The Bratva Boss’s Innocent Bride (Karpov Bratva #7)

Prologue - Menlow

Hostile takeovers are my specialty, but this one might actually be fun.

I lean back in my chair and inspect the projected financials on the conference room screen.

Vasiliev Industries. A mid-sized tech firm that’s been quietly eating into our market share for the past eighteen months.

On paper, they’re legitimate competition.

Good products. Aggressive marketing. The kind of company that keeps you on your toes.

But I know what they really are. A screen for a rival Bratva operation looking to muscle into territory that doesn’t belong to them.

My brother Alexei grunts from his seat at the far end of the table.

He’s the second oldest of us six siblings, behind me by two years at thirty, but he’s built like he was made for violence rather than boardrooms. Which he was.

“So we hit them where it hurts. Take out their leadership. Send a message.”

Pavel doesn’t look up from his laptop as he responds, “That’s your solution to everything.” He’s our tech specialist, younger than Alexei by three years and far more interested in code than combat. “Some of us prefer strategies that don’t end in bloodshed.”

“Bloodshed sends a message.”

“So does bankruptcy.” I click to the next slide. “We don’t need to start a war. We just need to make their company worthless.”

Zakhar, the third oldest after Alexei, leans forward. At twenty-eight, he’s always been one of the protectors in our family, eager to prove himself in the business side of things. “How do we do that without tipping them off that we know what they really are?”

“We buy them. A hostile takeover. We acquire enough shares to force a merger, gut their leadership, and absorb what’s left into our operations. By the time they realize what happened, we’ll own everything they built.”

Alexei’s mouth curves into an approving smile. “And if they fight back?”

“Then we remind them why picking a fight with the Karpov family is a mistake.” I close my laptop and stand. “But it won’t come to that. Their Bratva backers won’t risk open conflict over a front company. Not when Konstantin has made our position in this city very clear.”

As our cousin and the head of the original Karpov line, Konstantin runs the main Bratva operations while my siblings and I handle our own branch of the family business.

We came to Chicago from Moscow two years ago for our cousin Roman’s wedding, and he welcomed us into the fold without question.

Gave us resources. Protection. A place to rebuild after everything our parents destroyed.

I owe him more than I can ever repay. Which is why I refuse to let some rival outfit threaten what we’ve built together.

“I’ll have the acquisition paperwork ready by the end of the week,” I tell my brothers. “Pavel, I need you to dig into their digital infrastructure. Find every skeleton in every closet. Alexei, put our people on alert. I don’t expect trouble, but I want us ready if it comes.”

“Were you even going to tell us about this little family meeting?” Anya shoves her way through the conference room door with Kristina close behind.

My sisters. Anya is twenty-four with our mother’s dark brown eyes and none of her cruelty.

Kristina is two years younger, quieter, but just as stubborn.

“You two stay out of this.”

Anya rolls her eyes. “Because we’re women?”

“Because you’re not involved in this side of operations, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“You’re such a control freak,” Kristina grumbles.

“Yes.” I don’t bother denying it. “That’s why our companies are worth nine figures and growing. Meeting adjourned.”

My siblings file out. I wait until the room empties before I allow myself a moment to breathe.

This is what I do. What I’ve always done.

Protect this family through whatever means necessary.

Our father beat our mother until she broke.

Then she turned that broken rage on us, her own children.

Eventually, she ran. Just disappeared one night without telling anyone where she was going.

Our father spent months looking for her.

When he finally found her, he had her killed.

He followed a year later, killed by enemies he’d made through decades of brutality.

I was nineteen when I became responsible for five younger siblings with nowhere safe to go.

We survived. Built something real from the ashes of our parents’ failures. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone threaten what we’ve created.

The acquisition moves forward exactly as planned.

Shell companies. Strategic share purchases.

Legal maneuvers designed to look like standard business operations until the trap snaps shut.

By Thursday afternoon, I own enough of Vasiliev Industries to call an emergency board meeting and force the changes I want.

Their CEO resigns. Their CFO follows. By Friday morning, the company that threatened my family’s interests belongs to me.

Clean. Bloodless. Another victory.

I should feel satisfied. Should go home and celebrate.

Instead, I end up at O’Malley’s.

It’s an Irish pub three blocks from my penthouse. It’s got dark wood and brass fixtures. The kind of place where nobody asks questions. I’ve been coming here for years when I need to turn my brain off.

I order a Macallan 18, neat, and claim my usual spot at the far end of the bar.

That’s when I see her.

She’s sitting three stools down, nursing what looks like a gin and tonic.

Dark brown hair that borders on black has been gathered together to rest on her right shoulder, which exposes the graceful line of her neck.

Her profile is striking, with a strong nose, full lips, and a slight crease between her brows like it’s permanently indented there.

She’s petite but not fragile. Maybe five-four, with the most delicious curves I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Her skin is fair, with a smattering of freckles across her cheekbones.

When she turns to flag down the bartender, I get a full view of her face.

Gorgeous. Not in the plastic, paid-for way I’m used to from women who circle my social orbit. She’s wearing minimal makeup—maybe just mascara and something on her lips. Dark brown eyes dart around, bouncing from one side of the room to the other.

She catches me staring. Most women would either look away or offer an inviting smile. She does neither. Rather, she just holds my gaze, evaluating, before returning to her drink.

I should leave her alone.

But something about her pulls at me. A gravity I can’t explain.

I move to the stool next to hers and ask, “Buy you another drink?”

She eyes my face, my clothes, and my posture, seemingly inspecting me for intent. “That depends. Are you going to spend the next hour telling me about your job, your car, or your investment portfolio?”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Then sure.” She pushes her empty glass toward the bartender. “Gin and tonic. Hendricks.”

I signal for another round. “Rough night?”

“Rough month. You?”

“Something like that.”

“Cryptic.” She takes a sip. “What brings you to a dive bar on a Friday night?”

“What makes you think I have anywhere else to be?”

She gestures at my chest. “The suit. The watch. You look like you just walked out of a board meeting.”

“Maybe I did.”

“At nine p.m.?”

“Work doesn’t keep regular hours in my world.”

“Workaholic.” She says it like a diagnosis. “Let me guess. You spend so much time building the empire that you forgot how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve quarterly projections.”

I bark out a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

“I rarely am.”

We talk for over an hour. She’s smart, quick-witted, and deflects personal questions with skill. I learn almost nothing concrete about her—not her name, not her job—but I learn everything that matters. The way she thinks. The rhythm of her humor.

Around eleven, she sets down her third drink.

“I should go,” she states. “It’s getting late.”

But neither of us moves, and I take that as my cue.

“Do you want to?”

She traces the rim of her glass with one finger. “Want to what?”

“Leave.”

Her dark eyes meet mine, and I watch her weigh the question. What she’s really asking. What I’m really offering.

“No,” she admits. “Not particularly.”

“Then don’t.”

“That’s a dangerous suggestion.”

“I’m a dangerous man.” I finish my scotch and set the glass down. “But not to you. Never to you.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t need to know your name to know I’m not ready for this conversation to end.” I jerk my head toward the door. “My place is right up the road.”

She studies me like she’s searching for a reason to say no and coming up empty.

“One condition,” she finally declares, holding up a finger.

“Name it.”

“No names. No numbers. Just tonight.”

It should bother me. It doesn’t.

“Just tonight,” I agree.

The cab ride takes twelve minutes. We don’t touch or speak. Just sit in charged silence while the city passes the windows.

My apartment building has a private elevator that opens directly into my penthouse. She steps inside and takes in the space with those observant dark eyes.

“Nice place. Very minimalist.”

“I don’t like clutter.”

She turns to face me with a sultry smile. “What do you like?”

“Surprises.” I loosen my cuffs and roll my sleeves to my elbows. “I don’t get many of those these days.”

“And I surprised you?”

“You’re still surprising me.”

She takes a step closer, then another, until barely a foot separates us, and I catch her perfume—something floral with a hint of spice underneath.

“Good surprises or bad surprises?”

“The best kind.” I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trail along her jaw. “The kind that makes me want more.”

Her breath catches. She doesn’t pull away.

I close the distance and kiss her.