Gilded in Blood (Bratva Bloodlines #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Milana

The cell smells like piss and regret.

“First time?”

I look up at the sound of the voice. The blonde woman is watching me, legs crossed like she’s completely at home here.

I hesitate. “Is it that obvious?”

She snorts. “You’ve checked that door more times in five minutes than I’ve checked my ex-husband’s messages in a year.”

A reluctant laugh slips out before I can stop it.

I’m still pressed into the corner of the cold concrete bench, arms wrapped around myself. It doesn’t help. The chill seeps straight through my jacket, through the thin fabric of my dress, and settles deep in my bones.

“Relax,” the brunette adds from the opposite bench, not even looking up. “You’ll be out soon enough if it’s your first time.”

I let out a breath. This is not how my night was supposed to end. A few hours ago, I’d been laughing with Sarah about finally letting loose after a brutal week of lectures and assignments. Then everything went wrong.

“What are you in for?” the brunette asks suddenly.

I glance at her. Smudged eyeliner, bored eyes, like this place is just another stop in her routine.

“I broke a bottle over a guy’s head,” I say. “He was trying to drag my friend into the bathroom at a club.”

That gets their attention.

The blonde leans forward slightly. “Good on you, love. Some men need to be taught.”

I shrug, even though my stomach tightens at the memory. “He didn’t understand no.”

No means no. It should be simple.

It wasn’t simple for him.

It still isn’t simple for people like him.

The brunette finally looks at me properly. “American?”

I nod.

“Tourist?” the blonde asks.

I manage a small, dry smile. “Student. Criminal law, actually. Irony’s not lost on me.”

I shift on the bench, trying to get comfortable, and shrug off my blazer because my legs are getting cold. I drape it over my legs.

The blonde’s eyes widen a little when she sees my dress properly. “Bloody hell, that dress is nice. Real nice. Designer?”

I glance down at the expensive fabric clinging to my skin and shrug one shoulder. “Something like that.”

She whistles low. “I’d kill for a dress like that.”

I look down at the dress again. When I'd thrown it on tonight, I hadn't thought much of it. It was just another dress. One of many hanging in my closet.

“You can only afford a dress like that in your dreams,” the brunette says, laughing.

“Unfortunately, I’m broke in my dreams too,” she responds, and they both burst into laughter.

As they laugh, I watch them. To me, this dress is ordinary. To her, it's something worth dreaming about. I can't remember the last time I looked at a piece of clothing and wished for it.

Maybe because I've never had to. The realization leaves a strange taste in my mouth. There are so many things I've always considered normal that someone else might see as a luxury.

“You don’t look like the type who ends up in here,” the blonde says when she finally stops laughing.

A tired laugh escapes me. “Yeah, well… tonight proved otherwise.”

She smiles. “Well, I think you did the right thing. Men who can’t take no for an answer deserve a bottle to the skull. Or worse.”

The brunette nods, lighting a cigarette she somehow smuggled in. “Aren’t all men like that, though? Is there actually any bloke out there who hears ‘no’ and fucking listens?”

I look at them, saying nothing. My mind drifts to my brothers, Artyom and Mikhail. To Calina’s husband, Maxim, who looks at my sister like she hung the moon and stars. I know what evil men look like. I grew up with one for a father.

But I also know there are men who respect a woman’s choice, who dote on their wives, who protect instead of destroy. I don’t say any of that. It would sound naive in here, privileged.

Instead, I just watch them, the cheap, worn dresses, the smudged makeup, the exhaustion etched into their faces, and wonder what their lives have been like. There’s a kind of weariness that doesn’t come from one bad night. It comes from a pattern.

They look like hookers. The thought slips in before I can stop it. Only God knows the type of men they’ve been exposed to. Did they stop saying no at some point because it stopped changing anything?

Why are they here? Did they try to defend themselves like I did Sarah? I’m about to ask what they’re in for when heavy footsteps echo down the hall.

“Milana Morozov!” the guard barks, rattling the bars. “Bail’s paid. You’re free to go.”

Relief floods me so fast my knees almost buckle. I push to my feet, smoothing my dress and shrugging my blazer back on properly. “Thank you,” I tell the women, offering them a genuine smile. “Take care of yourselves, okay? I hope you get out soon, too.”

The blonde waves lazily. “Stay out of trouble, rich girl.”

I step out of the cell, my heart heavier as I think about the women and the hand life has dealt them. I shrug off the thought, remembering Mikhail’s words: “You can’t help everyone, Milana.”

Sarah must have come through. She was probably panicking the whole time. I collect my purse, phone, and the rest of my things, signing whatever forms they shove at me without really reading them.

The station lights feel too bright after the dim cell. I push through the front doors into the cool Manchester night, scanning the street for my roommate’s familiar face.

No Sarah.

Strange. I turn in a slow circle, heels clicking on the pavement, but the sidewalk is mostly empty except for a couple of late-night stragglers. I pull out my phone to call her, and my stomach drops when I see dozens of missed calls from my brothers. Mostly from Mikhail.

Shit.

My brothers hate it when they can’t reach me. It was one of the few conditions they all agreed to when I begged to study in England: I stay available. Twenty-four seven. No excuses.

When I got the admission to study at the University of Manchester, my brothers refused at first. Said it was too far. Too unsafe. Too many things that could go wrong with me that far from home.

In the end, they only agreed after a lot of persuasion from me and my elder sister Calina, and even then, it came with conditions. I come home for every break and holiday. I answer their calls. Always. No excuses.

My brothers mean well. I know they do. I love them for it. But their protection often feels like a cage––choking, overbearing. Sometimes they act like I’m something fragile that will break if they look away for too long.

Manchester has given me space to breathe.

To be Milana without the constant Morozov weight pressing down on me.

Room to exist without someone watching every step I take or deciding what’s safe before I’ve even had a chance to think for myself.

Room to make my own mistakes… like smashing a glass over an asshole’s head.

Trying to come up with an excuse for why I missed their calls, I decide to call Mikhail back first. I would rather deal with him than Artyom. He answers on the first ring.

“Milana.” His voice is low, sharp, the kind of calm that means he’s furious. “What the fuck?!”

I wince at the harshness in his voice. “Good to hear from you, too, brother.”

He ignores my sass. “What the hell were you thinking? First, you’re at a damn club in the middle of the night, and then you get yourself arrested?”

Shit. How did he find out about that? “I… uh, it’s not what you think.”

“Oh, really? Go on then, tell me what it is. Explain to me why you were in a club when you were supposed to be in your room, either reading or sleeping.”

I roll my eyes. Listening to my brother, one would think he’s a saint. It’s not like I went to a strip club. “Last I checked, there’s no law against going to clubs, besides it’s the weekend.”

“But there’s one against smashing bottles on a man’s head! When did you become violent?”

“He asked for it. Did Sarah tell you what he did? Surely you didn’t expect me to do nothing.”

He lets out a long, exhausted breath on the other end. ‘You’re supposed to be the good sister! The quiet one. The one who doesn’t end up needing bail at two in the morning. What exactly has gotten into you in Manchester?”

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. I keep walking slowly down the street, hoping to get a cab, phone pressed to my ear, letting his lecture wash over me like background noise.

Calina’s the outspoken one, the firecracker who says exactly what she thinks. Me? I’ve always been quieter. Reserved. People, my family included, sometimes mistake that for timidity or weakness. And I let them.

He keeps going, barely pausing for breath. “This is not why you’re in England. You’re supposed to be studying, not out causing trouble. Right now you should be in your bed, safe, not sitting in some freezing cell like a common criminal—”

I tune him out, focusing instead on the cold night air biting at my bare legs. The expensive dress feels even more ridiculous out here. After a solid minute of him ranting, I yawn loudly into the phone.

“Mikhail… are you done? Because I’d really like to go home and get some of that rest you mentioned.”

He makes a frustrated sound. “Done? No, I’m not done. Stop acting like this is nothing! Do you realize the gravity of what you did? What would have happened to you if I didn’t have someone to come bail you out?”

“Stop shouting,” I drawl. “It’s not like I killed the guy. He deserved it. I know you’ve killed men for less.”

I’m no stranger to what goes on in the Bratva. My brothers torture and kill men they feel deserve it all the time. I just happen to have borrowed a little leaf from their book tonight.

Mikhail groans, the sound long and pained. “God, what am I going to do with you?”

A small, satisfied smile tugs at my lips. “How did you know I was behind bars, anyway? Talking about bailing me out like you’ve got a whole extraction team on standby.”

“Sarah called me,” he says, still irritated. “Crying, completely hysterical.”

I roll my eyes again, harder this time. Sarah. We’ve had this conversation before. She needs to stop running straight to my brothers every time something goes sideways. I love her, but she panics too easily.

“Thankfully,” Mikhail continues, “I already had someone in England who could handle it quickly. He’s there to take you home, to the States.”

My steps slow. “Take me home? Why?”

The connection starts breaking up badly, his voice cutting in and out. “—Ilya… sent him… bail… dorm…”

“Mikhail.”

I walk a little further down the street, lifting the phone and turning in a slow circle, trying to catch better signal. “Mikhail? Hello? I didn’t catch that—why am I going home? Who did you send?”

Static fills the line again, and then the call drops completely. I pull the phone from my ear and stare at the screen, muttering a curse under my breath as I keep walking, trying to find even a bar of signal.

My heel catches awkwardly on the curb, and I stumble forward, almost face-planting right in front of a sleek, expensive-looking sports car parked at the curb.

Black, low-slung, the kind of machine that looks like it costs more than most people’s houses.

Its headlights are narrowed like eyes in the dark, as if it’s watching me.

But the car isn’t what holds my attention.

Leaning against the driver’s side is a man. A very tall man. Broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his dark tactical jacket, powerful arms crossed over a wide chest, legs casually crossed at the ankles. Dark hair, sharp, hard features, and an aura of pure danger.

If someone had asked me to describe the perfect “tall, dark, and handsome man ” he would be it. The kind of man who makes the air feel thinner.

Our eyes meet.

His gaze is intense, piercing, like he’s looking straight through my skin and into every secret I’ve ever kept. From where I stand, I can’t quite make out the true color of his eyes. For a second, it steals my breath. Heat crawls up my neck.

I should maybe say something polite, turn around, and go find whoever my brother actually sent. But his stare pins me in place, and my brain seems to have lost any connection to my mouth.

He speaks first, voice low and rough. “Was the prison cell so comfortable you didn’t want to leave anymore?”

I blink, momentarily stunned. “Huh?”

He uncrosses his arms slowly. “I’ve been waiting. You were bailed out a while ago. What took you so long? Having a beauty treatment in there or something?”

The sarcasm snaps me out of my daze. I straighten my spine, tilting my head as I study him. “Wait… excuse me. Who are you?”

He pushes off the car with lazy confidence and walks around to the passenger side. The door opens with a soft click. “Ilya,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. “Your brothers sent me to get you. I’m the one who bailed you out.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. This is him? The person Mikhail was talking about on the phone? I glance at the low-slung sports car, then back at the mountain of a man standing beside it.

“We should get going. Get in.”

I’m supposed to climb into that tiny space with him? This walking weapon who looks like he could snap someone in half without breaking a sweat… and who somehow makes my pulse race just by existing?

I’m not easily stunned. I grew up around plenty of Bratva men, and I’ve seen more than enough good-looking ones. None of them ever fazed me. But right now, my brain feels a little short-circuited.