faction.

The ‘ladies’ he referred to were our sisters—Mariya and Ninel, the youngest—and our sisters-in-law, Katya, Vera, and Kira. They were married to our three older brothers: Lev, our Pakhan; Jaroslav, his underboss; and Marten, head of training and security for the Safin faction.

I didn’t look up right away. I was halfway through cross-checking a supplier list, and I hated leaving things incomplete.

My younger brother dropped onto the sofa across from my desk, a lazy grin curved his lips. His black hair was slicked back except for the spikes on top, a style that fit his reckless charm.

“I already called in extra security,” I said, glancing in his direction.

He smirked, blue eyes flashing with mischief. “I don't know why Lev told us to handle security when Marten has fifty guys downstairs, gassed up and ready to go.”

I set my pen down, aligning it parallel to the desk’s edge. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

Pyotr shook his head. “I'm not. Shit might’ve cooled off after everything we went through these last three and a half years, but Marten’s not taking chances with his wife.”

Two weeks ago, Marten and Kira finally had their official wedding ceremony. Not before hell broke loose, though. She got shot by some Italian bastard and chased across town.

For more than three years, we’d been at war with Anton Ovechkin, the late grandson of Rafail Ovechkin, Pakhan of one of New York Bratva factions.

Anton and his father, the late Giovanni Rinaldi of the Philadelphia Italian mafia, had made it their mission to destroy us and the Rykov faction, led by Artyom, Ninel’s husband.

His younger brothers Yegor—his underboss—and Zahkar, stood with Artyom through it all, just as we stood by Lev.

During the attacks, we learned the truth about who ordered the hit on our parents. It had come from Rafail himself.

He was already dying of cancer; killing him would’ve been too merciful.

So the founding families of Philadelphia and New York, along with both factions, Safin and Rykov, agreed on his punishment: no medication and permanent house arrest. If he tried to defy it, he’d be tortured for a year before being executed.

After everything we’d endured, and with the women locked down and heavily guarded for years, it wasn’t surprising that they’d convinced their husbands they deserved one night out.

“And I’m sure Artyom will bring more men, too,” Pyotr said, pulling me from my thoughts. “At this rate, there’ll probably be more guards than patrons.”

“And of course, the ladies wouldn’t want us to shut the club down. That wouldn’t give them the party vibes they’re looking for,” I said, matter-of-fact.

“They’re right. If they just wanted to dance, they could do it at home. The club is about atmosphere,” Pyotr said, dramatically leaning back with a grin.

I raised a brow. “Atmosphere or chicks?”

“For me? Both,” he laughed, before his tone turned serious. “Will you be joining us tonight?”

I shook my head. “I still have a few files I need to review.”

“Yeah, but Avit, you’ve been at it for two months straight. You need a break,” Pyotr stated.

I sighed. “Pyotr, you know how things have been. I have catching up to do. If things go off with the books, Lev will have my head.”

“He’d understand. Things have been shaky these past three years,” Pyotr exhaled. “Look, I’m not saying you should get shitfaced and bust those lame-ass dance moves of yours—”

“Hey, my moves aren’t lame….”

Pyotr smiled. “What I am saying is family is important. The ladies would love to see you. Mariya even said, despite living in the same house, she hardly sees you anymore.”

He wasn’t lying. Something about the books still felt off, but I hoped the last of the files would balance everything out. I knew there was no point arguing with Pyotr.

“Fine. I’ll come down and spend some time with everyone, then back to my desk. Happy?”

Pyotr smirked. “Very.”

His phone rang, and after a brief conversation, he pocketed it. “Duty calls. I’ll be across at BlackMark if you need me.”

Marten’s casino, BlackMark, sat right next door to Drakon.

Pyotr walked out, and I refocused on the documents in front of me. Two hours later, something in the two open files caught my eye.

One was the inventory from our Bratva clinics, the other a shipment of pharmaceuticals from Artyom—the same ones he had leveraged for Ninel’s hand in marriage, medications we couldn’t otherwise get.

They included advanced clotting agents, which prevent severe bleeding, specialty pain meds, and fast-acting injectable opioids for extreme trauma pain, rare antibiotics for multidrug-resistant infections, recombinant growth factors and platelet boosters to accelerate tissue repair, and emergency injectables for shock, severe blood loss, anaphylaxis, and acute trauma stabilization.

Two items kept showing up as unaccounted for: injectable opioids and platelet boosters.

I double-checked everything we’d received from Artyom; warehouse records matched perfectly. According to protocol, every vial from a batch should be fully used before moving on to the next. But as I cross-checked the batch numbers and clinic documents, some were never recorded as used.

Even though the attacks had largely stopped, the medication was still disappearing at the same rate. The thief wasn’t exactly smart; they hadn’t changed how much they were stealing.

I was pissed.

As if someone stealing from us wasn't fucking bad enough, it had been going on for over a damn year before I caught it. When Ninel was kidnapped, I took it hard. Things had worked out for her in the end, but I hadn’t been able to forgive Jaroslav—I’d warned him that marrying Vera would trigger the Rykovs, and it had.

That decision had set off a chain that led to Artyom abducting Ninel.

The thought that we could’ve lost her, another member of our family, because of selfish choices, hit harder than anything. Her kidnapping dredged up all the emotions I’d buried after the deaths of our parents, something I blamed myself for.

I remembered the last night with them. I’d wanted Thai food from my favorite restaurant, even tried to sneak out, and Dad caught me.

We argued, Mom intervened, hugged me, and promised to talk to him.

That was the last conversation I had with my parents.

Over and over, I ran through what I could’ve done differently, what I should have done, but nothing changed the fact that they were gone.

He told me I was irresponsible, and he’d expected so much more from me.

To numb the pain, I drank, something I'd never done outside social situations. Eventually, I broke down in front of my brothers. None of them or our sisters blamed me for our parents’ deaths, but their understanding didn’t erase the void or stop my mind from drifting back to it.

I’d carried that guilt for thirteen years; adjusting wouldn’t come overnight.

Now, because I had let my emotions get the better of me, I was faced with this mess.

If my brothers knew someone was stealing from us because of my oversight, they’d have my head and question my competence.

I couldn’t let that happen, not after all I’d done to keep our faction’s finances secure, and not after Dad’s last words to me.

Just then, the office door opened, and Pyotr walked in, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“The ladies are here, and Katya threatened that if you didn’t come out and have some fun, she and the others would come up here to have their shindig.”

I rolled my eyes and chuckled. I loved my sister-in-law, and we were close enough that I knew refusing would only make her more determined. I closed the files, stood, and buttoned my jacket.

“You’ve got me for one hour.”

Pyotr grinned. “We can get a lot done in an hour.”

I followed him out, already planning that the moment the hour was up, I’d return to my desk and track down the traitor in our ranks.

***

Over the next few days, I hit every faction clinic and sifted through hours of footage.

It would’ve been faster to ask Timur Morovoz, our head tech, to pull the clips, but I didn’t want anyone else to know why I was poking around.

I told my brothers I was auditing equipment and staffing; that kept questions to a minimum.

I gave the clinic guards a quiet warning: if anything leaked, there’d be consequences for them and their families.

Minutes morphed into hours in each tiny security room. I watched the same courier route until the pattern spelled a name: Jasper Romonoff. He always showed up with the shipments that contained vials of the missing medications.

Knowing the culprit was one thing, but finding out who the fuck he was supplying to was another.

Based on my calculations, Jasper had stolen just over one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of medication and probably sold it at four or five times the original price.

He was about to find out that crossing the Safin faction was paid in blood, and I was the cashier.

My hands clenched the wheel as I drove to his place.

I had only brought Jasper into the ranks because Liam Hrynin, who'd been loyal to us for seven years with a solid record, had vouched for him.

But something about Jasper had always nagged at the back of my mind.

Desperation to get men during the continuous attacks had pushed me to ignore it.

Now, if I didn’t want my brothers to know about this, I couldn’t confront Liam, either. We ran full searches on every man we hired, but because Jasper came highly recommended, I hadn’t dug deep enough. And now I fucking regretted it.

I pulled up in front of Jasper’s run-down apartment building and took the stairs two at a time.

I didn’t bother to knock. I kicked open the dry, rotted door, my gun already in my hand, then stepped inside, the door slamming behind me.

The place smelled of sweat and cheap cologne.

Jasper was on the sofa, his hand jerking his cock as erotic moans came from the laptop on the coffee table in front of him.

My blue gaze darkened in disgust as he scrambled to cover himself, his eyes wide.

He shot to his feet. “M-Mr. Safin…to what do I owe this pleasure?”

I stalked across the apartment and slammed the butt of the gun into the side of his head. Jasper grunted and went down, blood trickling from his temple.

I kicked him over and planted my foot on his chest, my gun aimed at the space between his eyes.

“Mr. Romonoff, did you think you could steal from my family without anyone finding out?” I growled.

He scrambled for words. “Well…you see…uh…Mr. Safin, it’s a misunderstanding. We can…”

I pushed my foot down harder, my face contorted with rage. He wheezed, caught between gasping for breath and the desperate impulse to push my foot away, an impulse that would get him killed.

“You’re going to give me back the hundred grand worth of medication you stole,” I snapped.

“I—I don’t have it. I sold it. I needed the money,” he panicked, his breath coming in small, fast gasps.

Exactly what I figured. He was supplying someone else. I knew asking him who it was would be futile; he'd probably lie. I needed to be smart about it. I needed the name or names above Jasper. Killing the weasel before he led me to who he was supplying would be stupid.

I slammed my shoe into his ribs, and he cried out.

“You telling me we don’t pay you enough, Mr. Romonoff? Fine. Tell me what you needed the money for.”

“For my kid. To send her to college.”

A cold laugh died in my throat. He had a fucking kid?

I replanted my foot onto his chest and leaned over, forearm braced on my knee. “How the fuck is that my problem? You give me the medication, or you give me my hundred grand.”

“H-how about I make a deal?” he panted.

“I don’t make deals with traitors. You got five seconds to cough up the cash or the meds, or your brain will decorate the floor.”

“My daughter…she’s pretty. She’s a good girl. A virgin. Take her as payment,” he pleaded.

My lips pressed into a thin line. Did this motherfucker just try to use his daughter as a get-out-of-debt card? And how the fuck did he know if she was a virgin or not?

I kicked him again, and he winced as he coughed up blood.

“You really think your daughter’s worth anything to me, a Safin heir, Romonoff?”

“Men like you want submissive, untouched girls who make good wives. Trust me, she's worth something,” he said, desperation seeping into his voice.

Was Jasper offering his daughter because he thought I wanted an obedient little doll who’d bow to my every command?

Or was this his pathetic attempt to buy trust, banking on me being more civilized than my older brothers and not taking him up on his deal?

Maybe he was just using her as leverage, buying himself time to come up with the money.

But the more I thought about it, the more anger surged through my veins. Men like Jasper didn't deserve children. I pressed my foot deeper into his chest and watched his lips start to turn blue.

Knowing that he'd offer his daughter like she's a piece of fucking property confirmed that he was a piece of shit, and I should've trusted my gut the first time I met this fucking weasel.

I stepped back and watched him gulp air.

“If you tell anyone I came here, I'll kill you and your daughter, got it?” I snarled as I grabbed his T-shirt and pulled him towards me.

He nodded, and I slammed the gun butt into his head, knocking him out before I stormed out.

I made my way home, glad Mariya hadn’t returned yet. I went into the office and did a deep dive on Jasper.

Sure enough, there was a daughter: Sienna Romonoff.

Just in case Jasper was stupid enough to open his mouth about what happened in his apartment, I needed everything on him that I could use to blackmail him and keep him under my thumb.

One thing was certain: if Jasper would strike a deal with me for his daughter, he’d strike one with someone else if I refused the deal. Better she be with me than sold to some animal who would hurt her.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I had already regretted many things in my life, and I knew if I didn't take this deal from Jasper, it would be the biggest one.