Married to My Sis's Bratva Fiancé (Mafia Daddies & Bratva Bosses #1)

Chapter 1

Elena

"Isabella, I'm honored to be your future husband." For once, a faint smile tugged at the corner of Kiryan's mouth as he looked at the woman in front of him. "I can't think of anyone more fit to be Mrs. Morozova."

That low, magnetic voice used to make my heart kick. Now it stabbed straight through it.

I stayed tucked in the corner, watching the two of them under the spotlight like I deserved the hurt.

"Marrying you is my honor, too. I love you, Kiryan." Isabella laughed and threw herself into his arms.

She went up on her toes, aiming for his cheek. He dipped his head and caught her on the mouth.

The ballroom erupted. Someone whistled. Others laughed and shouted for another kiss—something deeper.

"Seamus, you're a lucky man. A daughter and a son-in-law like that?" One of my father's partners patted him on the shoulder not far away. "Kiryan is the youngest Bratva Pakhan in years."

"Isabella has never disappointed me." My father couldn't hide his grin even if he tried. "Her being with a man like Kiryan is good for both our families."

Everyone kept congratulating Kiryan and Isabella. They would get married like it was the most natural thing in the world. They would have kids.

Bitterness crawled through my whole body. I lifted my glass and realized it was empty. I couldn't even remember when I finished it. A server passed by, and I snagged another. The champagne bubbles hit my tongue—sweet, and somehow still bitter.

Onstage, Kiryan still held Isabella close. His hand was big enough to wrap around most of her waist. More than once, I'd wondered what that hand would feel like on me.

I had always liked him—Kiryan Morozov, from the first second I saw him. But the person he loved was Isabella, my sister.

Isabella had been my father's pride, the one who actually looked like a Rossi daughter.

She moved like she was born a princess—beautiful, blinding, every gesture polished and expensive.

I looked plain. Freckles covered my cheeks.

Even stuffed into an overpriced gown that night, I still felt like I'd shown up in the wrong clothes.

I wasn't like her. I should've known better.

The alcohol slid into my stomach and twisted me up. The burn up my throat kept reminding me I shouldn't have been there.

I didn't know how many glasses I'd had. By the time I looked up again, Kiryan and Isabella were gone. Guests stood in little clusters, talking. The blessings were over. Now it was business.

And I could finally leave.

"Elena."

I hadn't even turned before my father stepped into my path. "Look at you."

His gray-white hair was combed perfectly. His suit sat razor-sharp on his frame. The look alone proved how much that engagement party mattered to him.

The Morozov family's status in New York didn't need explaining. And Kiryan—within a few years of taking over the Bratva—had built his own gray-market empire. Using a daughter's marriage to hook a family like that had always been my father's rule for expansion.

"You look like a drunk off the street." He pointed at my face, voice low and vicious. "Why do I even have a daughter like you? You're a disgrace to the family."

I'd heard those insults more times than I could count. They still shattered me every time. I knew what I was to him—useless. The more he adored Isabella, the more he hated me.

I wanted to tell him I'd been invisible my whole life, that nobody ever watched me. That night all I'd done was quietly drown in champagne. I hadn't caused trouble for anyone.

And the man I'd loved for years was about to marry my sister—didn't I even get to be sad?

But I swallowed it down.

"I'm sorry, Father." Like always, I dropped my head.

"Why can't you learn from Isabella?" His voice fell on me like ice.

I didn't have to look up to know he was frowning, staring at me like I was trash.

I could picture it—if I said any of what I'd been thinking, he'd carve me up with even sharper words. Slut. Dirty. Names that would cling to me forever.

"I will," I said, nodding, trying to get away fast.

He didn't seem satisfied with just chewing me out.

"Listen, Elena. Don't think I don't know what you're thinking." He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head up until I had to meet his eyes. "You'd better not do anything that stains the Rossi name. Or I won't let you off."

Pain flared across my scalp so hard my eyes stung.

"Father—"

He nearly ripped my hair out. No matter how I begged, he didn't budge.

Only when someone glanced our way did he let go.

"Get back to your room."

Then he walked toward the guests again, that perfect social smile snapping right back onto his face.

I breathed out, rubbing my arms where goose bump had popped up from the shock, and left the hall.

Kiryan had arranged a room for each of the three of us in the lounge wing.

A few hours earlier, Isabella had looped her arm through his and told me and Father that every room had floor-to-ceiling windows with a gorgeous night view.

She practically glowed while she talked about how thoughtful Kiryan was.

My nose burned. The ache closed in again.

The hallway swayed under my feet. The long corridor lined with Persian carpet felt endless. My head was packed with alcohol, fermented grapes threatening to split me open.

Who cared? I almost wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep there. Nobody would care if I lived or died.

"360—7." I read the plaque, made sure it was mine, and pushed the handle down.

The second I opened the door, heat and scent rushed into my nose—something that made my skin flare hot.

Then I saw it. A scene I would never forget.

Kiryan sat in a chair, his shirt open, his pants shoved down to his thighs. His cock was out, and his fist worked it—up, down, relentless. It looked thick and long, hard as hell, the tip dark red with need.

It was unfamiliar in a way that made my throat tighten. I'd drawn nude bodies before, but I'd never really looked at what men carried between their legs.

His head tipped back, eyes closed, a slight furrow between his brows. A few strands of dark brown hair fell across his forehead. The too-calm face I knew had tightened with strain. The faint scar along his chin flashed in and out of shadow.

It was obscene. It was beautiful.

But—why was Kiryan in my room? My brain blanked for a beat.

Then I looked back at the numbers on the door, and they snapped into focus through the haze.

3601.

3601 and 3607 were practically the same.

Cold shock hit me. I'd walked into the wrong room. I'd walked into Kiryan's room—and caught him jerking off.

I backed up half a step. The dizziness and nausea from the alcohol vanished in an instant.

"Isabella—" he groaned her name, rough and thick.

I should have left. I should have run, especially after hearing the man I loved pleasure himself while saying another woman's name.

But my legs didn't listen. They stayed pinned, like nails through my feet.

Kiryan's olive skin looked tighter than I'd imagined. The double-headed eagle tattoo on his chest rose and fell with his breathing. His abs flexed with each stroke—my fingers trembled like I was tracing his lines in the air.

God. It was hotter than anything I'd ever dared to fantasize about. I was already soaked. Guilt climbed my throat. I didn't forget he was my sister's fiancé. I forced myself to crush the filthy response my body had given him.

At least Kiryan was lost in it. He didn't notice me.

I turned, ready to pull the door shut and slip out.

"Isabella." Kiryan's voice cut in as I moved. "How long are you gonna hide there and watch?"

I couldn't answer. I was terrified of being found out. If Kiryan realized I'd been watching him masturbate, he wouldn't let it go—even if I was Isabella's sister.

Footsteps came up behind me. Steady. Unhurried. Each one landed right on my nerves. I held my breath, but I still tasted the air around him—whiskey and cedar, wrapping my skin.

When he stopped inches behind me, I knew I couldn't dodge him anymore.

"N-no. I wasn't..." My denial came out raw.

I didn't finish. His arm slid around my waist from behind, and he hauled me into the room with one hard pull. I spun, and the door slammed shut behind me. Before I could steady myself, his tall body pressed in. I retreated until my back hit the door.

The room was darker than the hall. I couldn't even make out his face—only the invasive weight of his gaze. I turned my head on instinct, dodging his eyes in a last pathetic fight, like that would keep him from recognizing me.

"Baby, I knew you'd come looking for me tonight." He pinched my chin up and kissed me.

I froze, staring as his eyes closed and his mouth took mine.

His lips felt softer than I'd ever imagined.

His tongue slipped between my teeth and tasted me—slow at first, then deeper, like he wanted every drop.

The whole thing was so insane it made me think it had to be a dream.

No engagement party. No alcohol. No pain. Just him.

But the second I remembered what we were, every cell in my body went on high alert.

I had to stop him. I had to. This was wrong.

I shoved at his chest with all my strength. It didn't do shit. I bit down on his tongue. He paused—then he tangled with me again, even hungrier, pulling my tongue into his. We traded breath that tasted like blood. My brain started to starve for oxygen, and my body wanted him twice as badly.

Wanting this—getting excited by it—made me feel even more disgusting.

"Good girl." He murmured it against my mouth when I finally broke for air.

Those two words hit me like a bullet. Whatever fight I had left got swallowed whole.

Good girl.

Nobody had ever called me that.

My father had always asked why I couldn't be Isabella. Isabella had always found new ways to prove I wasn't enough. Even I had gotten used to seeing my flaws first.

And now, even knowing that praise didn't belong to me, I still wanted it. Shamelessly. Desperately.

I closed my eyes and let myself fall into his kiss.

The heat at the corners of my eyes proved just how deep my sin ran.