The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride (Crowned in Sin #7)

1. Via

VIA

This is the safest choice for me.

I repeat the words like a mantra, trying to sync them to the frantic, hummingbird beat of my heart. Mikhail stands at the altar, looking every bit the "safe" man my father promised.

He’s wearing a beige tie and it matches his personality perfectly, bland, predictable, and remarkably similar to unflavored oatmeal.

Everyone says he’s a good man and I don’t know if that’s what I want.

My father, Petr, says he’s the key to my future.

Mikhail has worked for the Denisov family for a decade, laundered our money and never once looked at me with anything other than polite reverence.

So why do I feel like I’m walking toward a firing squad instead of a husband?

Maybe I’m just paranoid.

Growing up as the Bratva’s best-kept secret will do that to a girl.

Twenty years in a gilded cage, high-security SUVs, silent bodyguards, and windows that don't open tend to skew your perspective on "safety".

I adjust the heavy, white lace of my sleeves. The fabric is beautiful and feels exactly like a shroud.

"Smile, Viallentinka," my father whispers beside me, his hand heavy on my arm. "Today, you become a woman who is protected."

"I feel protected, Papa," I lie, my voice small. "I also feel like I can’t breathe. Is the corset supposed to be this tight, or is the church just running out of oxygen?"

My father doesn't laugh. He doesn't do humor. He does power.

We reach the end of the aisle. Mikhail reaches out, his fingers cool and damp as they take mine.

I try to find that spark everyone talks about… that happily ever after sizzle, but all I get is the overwhelming urge to check the exits.

The priest begins the liturgy, his voice a droning hum that blends with the scents of lilies and old incense.

I look up at the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral, wondering if God is actually watching or if He’s as bored by this lifeless ceremony as I am.

Just say 'I do', Via. Just say it and the dread will go away.

The priest turns to me. "Viallentinka Denisova, do you take—"

BOOM.

The massive oak doors of the cathedral burst open loudly. They are blown off their hinges in a spray of splinters and ancient stone. The shockwave hits me first, rattling my teeth and sending a cloud of white dust swirling through the air.

My bones freeze. My blood turns to slush in my veins.

Through the settling debris and the screams of the socialites, I see a man walking in through the doors.

He walks through the smoke with a slow, terrifying confidence. It’s like a wolf entering a sheepfold.

He’s tall in a red suit and surrounded by men who look like they’ve crawled out of the darkest corners of hell.

I can’t move. I can’t even scream. I just stare as the man in the center lifts his head, his eyes locking onto the altar.

What the heck is going on here?

The silence that follows is worse than the noise.

It’s that ringing, hollow vacuum where your brain tries to figure out whether you’re still in one piece.

I can see the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light breaking through the shattered roof.

It looks almost peaceful, if you ignore the fact that the front of the church is now a pile of toothpicks.

Beside me, Mikhail’s hand is shaking, his fingers twitching against mine like a dying fish.

So much for the safe man, I think, my mind veering into a weirdly calm place. He looks like he’s about to piss himself, and we haven't even exchanged rings yet.

Is this the man I’m to live my entire life with?

"Ilya Kovalevskii," my father’s voice growls. It’s the low, dangerous tone he uses right before someone disappears from the city records.

He steps half a pace forward toward me, his hand tightening on my arm so hard, I’m pretty sure I’ll have a permanent lace-patterned bruise by tomorrow.

Ilya doesn't stop walking.

He reaches the start of the pews, his men fanning out behind him with the kind of synchronization that only comes from years of killing people for a living.

He’s taller than the pictures.

Much taller.

And his suit is the kind of black that seems to suck the light out of the room.

"Petr," Ilya says. His voice isn't loud, but it carries to every corner of the wreckage. It’s deep and smooth. "You’re looking frail, Petr. Age doesn’t suit you.”

"You’re in the wrong zip code, Ilya," my father snaps. "This is a house of God. And this is my daughter’s wedding. Get out before I have my men paint the street with your brains."

Ilya freezes for a second and bursts out in a dry, humorless laugh.

He stops at the foot of the altar, ignoring the dozens of guns currently being leveled at his chest by my father’s security.

He looks up at us, his gaze skipping over my father and landing directly on Mikhail.

Mikhail flinches. I can actually feel the heat of his panic.

"I’m not here for you, Petr," Ilya says, tilting his head toward my soon-to-be-husband. "I’m here to collect a debt. And since Mikhail here decided to stop answering his phone, I figured a public venue was the best way to ensure he didn't scurry off into the floorboards."

My father frowns, his eyes darting to Mikhail. "What the hell is he talking about?"

"Nothing! He’s lying, Petr, I swear," Mikhail stammers. His voice is an octave higher than it was five minutes ago. "I don’t owe him anything. He’s just trying to disrupt the alliance. He’s trying to weaken you!"

Ilya pulls a folded piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket.

He moves slowly, like he’s bored. "Fourteen million, Mikhail. Give or take a few hundred thousand in interest. You’ve been skimming from the northern ports for eighteen months.

Did you really think I wouldn't notice my own money going missing? "

The gasp that ripples through the guests is almost synchronized. My father’s grip on my arm slackens as his shock turns into fury. He turns to Mikhail, his face darkening to a dangerous shade of purple.

"Mikhail?" Papa asks, and the word is a threat.

"I-I can explain," Mikhail whispers. He looks at Ilya, his eyes wide and pleading. "Ilya, please. Not here. Not like this. I have the money. I’ll get it. Just give me another week. I’m marrying into the Denisov family today—I’ll be good for it. I swear on my life, I’ll have it to you by Friday!"

"You're using my daughter’s dowry to pay off a debt to a Kovalevskii?" My father’s voice is a low hiss. He looks like he’s about to execute Mikhail right here on the carpet.

Great. My wedding has officially turned into an audit.

I want to say something, something that points out how ridiculous this is, but my throat is too tight.

My heart is hitting my ribs so hard it hurts. This is the moment where I should run.

I should hike up this ridiculous white dress and bolt for the side door.

But I can’t move. Because Ilya Kovalevskii has finally looked at me.

It’s like being hit by a physical force.

His eyes are cold, hard, and terrifying. He freezes. The boredom in his posture vanishes, replaced by a sudden stillness.

Don't look at me. Look at the beige idiot next to me. Look at my father. Just don't look at me.

A slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile spreads across Ilya’s face. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the smile of a man who just realized he holds all the cards.

"Actually," Ilya says, his voice dropping into a register that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the fourteen million, Mikhail."

No. No.

Mikhail blinks, hope flickering in his pathetic eyes. "You... you don't?"

Ilya points a gloved finger directly at me. "I’ll take her instead."

Kill me. Now.

The world stops. I’m pretty sure my heart actually skips a beat.

"Like hell you will!" my father roars, his hand flying to the holster at his back.

"Petr, don't!" Mikhail screams, but it’s too late.

The sound of the first gunshot is the trigger. My father’s men open fire, and Ilya’s team responds with a wall of lead that sounds like the end of the world.

The smell hits me first. Sulfur. Burnt ozone. Gunpowder.

It’s not just a smell. It’s a key turning in a lock I’ve kept bolted for twenty years.

Suddenly, I’m not twenty-three. I’m three years old. I’m sitting on the marble floor of our old sunroom, playing with a wooden doll. I see the flash of the muzzle.

I hear the wet, heavy thud of something hitting the ground. I look up, and my mother’s face is gone. There’s just red.

Red on the white lilies in the vase.

Red on my hands.

Red on the white lace of her dress.

"Via! Move!"

My father is screaming, but he sounds like he’s underwater. I can’t breathe. The air in the cathedral is thick with white stone dust and the metallic tang of blood.

I’m paralyzed.

I’m that little girl again, waiting for the monster to come for me too.

"Please," I whisper, though I don’t know who I’m talking to.

A hand grabs my waist. For a second, I think it’s my father, but then I’m yanked backward.

"Stay still, damn it!" Mikhail’s voice cracks in my ear.

He's not protecting me.

He’s crouching behind my voluminous skirts, his hands gripping my hips as he tries to hide his cowardice behind five layers of expensive lace.

You piece of shit.

I try to twist away, but he’s strong in his desperation.

He’s sobbing now, pressing his face into the small of my back as bullets whistle through the air around us.

One hits the heavy gold chalice on the altar, sending it spinning with a loud clang.

"Get up, Mikhail! Fight!" my father yells from behind a fallen marble pillar.

"I can't! He'll kill me!" Mikhail wails.

The gunfire from Ilya’s side stops abruptly.

The silence is even more terrifying than the noise.

I’m standing alone in the center of the altar, a white target against a backdrop of ancient stone.

I look down. A shadow is falling over me.

Ilya is standing right there.

He’s walked through the gunfire like it was a light drizzle.

There’s a streak of blood on his cheek—not his, I realize—and his obsidian eyes are burning with a dark, manic light.

He looks at me, then his gaze drops to the man cowering behind my dress.

"Mikhail," Ilya says softly. "You really are a pathetic little worm, aren't you?"

"Ilya, wait—"

Mikhail never finishes the sentence. Ilya raises a matte-black handgun, the movement so fast I almost miss it.

Pop. Pop.

Two suppressed shots. I feel the impact through the fabric of my dress.

Mikhail’s grip on my hips goes slack.

He doesn't even make a sound, just slides down the back of my legs and hits the floor with a heavy, wet thud.

I don't look back. I don't need to.

I know exactly what color the blood is on the white lilies.

It’s the same shade that stained my mother’s favorite rug.

The same iron-heavy scent that has lived in the back of my throat since I was three years old.

Everything goes grey. The screaming guests, the shouting guards, the ringing in my ears—it all fades into a dull, distant hum, like a radio tuned to a dead frequency.

I’m staring at Ilya, but I’m not really seeing him. I’m seeing a ghost.

I’m seeing the end of a life I never really got to start.

I try to draw a breath, but my lungs feel like they’ve been filled with wet cement.

I’m gasping, short, shallow bursts of air that hit the back of my throat and die there.

My chest is tight, my heart a panicked bird battering itself against the cage of my ribs.

Breathe. Just breathe, Via.

I can’t.

Ilya steps forward, closing the distance between us. He’s saying something, his lips moving, but the words don't reach me.

They’re just vibrations in the air.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the side of my face as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

His touch is steady. Cold. It should make me flinch, but I’m too far gone to feel anything.

"Via! No!"

My father’s voice breaks through the grey for a split second. I see him trying to stand, his face twisted in pure agony, but one of Ilya’s men—a massive guy with a scarred throat—levels a rifle at his chest.

"Stay down, Petr," Ilya says, and this time, the words cut through. His eyes are fixed on mine, obsidian and absolute. "Consider this a repossession. You can send the paperwork to my office."

Before the meaning can even register, Ilya moves. He hooks a massive arm around my waist and hoists me up.

I don't fight him. I don't even have the strength to lift my arms.

My limbs are heavy and useless as he flips me over his shoulder. My head hangs down his back, my eyes fixed on the white marble floor as it begins to move.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His stride is rhythmic. I’m gasping for air, my vision tunneling as the hyperventilation takes over. I see the bodies of the guards, their suits stained dark.

I see the shattered remains of the stained-glass windows, sparkling like diamonds in the dust.

I’m dying. I have to be dying. This is what it feels like to leave the world behind.

I see my father one last time.

He’s standing, held back by two of his own men, his mouth open in a silent scream. He looks so small. So old.

"Cover us!" Ilya roars.

The sound of the guns starts again.

It’s not the distant, muffled noise from before.

It’s a deafening, rhythmic crack-crack-crack of cover fire, echoing off the high stone walls of the cathedral.

The vibration of the shots rattles through the floor, through Ilya’s body, and straight into mine.

It hits me like a bucket of ice water.

The grey vanishes.

The radio static snaps into a high-pitched, piercing scream. The smell of sulfur and blood rushes back in, thick enough to choke on.

I’m being taken.

This isn't a dream.

I’m actually being taken by a man who just murdered my husband-to-be, and he is carrying me out of the only world I’ve ever known.

The cold air of the street hits my face, sharp and biting.

I see the black SUV waiting like a hearse.

I see the smoke rising from the church doors.

I start to scream.