The Bratva King’s Cruel Vengeance (Rusnak Bratva #7)

Prologue – Vivian

Monaco glitters like temptation.

The Grand Prix roars beyond the terraces, but up here—behind velvet ropes and glass barriers—the world is muted into something curated. Polished. Controlled. A fantasy built on obscene wealth and old bloodlines that pretend they still matter. Some of them still do.

I stand in the VIP enclave overlooking the private paddock, my champagne-silk dress catching the Riviera sunlight like liquid gold. The wide-brimmed hat angled over my golden-brown bob gives me the exact kind of polished anonymity my mother perfected: Everyone sees you, but no one sees too much.

I feel the eyes, of course.

I always do.

It comes with the name.

Vivian Laurent.

Old-money royalty.

An heirloom wrapped in silk.

The daughter of Henri Laurent, king of a dynasty carved from banking and oil, built long before the rest of these men learned to pretend at power.

Even now, as things quietly crumble behind closed doors due to several failed investments, the Laurent myth still holds.

The crowd still parts for my father like he’s wearing a crown.

My father isn’t here, but I have his name, so wherever I go, I’m accorded the same respect. Everyone keeps glancing at me as if I were a mythical being. As if being near me might grant them access to something divine.

Meanwhile, I sip champagne from a crystal flute and let my gaze trail over the spectacle that people pretend is a charity event.

They aren’t here for the horses.

Or the cause.

Or even for the race.

They’re here for the display.

The Formula 1 cars gleam like artifacts—museum pieces worth more than a small nation’s GDP.

A blood-red Ferrari sits on a raised marble platform, roped off with gold stanchions. Its body reflects the crowd like a mirror. Men circle it reverently, whispering about aerodynamics and engine mapping as though discussing sacred scripture.

Farther down the promenade, a sapphire-blue Mercedes W14 rests under a canopy, polished so perfectly it doesn’t even seem real. Guards keep people from getting too close. These machines aren’t meant to be touched; they’re meant to be worshiped.

The air is thick with the scent of engine oil, sea salt, and thousand-dollar perfume.

A waiter glides by with trays of caviar blinis and truffle canapés.

Cameras flash as old-money daughters pose beside the cars, their gowns sweeping over the marble like water. I watch quietly, absorbing it all.

This is the part I’ve always liked: the cars.

Pure engineering. Pure power.

No pretense. No politics.

Speed doesn’t lie.

Unlike people.

A photographer leans toward me and whispers my name to his assistant, preparing to ask for a photo-op.

I angle my body slightly, a silent no.

The Laurent princess must always appear in demand but elusive—my mother’s words. I turn my attention back to the cars.

The next display features a vintage 1969 Ford GT40, painted deep midnight. The placard claims it competed once, decades ago, in an exhibition lap on this very circuit. It looks like something a man with too much money and too many secrets would drive at night just to feel alive.

A strange sort of peace settles over me whenever I stare at machines like this. I inhale deeply, reminding myself to breathe.

This whole event is a game of masks and power displays, and the wealthy adore it. Here, alliances are formed with a handshake over champagne. Engagements are arranged behind lace fans. Reputations rise and fall faster than the race cars below.

I’m supposed to be part of that world.

Poised. Elegant. Silent.

The perfect Laurent daughter. Yes, I try my best. Even though half the time it feels like a cage. I embrace it, waiting for the day the shackles break and I’ll finally be free.

“Vivian Laurent?”

I turn, lifting my chin with polite interest.

A man approaches, young but distinguished, the kind of polished power you see only in Swiss boardrooms and GQ spreads. I don’t recognize him, but I smile anyway.

He offers a hand. “Jerry Wright. Wright Global Holdings.”

Ah.

That name carries weight—American industrial real estate conglomerates, European tech acquisitions, quiet influence in circles my father courts. Very powerful. Very dangerous, in a respectable way.

I place my hand in his. “Mr. Wright. A pleasure.”

“Please,” he says, voice smooth as velvet, “call me Jerry. Your father speaks very highly of you.”

Of course he does.

The perfect daughter is also the perfect advertisement.

“Then I should hope to live up to his words,” I say lightly.

His gaze warms, appreciative yet controlled. “You already do, Miss Laurent. You look exquisite today.”

I give him the polite, practiced smile I’ve worn since childhood. “Thank you. Monaco tends to bring out the best in everyone.”

He laughs softly. “Some people. Not all possess your kind of presence.”

A compliment, delivered with the ease of a man who does this often. We fall into conversation effortlessly—because I was trained to do so.

He asks what I think of the event. I answer gracefully:

“It’s beautiful. Complicated. A little performative, but the cars make up for it.”

He chuckles. “I’d have assumed you preferred the horses.”

“I prefer anything honest,” I reply, surprising even myself. “Machines don’t lie.”

Jerry tilts his head, intrigued. “And people do?”

“Frequently,” I say, lifting my glass. “Especially here.”

He laughs and carries the conversation forward with the smooth confidence of a man used to being listened to. But I’m already bored.

I prefer to be alone. Quiet. Observing. But these aren’t the type of people you shut down, so I persevere, nodding in the right places, offering polite interest I don’t feel.

As he talks about a new acquisition in Zurich, my gaze drifts—just for a second—across the crowded field.

And that’s when I see him.

A man I’ve never seen before.

Blond hair catching the sun like it was spun for him alone.

A navy suit tailored so perfectly it belongs in a museum—smooth over his shoulders, sharp down his frame, hinting at a body that looks far more like danger than decorum.

He stands with a confidence that isn’t arrogance; it’s certainty.

He’s speaking to someone important—judging by the person’s posture—but I can’t hear a thing over the sudden rush in my ears.

Because I’m staring. Helplessly. Entirely fixated on him. He’s…beautiful. Not in the polished way these men here are, all refinement and inherited grace. No, this one radiates something darker. Sharper. Brutal beneath the silk.

Jerry is still talking, something about a merger, but his voice fades into white noise. My focus narrows to the stranger as he finishes his conversation, offering a cool handshake before walking forward.

He moves like…God. Like a man who’s never been told no. Lazy dominance in every step. The kind of effortless power you can’t fake.

He stops at the front row of the display, hands slipping into his pants pockets, attention fixed on the lineup of cars as though he owns every single one.

Up close, even from a distance, I see the details that matter:

He’s tall. Broad. Controlled.

Suit immaculate.

Shoes polished to a quiet gleam.

And his eyes—

His eyes are an icy, merciless gray.

Penetrating.

Evaluating the world with the quiet interest of a predator choosing what to devour next.

He doesn’t blend into this crowd of princelings and investors.

He stands apart. Different. Dangerous.

The air around him hums with something I can’t name—something feral.

And then…as if he feels the weight of my stare, he turns his head. Our gazes collide. A shock runs through me: sharp, electric, grounding, and unmooring all at once.

For a split second, I forget how to breathe.

His expression doesn’t change.

He just looks at me.

Like he sees something—too much, maybe.

Like he’s been waiting for this moment without knowing it.

My fingers tighten imperceptibly around my champagne flute.

“Vivian?” Jerry says beside me, oblivious. “Are you listening?”

I’m not.

Because this stranger with the icy eyes just tilted his head—slightly, curiously—like I’ve caught his attention too. And something tells me that is far more dangerous than anything Monaco has to offer.

I tear my gaze away, pulse thundering in my throat, and turn back to Jerry.

“Pardon me,” I say gently. “Can you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.”

“Of course,” he says so politely.

I give him a practiced smile, then turn—away from him, away from the stranger, away from the intensity of that stare that still burns against the back of my neck.

My heels click softly against the marble as I move toward the exit. Down the short flight of stairs. Away from the crowd and its watching eyes.

The moment I’m outside, I inhale sharply.

Gosh.

I’ve never met a man who owned me like that—not with words, not with touch, just…a look.

A single, devastating stare that felt like it stripped me bare.

It stole my breath, my composure, the careful mask I always wear. I press a hand to my chest for a second, steadying myself, then walk toward the stables.

It’s quiet here.

The purebreds are already being showcased elsewhere, so these corridors are blessedly empty—no photographers, no staff, no predators disguised as gentlemen.

Just the scent of hay, leather, and calm.

I let out a slow breath as I approach the stable corridor. My hand lifts to touch the wooden frame, craving the grounding comfort of silence.

But just as I’m about to step inside, my skin prickles.

A presence shifts behind me. Not a sound, not a word—just the unmistakable awareness of someone entering my space.

My breath catches.

Before I can turn, a low voice murmurs behind me, “You look like you were made for trouble.”

The voice is deep, accented, threaded with amusement.

Russian. Smooth and lethal all at once.

I turn with a gasp, just as a body presses into mine, pinning me against the stable wall with effortless strength.