The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride (Rusnak Bratva #12)

Prologue – Sofia

Moscow

Sixteen Years Ago

The apartment smells of old paper and black tea.

It’s my favorite smell in the world.

I sit cross-legged on the rug beside the coffee table, my socks sliding against the faded fabric as I lean closer to the book spread open in front of me. Snow taps softly against the apartment windows, and somewhere beyond the glass, Moscow groans under the weight of another winter night.

But here, with my papa, it’s warm and safe.

The radiator hisses quietly in the corner. Books tower around us in uneven stacks—on shelves, beneath chairs, beside the couch. Papa says we’re running out of space, but every month, he still brings more home.

I think the apartment is made of books more than of walls.

“Again,” Papa says softly beside me.

I wrinkle my nose down at the page.

“The fox…” I pause dramatically, sounding out the longer word. “Disappeared into the forest.”

Papa smiles faintly. “Good.”

I beam at him anyway.

His praise always feels important. Like winning something invisible.

He reaches over and taps the page gently with his finger. His hands are elegant—long fingers, clean nails, ink stains near the side of his thumb.

“What does ‘disappeared’ mean?”

I think for a moment before answering, all seriousness. “Gone.”

“Yes.” His voice is warm. “But not always forever.”

I nod as if this is very important information.

Because when Papa speaks, it usually is.

The lamp beside us casts a golden glow across the room, softening everything around the edges. Outside our apartment door, the building is quiet except for distant footsteps and the clanging of pipes somewhere upstairs.

Papa closes the book and studies me. “You notice patterns very quickly, Sofia.”

I blink. “Patterns?”

“The way things repeat.” He reaches for another book from the stack beside him. “Most people look at words and only see stories.”

“And what do you see?”

A strange expression passes over his face then. So brief that I almost miss it.

“Instructions,” he says quietly.

I don’t understand what that means, but I nod anyway. Papa always speaks like there are hidden meanings tucked inside ordinary sentences.

He opens the second book and slides it toward me. “Do you remember what I taught you yesterday?”

I straighten immediately, excited. “The first letter matters,” I say proudly.

“And?”

“The page number.”

“And?”

I grin now because I know this one. “The repetition.”

His eyes soften slightly. “Very good.”

I feel warm with pride.

He reaches over and brushes my hair back from my forehead. There’s tiredness around his eyes tonight. I noticed it earlier when he came home.

Papa thinks I don’t notice things, but I do.

I notice that he checks the locks twice.

I notice when he stands by the window too long.

I notice the silence after unknown phone calls.

I notice everything.

“Papa… are you all right?” I ask because tonight the lines beside his eyes look deeper than usual.

For a second, his face shifts and crumbles.

Then it’s gone.

A smile replaces it so quickly it almost feels like I imagined the first expression.

“Let’s play a little game, my princess.”

My chest lifts immediately. “Okay.”

He sits back down beside me like nothing’s wrong. Like the air didn’t change a moment ago. Like the world is still only books and warmth and quiet evenings.

He reaches for another book in front of me and opens it, smoothing the page flat with his palm.

“Tonight,” he says, voice lighter now, “we don’t just read.”

I lean closer.

“We find things,” he continues.

My eyes brighten. “Like treasures?”

His smile widens. “Exactly like treasures.” He takes a pencil from the table and places it in my hand. “Circle every time a word repeats.”

I nod, serious now. I like rules. Rules make things feel safe.

“Good,” he murmurs. “And when you notice a pattern, tell me.”

I press the pencil to the page and begin.

At first it’s simple.

Words like river appear again and again. I circle them, tongue peeking out in concentration. Papa watches me without interrupting, his presence steady beside me like a wall I can lean against.

“There,” I say proudly, pointing. “It’s the same word again.”

“Yes,” he says. “Why do you think it keeps appearing?”

I tilt my head. “Because it’s important?”

A small pause.

Then he nods. “Yes. Very good.”

Something warm blooms in my chest at his approval.

He turns the page for me. “Now this one.”

The game deepens.

He asks me to underline certain letters. Then count the spaces between repeated phrases. Then compare one page to another like they’re talking to each other.

It feels like solving something no one else can see.

I laugh when I get things right. I frown hard when I miss something and immediately try again. My father never tells me I’m wrong in a harsh way—only guides me back gently, like I’m already close and just need to look a little harder.

“You don’t rush stories,” he tells me softly. “You listen to them.”

I nod, even though I don’t fully understand what that means.

But I like the way it sounds.

So I listen harder.

Minutes stretch into hours. The world outside fades.

There’s only the rustle of pages, the scratch of a pencil, and Papa’s voice when he speaks—low and patient, like he has all the time in the world for me.

“You’re seeing it faster now,” he says after a while.

I glance up, cheeks slightly flushed with excitement. “Seeing what?”

“The way things connect.”

I look back down at the page again.

The circles I’ve made start to look less random now.

Like they’re pointing somewhere.

Like they’re… leading.

My small brow furrows.

“Papa,” I say slowly, “why do the words feel like they’re talking to each other?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches just a little too long.

Then his hand rests lightly on my head.

“Because,” he murmurs, “some stories aren’t just stories.”

I don’t understand, but I smile anyway.

Because this is still a game.

And I’m very good at games when Papa is beside me.

My father watches me for a long moment. Not the way he usually does when I answer correctly. This time is different.

Like he’s memorizing me.

Like I might be something he needs to remember very carefully.

“Sofia,” he starts.

I look up immediately. “Yes, Papa?”

He reaches over and turns the page back in the book, smoothing it flat again as if resetting something. “You’re doing very well,” he says.

Pride blooms in my chest again.

I sit up straighter. “Really?”

“Yes.” A pause. “But there’s something more important than finding patterns.”

I tilt my head. “What is it?”

His fingers hover over the page. “Remembering them.”

I nod quickly. “I remember everything you teach me.”

“I know,” he says. He leans closer, tapping a small section of the page. “Memory is what keeps you safe,” he continues. “If you remember correctly, you’ll never be lost.”

I frown. “Lost?”

He smiles faintly. “People get lost in stories when they stop paying attention.”

That sounds serious, so I focus harder. “I won’t get lost,” I say.

“I know you won’t,” he repeats. His hand lingers on the book a moment longer than necessary before he finally leans back. “Good girl.”

I like that.

I go back to circling words again, carefully, seriously, like it matters more than anything else in the world. The pencil scratches softly across the page.

Papa begins asking me questions again.

“Why do you think that word repeats?”

“Because it matters.”

“And what does repetition mean?”

“That it’s important.”

“Good. And what do you do when something is important?”

I think hard. “I remember it.”

“Yes.”

His voice is softer now. Almost satisfied.

I don’t notice how tightly he’s watching me again. I only notice that I’m getting better at the game. That I’m not making mistakes anymore. That Papa is close.

And that’s enough.

Then, there’s a sharp knock on the door. The sound cuts through the apartment like a crack in glass.

I flinch so hard that the pencil slips from my fingers.

Papa goes still beside me, and the air shifts immediately.

Another knock follows. Louder this time.

I look up at him. “Papa…?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes move toward the door, then back to me. Something inside his expression tightens. The warmth is gone now.

“Sofia,” he says. His voice is still calm. Still my father’s voice. But it feels different now. Sharper around the edges. “Hide.”

That word lands differently.

My stomach dips.

“Hide?” I whisper. “Are you going to find me? Is this another game?”

He smiles and kisses my forehead. “Don’t come out of your hiding place until whoever’s at the door leaves. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Now, go!”

There’s no room for questions in his voice now. Only instruction.

I turn immediately.

My feet move faster this time as I slip back past the hallway shelves, past the stacks of books leaning like unstable towers, into the narrow space between the bookshelf and the wall. It’s tight—just enough for me to fold myself in if I press close.

I squeeze in.

Dust brushes my knees.

My book is still in my hands.

I hold it tighter.

Like it can keep me anchored to something normal.

From here, I can see part of the living room through the thin gaps between the books and the wood.

The apartment feels different now.

Too quiet.

Even the radiator seems to have stopped making noise.

Then the door bursts open, swinging inward with such force that it bangs against the wall. A violent shudder races through me, and I clamp a hand to my mouth to stop my scream.

A tall man comes into view. I can’t see his face as he stops in front of Papa.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” my father finally says.

His tone is controlled.

But it isn’t welcoming.

The man tilts his head slightly. “This is your last chance, Andrei. We don’t have much time,” he replies.

Another pause.

My fingers tighten around the book.

The man takes one step closer to Papa.

My father shifts slightly, blocking him without moving closer.

“What do you want?” my father asks.

The man exhales softly, like the question is tiring.

“The code,” he says simply.

The word means nothing to me.

But the way my father reacts to it is strange.

“I told you,” my father mutters, “it no longer exists.”

The man lets out a dark chuckle. “I knew you would say that.”

My breathing becomes shallow.

I don’t understand the conversation, but I understand the feeling in the room now.

It’s heavy.

Dense.

Like the air itself is listening.

My father takes a slow breath.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, final: “You should leave.”

The man doesn’t move.

For a moment, neither of them does. I can feel the danger in the air before it happens.

Everything escalates in a blur of violent motion.

Before I can even scream, the man lunges.

I watch in paralyzed horror as the blade flashes, burying into my father again and again.

Terror clamps a hand over my throat, forcing me into a suffocating silence as I fight with everything I have not to make a sound.

A scream tries to rise as my father drops to one knee, swaying hard. I swallow it.

It turns into something worse inside my chest.

My father staggers backward, hitting the edge of the couch. His hand presses against his side, then slips.

Red spreads through his fingers.

My mind refuses to understand it properly.

It keeps trying to turn it back into the game.

Into words.

Into anything else.

But it isn’t a game.

Not anymore.

My body betrays me completely.

Warmth spreads down my legs.

I freeze in horror as I realize I’ve just peed myself.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t stop it.

Tears blur my vision instantly, but I don’t make a sound. I bite down on my own hand to keep it in. My entire body shakes so violently I think I might fall apart right there between the books.

No.

No.

No.

My father moves again.

Slowly.

Unsteadily.

He drags himself toward the bookshelf nearest the wall. His hand slides along the wood like he’s searching for something.

Then he pushes.

Hard.

The bottom shelf tips.

Books fall.

They hit the floor in heavy, uneven thuds, spilling out in a chaotic wave across the apartment.

I freeze.

It doesn’t make sense, not at first.

My father never lets books fall.

Ever.

He always gets mad at me when I knock down books, especially the ones on the bottom shelf that he calls his limited editions. He has a special arrangement for them, one that he’s taught me since I was five.

They were special. To be handled with care.

So seeing him knock them over…

It doesn’t belong in the world I understand.

My body reacts before my mind does.

I shift forward instinctively, shoulders pressing against the gap in the books.

No—stop.

I almost move.

Almost leave the hiding place.

Almost run to him.

Because this is wrong.

This isn’t how things are supposed to be.

But the strange man is still there. Papa told me not to leave my hiding place until he was gone.

The man stands there, frozen, watching my father writhe on the floor until he takes his last breath. And then, when he’s sure my father is gone, he turns. He walks past the fallen books without looking down.

Past the shelf.

Past my father.

Past everything.

For a moment, I see his face clearly through the gap in the bookshelf. Then he turns abruptly, walks through the broken door, and heads back into the winter night.