Chapter 16
KARINA
I tug at the hem of my skirt. I bought a new suit for this meeting, the first gathering of the newly combined bratvas.
Dima invited me to stand beside him, to present a united front and welcome all our vors into the fold under the Petrov name.
The suit is pristine white, tailored within an inch of indecency, and my stilettos are sky-high.
I should feel cool and confident after my fresh blowout.
Instead sweat prickles along my spine because my husband stands flush beside me, his possessive hand splayed low on my back as the meeting is called to order.
I expected a conference room with twenty men around a table, not this cavernous hall packed with well over a hundred.
Men in razor-sharp designer suits sit shoulder to shoulder with others dressed like dockworkers, their boots scuffed and faces weathered by salt and cold.
The sheer scope of my husband’s network, his power, knocks the breath from my lungs, and confronted with that dominance I can’t stop the fierce throb of heat between my thighs.
A man I vaguely recall from the engagement party introduces us, and the room bursts into applause. I keep my expression serene and wait for Dima to take the lead.
“Thank you for coming to witness the formal union of our two organizations, now merged under the Petrov banner. Together we control formidable territory, and our holdings stretch from a publicly traded tech conglomerate to discreet private enterprises across the continent. None of it exists without you. Every man in Russia knows the Petrov name and shows respect because of your discipline and loyalty. Because of what we accomplish when we move in lockstep. Tonight I have the honor of presenting my wife, Katarina Dmitrievna Petrova.”
A prickle of irritation skitters across my skin.
I’m the prize on display, the trophy. I hate the spectacle, the pretense of inclusion when I know he won’t share real control.
He would never share power with anyone, least of all me.
My father sits in the audience too, which only sharpens my annoyance.
With any luck he’ll keep his mouth shut.
I square my shoulders, determined to deliver the speech I practiced, even though my stomach knots at the thought of pretending I’m the blissful bride who’s thrilled to watch her husband swallow her father’s empire.
I step forward and nod in acknowledgment of their welcome.
“I’m honored to take part in this historic gathering that unites two great organizations under the Petrov name,” I say, flashing a practiced smile.
“Since childhood I dreamed of inheriting my father’s bratva, but because I was born a girl, it was not to be.
What I offer now, in addition to my security firm, is the most valuable thing I can give my husband, the loyalty of the Kozlov men.
He will guide and protect us all. Anyone who meets Dima immediately feels the power he wields and recognizes the heart of a true leader.
Two hundred years ago he would have been czar by birth or by revolution; nothing could have stopped him, and every Russian would have rallied behind that charm.
” I glance at him and catch the flicker of surprise behind his carefully guarded expression.
“Thank you for your welcome. I look forward to all we will accomplish together.”
When I finish, the men rise as one and applaud.
I shoot Dima a startled glance, but only for a heartbeat.
His arm coils around my waist, drawing me hard against his chest as his mouth crashes onto mine.
I clutch the lapel of his jacket and part my lips for him.
My red lipstick, my perfect blowout, the hundred pairs of eyes, none of it matters.
My body melts. The crowd roars and stomps its approval.
I feel the curve of his grin against my mouth before he finally lets me breathe.
Dima steps forward, thanks the room for its loyalty, and lays out his vision.
He describes merging the two bratvas into a single family, then spotlights my company, my software, explaining how he has ordered it installed across every system as our watchdog.
I’m grudgingly impressed by the way he frames it.
I’m not just a trophy wife but the attack dog guarding the encryption and shielding every byte of data that keeps this empire running.
“To carry the time-honored bratva tradition into the next century, we must defend our information: every transaction, every location, every byte that could endanger our soldiers and our way of life. My wife developed the first-rate program that now sets the industry standard, and we are fortunate to have her in house to guide us. This is a new day for the Petrov bratva. With these tools and your expertise, we will fuse these two networks into the most powerful family organization in Europe.”
I study his profile as he speaks: courageous, resolute, proud. The chiseled jaw, straight nose, and stubborn chin could belong on an ancient Roman coin. Later I’ll tell him he looks like an emperor. He’ll call me dramatic, but he’ll soak up the praise.
After the meeting I retreat to my new office in the house.
It’s my refuge, the only corner that feels truly mine in this suddenly larger life.
I’ve been here three days, and already the mansion’s opulence chafes.
It’s a gilded cage, and I can only beat my wings against its bars.
Night brings my only freedom, when Dima slips into my bed.
The fury of our passion is the sole release I’m granted.
Guards shadow me everywhere, all in the name of safety.
I thought my father’s rules were suffocating.
That was before I married the most powerful crime lord in Russia.
Between appointments, I scroll through photos from our trip to Croatia.
The water was blindingly turquoise, the breeze sharp with salt, and it was the first time I tasted Dmitri Petrov’s cock.
There’s no photographic evidence of that, obviously, but I do have a shot of him balanced on the yacht’s rail, about to dive toward the cave we later claimed as our own.
If a memory could fray from overuse in a single week, that one would be threadbare.
When I linger on the details, I can push myself to orgasm again and again with nothing more than the thought of those fevered minutes in that hidden grotto.
Day after day passes the same way. I’m alone in my office, fielding calls, running scans, onboarding new clients, checking in with my team.
All the while my body stays ripe for his touch, my ear tuned to the front door, to the creak of the stairs.
I scold myself, reminding the mirror that I’m a self-made tech CEO, not a teenager waiting for her boyfriend to notice her.
Still, I’m ashamed of how much I miss him, of how hollow this house feels without his presence.
Dima comes to me every night, the only time I see him.
We trade a handful of words, and then we’re on each other, unable to last two minutes before the kissing, the tasting, the desperate groping begins.
Each encounter still rocks me, pushing me to higher peaks than the last. And every time, doubt slithers in afterward.
Does he crave me the way I crave him, or are these midnight sessions nothing but duty?
Is he simply racing to impregnate me so he can ship me off to a country estate and resume his real life?
The thought of losing even this fragile intimacy makes my chest ache.
During those first weeks, he falls asleep in my bed once.
I almost gloat, convinced I’ve worn him out, claimed him so thoroughly he lacks the strength to leave.
He lies on his side, one hand sprawled low on my belly, possessive even in sleep.
As the sweat between us cools, I study his face.
I brush a lock of salt-and-pepper hair from his forehead, then on impulse press a soft, wordless kiss to his lips.
Maybe some part of him will feel it, even if he doesn’t remember in the morning.
I tuck that moment away like a secret jewel: for once I got to kiss my husband good night.
I inch closer until my hip rests against his thigh, then let sleep claim me beside him for the first time since our too-brief honeymoon.
I miss those days, his undivided attention, his sharp wit, his unexpected playfulness, the effortless closeness we shared.
I hate that we left it behind, that now I feel like another line item on his daily agenda: Impregnate wife, unchecked.
That’s how I picture our nights when loneliness curdles into resentment.
Yet when darkness falls, I still buzz with the same electric anticipation as the very first time.
I was right to worry. The Pakhan’s hold on me is deeper than I dare admit, even to myself.