Forced to Marry the Russian Bratva (Yuri Bratva Brides #2)

Chapter 1 - Valentin

God, why the hell do stakeouts have to be so damn boring?

I’ve been sitting in this car for over three hours straight, and with the sun on high today and the air-conditioning acting out, I feel like I’m burning up in an oven.

Can’t even have the windows down because the black tint is all that keeps me from being seen.

I remind myself to tell my darling brother Trifon that he needs to sign off on a new Mercedes for all the shit he makes me pull.

He doesn’t trust our younger brothers with a responsibility as large as overseeing this operation, and as his second-in-command, I don’t question when an order has been given.

I don’t mind doing these stake-outs. To protect my family, I’d walk through hell itself.

But I’d rather do it in a nicer ride.

I love this car, but it’s clearly paid its dues. With any other owner, she would have stayed a beast. But I’ve run it ragged through all the chases I’ve given and escaped from.

From where I sit, I have the perfect view of the Zakharovs’ building.

Though, of course, those bastards think we don’t know who it truly belongs to.

But we’ve got the mightier reach, and it took a week of solid spying to trace this little asset, which they believe to be tucked away in plain sight on the streets of Boston, right back to them.

The Zakharovs have always been creative with their fronts. We've been watching them for over a month now, waiting for them to make a move. They've been trying to form alliances with smaller factions, including with his wife Yulia’s family, with whom they were once in talks.

But Trifon and Yulia shut that down quickly, thank god.

For now, the Zakharovs look like they’re lying low. But I know they’re real slime balls. Watching their business isn’t just business, but personal.

Just last winter, they pushed onto our docks and killed our captain in cold blood, all to steal a crate of shipment that wasn’t even worth the dirt beneath their shoe.

This rivalry goes back generations, when our grandfather won a territory they’d been eyeing.

Since then, in their thirst for gaining power on our ground, they’ve killed a whole graveyard of our men, and we’re done leaving their crimes unpunished.

It’s only a matter of time before they bring trouble to our door again. That’s why Trifon has me doing these stake-outs. But lately, I find myself faltering in my line of duty. I’m supposed to be watching our enemies, but somewhere along the way, I’ve grown distracted.

Through my binoculars, I can see everything—the revolving door, the elderly security guard who occasionally dozes off, and most importantly, when she finally decides to leave.

“Anything on the back entrance?” I mutter into the radio, getting bored with the wait. Every day, we stake out a different location—a warehouse, a factory, a hideout, an office. But time and time again, I find myself drawn back here.

I tell Trifon it’s essential. The truth? I don’t fucking know. It might be something. Might be nothing. But she’s here…

“Nothing yet, boss. Just the usual lunch deliveries,” Dmitri informs me.

I grunt and sign out, and my eyes never leave the main entrance. My shirt sticks to my back in the afternoon heat. The car's temperature gauge reads 88, but it feels like a damn sauna in here.

I check my watch again. Gela Jones is a creature of habit, and if the pattern holds, she should be walking out those doors any minute now. The thought alone makes me sit up and wonder where the hell she might be.

“We've got movement on the third floor,” one of my guys tunes in on the radio. “Looks like they're setting up that new co-working space. A lot of fancy furniture coming in.”

“What fucking assholes,” I hiss back. “How many people have they suckered into leasing this building, you think?”

“Three new companies this month. They’re mostly tech startups run by clueless kids.”

The Zakharovs are total assholes to tie up innocent businesses while running drugs through the basement.

Yeah, we’re all criminals in this world, but even we have honor.

What the Zakharovs are doing is what even the scum in our world won’t.

He’s involving civilians, setting them up.

If Anton Zakharov's drugs are ever caught in there, he’ll make every tenant liable and reduce his fucking jail time.

It sounds impossible, doesn’t it? The tenants will, of course, claim innocence, and maybe even have solid proof. But the evidence won’t matter when the judges and prosecutors eat right out of Anton’s palms.

I reach for the radio now and put on some music to kill the boredom. But just as my hand brushes against the knob, the doorman opens the door, and I catch sight of light brown hair that almost looks blonde in the sunlight.

I sit up so fast I almost hit my head on the roof of the car.

It’s her.

I bring the binoculars up again, my hands shaking. God, what is it about her that makes my heart race so?

She has no idea I exist. No idea I'm watching. No idea what kind of building she walks into every day.

Gela Jones steps out into the sunlight, and I find myself holding my breath. Today, she’s got on a far-too-sheer white blouse that’s all the rage now, and she runs a hand down her navy pencil skirt that hugs curves I've committed to memory.

Even from this distance, I can tell she's smiling at something on her phone. God, her dimples light up her whole, entire face.

But even then, despite being occupied, she gives the guard a friendly, clumsy wave with her busy hands that earns her a beam. She always does that. Never forgets to treat those around her with respect.

Four weeks ago, when I first came here, that was one of the main things I noticed about her.

She had walked up to the building that morning with two coffee cups in her hand, but instead of passing through, she stopped and chatted with the guard.

She passed him one of the cups and spent a solid three minutes, when she probably had work to get to.

No one has time for shit like that in Corporate America.

Except Gela Jones, apparently.

The radio comes on. “You seeing this, boss?”

“Uh-huh. I see her,” I answer, half-absent.

“Not the girl. The black SUV is coming up from the north.”

I reluctantly shift my gaze. Sure enough, a black Escalade with tinted windows idles at the corner. Zakharov's men, no doubt.

“Keep an eye on it,” I order, but my attention has already returned to Gela.

She's paused on the steps, rummaging through that absurdly large bag she carries. What the hell does she keep in there anyway? I've seen her pull out everything from spare shoes to a large make-up bag.

This time, it's a small bag of cat food.

She crouches down on those gorgeous legs, folding them beneath her, and I watch with bated breath as she empties kibble into a disposable coffee cup for the mangy stray that haunts the building entrance.

I've seen her do this before. She never forgets that cat.

A woman who feeds stray cats is working in a building owned by men who wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in her head if it served their purpose. And for some reason, it fills me with rage.

Anton Zakharov. He’s playing with people like Gela, and the thought of him potentially harming her makes me want to gut him alive. To be honest, I don’t know why I care. It’s not like me to watch over a woman I don’t fucking know. Hell, I can’t even remember the names of some I’ve taken on dates.

I know it’s not right. But I never said I’m perfect.

It’s just, with work being as hectic as it is, with our operations taking me nationwide and cross-continent, I’ve never had the time to find permanence in a woman.

I enjoy them, of course. I love their company and dazzling smiles, but I’ve never remembered the little details, like how they like their coffee or the color of their eyes.

Brown. Gela’s are brown.

Right now, I'm transfixed by the way Gela's hair falls across her face as she leans forward to stroke the cat's head. The animal arches into her touch, and I feel a godforsaken stab of jealousy toward a fucking stray.

This has gotten pathetic. When I first started overseeing the Zakharovs, I came here out of routine. I found it boring, at best. Until I saw her for the first time, rushing through the revolving door as she tried to juggle it with her bag and phone, her skirt was deliciously tight.

I should have looked away and tried to keep my eyes out for trouble, but something about her caught my attention, and now I can't seem to look away.

“Hey, boss,” a voice crackles through the radio again. “We're coming up on shift change. You want us to stay longer or—”

“I'll handle it,” I cut him off. “Get back to headquarters and brief Trifon. Tell him I'm following a lead.”

There's a pause on the other end. “A lead on what exactly?”

“Just do as I say,” I snap, then soften my tone. “I'll check in later.”

This is unprofessional. Dangerous, even.

If Trifon knew I was out here, risking our operation for a girl who doesn’t even know I exist, he’d take me off this mission immediately.

I wouldn’t blame him, but my mind’s a mess.

On one hand, I want to be the one to help bring the Zakharovs down.

On the other hand, my mind keeps wandering.

I know better than to lose my focus while I work, but here I am once again, watching a girl as American as can be, standing and brushing cat hair off her clothes.

She's not even my usual type. I tend to go for the kind of women who understand the game—models, socialites, women who know exactly what they're getting into with a man like me. A night or two of mutual pleasure, no strings, no expectations.

But Gela Jones is something else entirely. Genuine. Innocent. Completely oblivious to the dangerous world that surrounds her in that building.

To her, it’s just her workplace. She’s worked hard.

At twenty-four, she’s taken the leap and done things men my age, men in their wretched forties, are afraid to.

She started her own thing—a social media marketing agency for start-ups.

She worked for a year after graduating from college, then applied what she learned to herself.

Last I checked, which was just three nights ago, to be honest, she’s got a team of six and her annual revenue is in the six figures.

Not bad, for a woman so young.

I know I have no business knowing this about her. But after that first day, I had her thoroughly investigated. I couldn’t help it.

She’s also had no serious relationships in the last two years. That last piece of information shouldn't have pleased me as much as it did.

I watch her walk away and turn left to take her usual route to the coffee shop three blocks over, where she spends her lunch breaks most days.

She always sits at a table by the window. She loves herself a turkey sandwich.

The moment she goes out of sight, my heart strings like it needs to follow. I don’t even think; I just go on autopilot.

I put the car in drive and pull out, keeping a careful distance. This has become my ritual. Watch her walk to lunch, circle the block, park again, and wait for her to return to the office.

It's pathetic, this fixation, but I can't seem to help myself. It’s crazy, I know.

But there's something mesmerizing about watching someone who has no idea they're being watched. I can see her for who she truly is, and so far, I haven’t found a goddamn fault.

Except maybe how she always has her phone trapped between her ear and shoulder while she walks and carries that huge-ass bag in both her hands because of how heavy it is at times.

This habit of hers seems dangerous to me.

She’s doing it again. Crossing the street like that.

She should invest in some earbuds. Or at least pay more attention to her surroundings. Boston isn't exactly known for its safety, even in the business district. And with her working in a Zakharov building...

The thought of her being in that lair sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine.

I pull into an empty spot near the café and watch as she enters. Through the window, I can see her order.

I should be watching the building. I’m so sick of following her around that I made a decision. Impulsive. Spur of the moment.

It feels like it’s time to see if this fascination holds up to reality.