29. Marrying My Bratva Boss
MARRYING MY brATVA BOSS
Lily
I walk straight into him.
One second I'm reading the final pages of The Ballad of Black Tom, the next I'm face-first in expensive wool and the kind of cologne that should be illegal in confined spaces.
Strong hands catch me by the waist before I can do something truly humiliating, like slide down his chest and apologize to his shoes.
"What have I told you about reading and walking, Moya?" His voice is deep, unmistakably amused, thick with that rasp that gets my heart racing every single time.
I don't even have to look up. My spine already knows. My skin already knows.
But of course I do look up, because I'm weak and nosy and human, and there he is—leaning down slightly to meet my eyes, his mouth curved in that lazy, smug smile that says he enjoyed this far too much.
His dark hair is still damp, clinging to his forehead, and his black cashmere coat is open over a hoodie and gray scarf—somehow making him look both dangerous and devastatingly casual.
Sharp cheekbones, five o'clock shadow, those storm-gray eyes with lashes no man should have unless he plans to ruin lives with them.
There's a faded scar over his left brow from when we were children that only adds to his stoic expression.
I inhale—pure instinct—and his scent hits me like it always does: warm spice, clean linen, and smoke. It invades my senses and coils low in my stomach, flipping it in that wild, chaotic way it always has around him.
I mean, I've read enough books. I know the knee-buckle guys, the slow-burn heartbreakers, the sharp-jawed villains who do all the right things—but none of them, not a single fictional man, makes me feel as pathetically unhinged as Aleksandr Petrov.
"Aleksandr," I say, breathless—too breathless, like I'm Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday, Mr. President.
I want to smack myself. There is zero reason to be using a breathy voice unless you're mid-affair with the recipient, and I am so far from being in an affair with Aleksandr it's laughable.
I have a better shot of joining a demon cult in Queens than having an affair with Aleksandr. He sees me as his older sister's annoying bestie, or worse but way more probable—a little sister—since I am a year younger than him and two years younger than Nadia.
"Moya Lily," he murmurs, unreadable as always, voice low and smooth as he gently places me back on my own two feet. "Why were you walking and reading?"
"Why were you walking into people who clearly couldn't see you?" I shoot back, rubbing the tip of my nose. "I could have a broken nose right now because of you."
He just smirks.
Then he reaches for my wrist—lightly, but firmly. His fingers wrap around mine and heat blooms up my arm. He pokes the tip of my nose, his smirk deepening as he gently pushes my glasses back up the bridge.
"Doesn't seem broken to me."
Twenty minutes earlier.
I'm perfectly fine.
Well, relatively speaking.
I'm tucked into my desk chair—the plush throne courtesy of my best friend-slash-boss, Nadia Petrov—reading about a man ankle-deep in blood in Jazz Age Harlem, about five seconds from becoming a milk carton. For five hundred bucks. Even adjusted for inflation, that's not enough to join a demon cult.
This is exactly why I don't accept help from strangers—especially not in New York. There's always a catch. Always.
My curls are doing their own thing, a rogue coil keeps tickling my nose, and my glasses are hanging on for dear life. But I can't pull myself away from the pages.
"Lily!" A voice snaps, ripping my book from my hands.
"The Ballad of Black Tom?" Nadia questions, turning the book over with a scowl. "When I left you out here three hours ago you were reading The Haunting of Hill House."
"Yeah read and absolutely loved it," I sing, sliding my feet from underneath me and yanking the bottom drawer of my desk open.
"But you know I have a mini library of books underneath here, and besides," I stretch to yank the book out of her perfectly manicured claws.
"I have fifty pages left before this book is over, so if you will excuse me… "
"I'm sorry," she smirks, crossing her arms over her chest. "Am I interrupting you from doing your actual job?"
I lean over and glance at the to-do list on my desk—every item neatly crossed out, each with its own corresponding color.
The last task? Prepping the conference room for the meeting Nadia is currently having with Dante Romano and Jakub Nowak, who, as we speak, are sipping espressos inside that very room.
When I look back up, Nadia's standing there, smirking. Her long, pin-straight blonde hair is slicked back, and she's leaning casually against my desk.
"My last task is done. I'm just waiting for your meeting to end so we can all go home," I say with a casual shrug, swiping my book out of her hands and flipping back to the page I left off on. "Now, if I were you, I'd wrap it up—some of us have a very important date with Love Island tonight."
The words are barely out of my mouth before I freeze.
Shit.
I said Love Island.
Nadia's ex—he-who-should-not-be-named but is, unfortunately, a ridiculously hot assassin who lives in Japan—loved Love Island.
And, of course, he's the one who introduced her to it in the first place.
Like two years ago. And I, the world's worst best friend, have just casually invoked the cursed show like it's no big deal.
"Nadi—" I whisper, lowering my book slowly into my lap. "I just meant—"
"You meant," she cuts in, voice cool and sharp, "that you'll be staying here until negotiations are over."
Her eyes narrow. I nod. A little too fast.
"Of course, Boss." I slap on a smile that I hope reads endearing and not please-don't-murder-me.
Because while Nadia would never actually hurt me—probably—rumor has it she's done far worse.
And I'm not talking about manslaughter or self-defense.
No, when Nikolai was head of the Bratva, she was the one they sent in to make sure the room was cleared.
And if anyone survived? Well, they were usually too traumatized to say a single word about it.
Now that she is head of the Bratva, well, not many live to announce their disappointment with a woman being in charge.
My voice slips into that sickly sweet, high-pitched tone we used when we were kids—the kind that meant trouble was either already happening or about to. "Anything else I can help you with?"
Right on cue, a glass shatters.
A thick Polish accent booms through the office, sharp and furious, followed by an equally livid Italian voice shouting either "you motherfucker" or "I will fuck your mother." Hard to tell. I haven't taken Italian in two years.
"I take it negotiations are going splendidly," I mutter, flinching just as Nikolai casually dodges a flying elbow from the Polish guy. Nadia lets out a sharp, exhausted sigh.
I turn to look at her just as she presses two fingers to her temple, watching the scene unfold through the glass conference room wall with the sort of detached annoyance most people reserve for printer errors or traffic delays, not two guys trying to kill each other with their bare hands.
"Chinese food from Jade's, please," she says, voice tight. "And make sure you get Jakub his egg rolls. He's a pain in the ass without them."
I set my book down on my desk and stand, reaching for the worn puffer jacket hanging off the back of my chair. "Let me guess—beef lo mein for you and orange chicken for Nik?"
"Yup, and some pork fried rice for the rest of the fucking animals," she grumbles, already halfway to the conference room door before pausing. "Lily, make sure you take your time."
My eyes flick to the barely-contained chaos behind the glass—Jakub has a chair in one hand, and Dante is either ducking or dancing—and I nod knowingly. "I'll let Ming know there's no rush."
"Take your time" is code. It usually means whatever's going on is too violent, too messy, or too confidential for me to be anywhere nearby.
It's the only protection the Petrov siblings have given me in case anything goes sideways.
Plausible deniability. I know just enough, but not enough to be indicted.
Not that I'm clueless about the family business—I was born into this life. My father was the right-hand man to Nadia, Aleksander and Nikolai's father, worked for the Petrov family until the day he died. After that, they took me in. Raised me like one of their own.
I owe everything to the Petrov family.
My loyalty. My life. My full understanding of how to order Chinese food under pressure and make that shit last long enough so they don't have to worry about me when their entire worlds are crumbling around them.
I slide on my fluffy, yellow, waterproof, knee-high Hunter boots—the storm-proof kind that make me feel like a ray of sunshine marching through the gloom of the city. My purple puffer jacket with mini daisies all over is zipped. Book open. Chapter almost done.
I head toward the elevator, flipping to the last two pages. I glance up. Despite us being on the 80th floor, the elevator is still down in the lobby. Perfect. More than enough time to squeeze in one more page before I brave the January freeze of New York City.
Hands down, it's the most beautiful time of year—icy skyline, gray light bouncing off glass buildings, everyone bundled like modern-day marshmallow soldiers, but I freeze my ass off every single day. Without fail.
I tilt the book slightly toward the elevator lights. I'm in the middle of that scene—spoiler—where Tom is standing alone in that eerie, velvet-draped room, and he realizes, all too late, that the thing watching him isn't just a man. Not anymore.
The elevator dings. I wait the obligatory five seconds for the doors to glide open so I don't have to look up from my book as I walk.
That's when I walk straight into him.