Dark Bratva Christmas (Savage Mafia Empire #1)

Prologue Matysh

Fuck, my little brother’s getting a seksual’nyy (sexy) wife.

My eyes rake over the curve of Catarina’s tiny little waist, her round ass, and the way the white lace reeks of an innocence that needs to be ruined.

And even from a hundred feet away, I’m still certain I’d like to be the one to do it.

Not because I feel anything for her—or any woman for that matter—but because she’s the kind of woman you fuck once, just to say you did. Just to see how she sounds when she falls apart beneath you.

But she’s always been off-limits. The daughter of Boris Petrov—the Pakhan of our biggest rival. Which only makes me want to taste her even more. There’s something about forbidden fruit that I just can’t get enough of.

My cock throbs against my zipper as I imagine pinning her to the wall—her wrists bound, my hands gripping her hips, ramming my cock in and out of her until she’s whimpering and begging for me to let her cum.

God, I bet she’d look so pretty with tears running down her face.

I’d bury my fingers in that honey-blonde hair, feel her lips wrap around my cock…taste her until she’s trembling.

Or until my loving brother put a lead round between my eyes.

You know, since she’s his now. I frown at that, mostly because I don’t understand the point of being tied down to one pussy forever—but my brother claims love as loud as he does business in this deal.

And that’s a fucking weakness.

“Matysh.”

My body stiffens when I hear my name called, my mind ripped right back to reality.

I drag in a breath and shove the thoughts aside. I turn around to see my father standing in the doorway, sauntering toward me with his own rugged swagger. He leans heavily against his cane, and I purse my lips at the sight.

He looks old now, older than I ever thought he would be.

But hell, even I’m getting old at forty-three.

“Planning on joining the party any time soon?” my father asks as he rests a frail hand on my shoulder.

A breath escapes his lips as he leans against the railing, and I don’t miss the way he winces, nor the way he points toward Mikhail and Catarina, sharing some sort of slow dance.

Everyone stands around, nursing their expensive champagne and pretending to give a damn.

Like it’s not just business.

And on that fact alone, my blood starts to boil in my veins.

“Are you really okay with this?” I meet his icy gaze, gripping the champagne flute tighter, feeling how my numb fingers dig into the edges of the crystal adornments.

“There comes a time when you must accept change. There are many threats in the city to worry about on top of the Petrovs.” He pauses and shifts his body with another painful groan, looking out at the flowing river.

I watch as his eyes scan the party boats and houses nearby, decked out for Christmas already at the beginning of November.

Holidays are a goddamn waste of time and money.

My father brings his attention back to me, fatigue evident in the lines around his face. “The bloodshed between our families had to end eventually. Why not let love be the reason?”

“Lyubov’ zhestoka, mozhno polyubit’ dazhe kozu (Love is cruel, you can even fall in love with a goat),” I say, sparking a smile from my father, though I feel devoid of any humor at all.

“Sometimes love itself is irrational, Matysh. Someday you’ll learn that.” My father lets out a laugh, one very opposite of mine.

“I never took you as a romantic,” I scoff, shaking my head and letting the conversation die as his frown deepens.

He gets the irony. Because if I had a nickel for every time I heard my father issue a command to an avtoritet (authority) to kill an enemy's loved ones, then I wouldn’t need to be in this business.

And the bodies at the bottom of this river can attest to that.

“You think I may have gotten weak in my old age,” he mutters. “But this alliance could mean the start of something new. Something that allows us to expand rather than just defend.”

I drain my champagne. “I think I’d rather defend for the rest of my life than share a bed with the Petrovs.” Officially, anyway. I’d fuck one just to say I did.

Footsteps on the rustic wooden slats catch my attention, and I turn to see Mikhail, in the flesh, approaching the two of us with a big smile.

“Look, I know you two take your jobs very seriously, but we're celebrating here.

I'd love it if my brother and father could integrate with the rest of the party. Consider that my wedding present.”

I cock a brow. “Wedding presents? For the enemy?”

Mikhail glares at me. “Don’t be a huylo (dickhead).”

“Says the man who fucked three women at once only a month ago,” I shoot back. “Tell me, bratik (brother), how does one suddenly become so…prude in such a short amount of time?”

“Matysh,” my father warns, but my brother waves him off.

“Forgive him, Father,” Mikhail retorts, “He just hasn’t learned what real love can actually do to a man.”

“Oh yes,” I snort, unable to hide my wicked grin. “Real love, or as some might prefer to label it, good pussy. It makes a man weak, gives the enemy a clear shot—”

My father clears his throat, cutting me off and pushing off the railing. “I think this will be good for all of us.” He wraps his arm protectively around my brother, and together they head toward the wedding party.

I stare at their backs, my mind running through the deal with Catarina’s father and the allegiance that we’re supposed to be forging. Marriage means producing an heir, and for a moment, my imagination conjures up the image of Catarina, heavy with my brother’s child in her womb.

I quickly push that away.

We all come to a stop in the doorway and look at the party before us, Catarina in the center, dancing with her soft pink lips pulled into a wide smile. Her pale skin is luminous as she moves, like she’s truly glowing with joy.

Takaya naivnaya devochka (Such a na?ve girl).

Her long blonde hair is tied back in a braid adorned with blue flowers, perfectly matching her eyes. The party dress hangs loose on her body, showing off her soft, delectable curves. She’s petite with an hourglass figure begging to be touched.

She’s a vision. My brother’s vision.

And speaking of, maybe I shouldn’t be so goddamned hard on him. He’s got a big enough lesson coming once he’s the son-in-law of Boris Petrov. I’ll torture him with that after we get through this night.

“There's still time to run, you haven't signed the certificate yet,” I say as I clap Mikhail on the shoulder. He laughs and shakes his head.

“Bratik (Brother), I've never been so sure about anything in my life.” Mikhail takes a deep breath and looks out at the party before him. “Sometimes, when you know, you know.”

“Emphasis on the sometimes,” I mutter. My eyes sweep the crowd, pausing on both familiar and unfamiliar faces alike. Despite the outwardly jovial celebration, the tension simmers in the background.

Mikhail and Catarina were never meant to be together.

He’s a Volkov and she’s a Petrov. Our families have been at war with each other for decades.

Mikhail was only supposed to keep an eye on her after Boris Petrov ordered a hit on one of our cousins.

He was never supposed to engage with her, much less get engaged.

Mikhail and my father might think this union will wash away decades of bad blood between our families, but I don't think it'll be that easy. Not to mention, the other powerful families—the Morozovs and the much unwanted Italian-Russian mutts, the Vitales—are pacing their floors.

Or plotting to destroy us.

All the while, Mikhail and Catarina spent weeks preparing her dream wedding. Two hundred people all crowded around the reception hall, helping themselves to an array of hors d'oeuvres and pastries, with non-stop champagne and vodka flowing through the room.

Catarina turns and looks at my brother, giving him a small wave and gesturing for him to come closer. Mikhail looks at me, smiles, then walks away.

Happy bastard.

“Dance with me,” a sultry voice hits my ears at the moment fingers wrap around my thick wrist. I turn to see one of Catarina's bridesmaids, a drunk cousin named Irina, clinging to my arm.

“No.” I rip my arm from her grip, ignoring the way her gray eyes light up with annoyance. There’s not a single Petrov woman used to hearing the word no. But I’ll be damned if they don’t hear it from me.

“You’re as cold as they say,” Irina sneers up at me, tipping her chin upward as her blonde hair spills down her back. “It’s always the most handsome ones who are fucking devils.”

I grin. “I’d hardly call that an insult.” But the words don’t make it to Irina, as the PA system kicks on with a buzz, and the music suddenly stops.

“Catarina and I want to thank all of you for coming out here tonight and celebrating with us,” Mikhail says into the microphone, grabbing Catarina around the waist and holding her close. She laughs and drunkenly pushes a few strands of hair out of her face.

“We know this is...unorthodox to say the least. But we can't tell you how much we appreciate your support,” Catarina adds, her voice cracking as she holds a hand to her chest and stares out at everybody on the dance floor with a warm smile. “It means the world to us.”

Uh huh, okay. I have to bite back a smirk. This whole thing is fucking ludicrous.

My brother takes back the mic. “When I met this woman, my entire world changed. I know this is a brand new chapter for not only us, but everybody here tonight.” Mikhail gestures with his hands, highlighting the two sides of the room filled with Petrovs and Volkovs, most still not mingling with one another.

“With our marriage, there can finally be peace.”

“With that being said, it’s time for the final piece.” Catarina smiles, looking out at the crowd and expecting cheers. She gets very little, and for a moment—a split moment—her smile falters.

“I've got the certificate,” Boris Petrov speaks up, his voice booming across the ballroom.

Catarina hurries off the stage, making her way toward her father. However, I watch Mikhail as he stares at her, his eyes watching her with both admiration and a protectiveness I've never seen from him before.

And then the floor subtly shakes beneath my feet.

What the…

But I can’t finish my thought as the glass behind Mikhail shatters, and he whips his head around just in time to be sent flying backward as the explosion blasts through the room.

I feel the force of it threatening to knock me off my feet, but I’m too far back to be downed. The crowd in front of me starts to scatter toward the exit, and I fight against the flow, rushing in the opposite direction.

All I care about is getting to my brother, who lays in a heap on the fucking floor.

I don’t register the bodies of the other people standing close to the stage, the band members on the ground by their instruments, groaning and limp on the floor. The only thing I see is Mikhail.

I hear screaming around me, but it's muffled, unintelligible.

“Mikhail!” I shout, landing on the ground beside him, glass digging into my knees as I turn his face to look at me. His eyes are fluttering shut, his mouth parted as he mumbles something under his breath.

“Stay with me!” I slap his cheek to keep his eyes open, my chest growing tight. “Don’t you fucking die, huylo (dickhead).”

I can't lose him. I can lose anyone else, but not him. Not my brother.

I try to lift him up, but he groans, fighting against me.

“Stop,” Mikhail grits, his voice breathy with pain as his arm flies toward his abdomen. It's then that I look down and see it. Wedged in the center of his chest is a large piece of metal, a wall support of some sort. Blood oozes from the wound and pools on the tile floor underneath him.

I’m losing him.

And it’s her goddamn fault, for luring him in on the promise of love.

The wind howls through the broken glass, and a haze of snow blows in and lands on Mikhail’s face.

And suddenly, I hate Catarina Petrov.

Mikhail closes his eyes with a sharp wince, his chin quivering. When he looks back at me, I see the fear in his eyes, and it shatters something inside me. My little brother, whom I’ve defended all my life with my words, my position, and, literally, my body, is bleeding out.

“No... Ne ukhodi ot menya (Don’t leave me).”

“Matysh,” Mikhail whispers, his hand gripping my arm with as much strength as he can muster. “Take care of her. Please.”

I shake my head, anger rolling through my body. “No. I won't have to because you're going to. And she caused this. She lured you in—”

“Shut up,” he cuts me off with a pained growl. “Listen to me. Obeshchay mne, brat, chto budesh' khranit' yeyo kak sem'yu (Promise me, brother, that you will protect her like family).”

I fucking hate her, but even still, I don't think about the consequences of what I'm saying as my brother lies in my arms, taking his last breath. If his dying wish is for me to protect the woman, so be it.

“Obeshcháyu (I promise).”