The Pakhan’s Widow (Sins of the Bratva #1)

Chapter 1 Alina

ALINA

The white lace of my wedding dress scratches against my skin like a thousand tiny accusations. I stand at the altar of this ornate Russian Orthodox church, surrounded by icons of saints whose painted eyes seem to judge me, and I can barely breathe.

This isn't how I imagined my wedding day.

The dress is beautiful. I'll give my mother that much.

Ivory silk and French lace, with a cathedral train that pools behind me like spilled cream.

The bodice is encrusted with pearls and crystals that catch the light from the chandeliers overhead, making me sparkle like some kind of sacrificial offering. Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am.

I've met Sergei Morozov exactly three times.

The first time was at a restaurant, with both our families present.

He barely looked at me, spending most of the dinner discussing business with my father.

The second time was at an engagement party I didn't want, where he kissed my hand and told me I was pretty.

The third time was last week, for a final fitting of my dress, and he showed up drunk, reeking of vodka and perfume that wasn't mine.

And now I'm supposed to promise to love, honor, and obey him for the rest of my life.

The church is packed. Every pew is filled with men in expensive suits, their faces hard and their eyes harder.

I recognize most of them, various Bratva families, allies, and rivals forced to play nice for the sake of this alliance.

My father's idea of diplomacy—marry off his eldest daughter to secure a partnership with the Morozov family.

Armed guards line the walls. Not subtle security, but obvious muscle—men with bulges under their jackets that everyone pretends not to notice. This is a Bratva wedding, after all. Violence is always just beneath the surface, waiting.

I catch my father's eye from the front pew.

Viktor Popov sits with his shoulders back and his chin high, looking satisfied with himself.

Next to him, my mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, playing the role of emotional mother of the bride.

It's a performance. She's always been good at those.

My little sister Katya sits on my mother's other side, and when our eyes meet, I see the truth there—sympathy, fear, and relief that it's me standing here and not her.

She's only sixteen. In a few years, she'll probably be in my position, sold off to whatever man my father thinks will benefit him most.

Unless I can find a way to protect her.

Sergei stands beside me at the altar, and I force myself to look at him.

He's handsome enough, I suppose—dark hair slicked back, a strong jaw, expensive cologne that doesn't quite mask the smell of cigarettes.

He's thirty-five, thirteen years older than me, and there's something cold in his eyes that makes my skin crawl.

But it's not Sergei who makes my skin prickle with awareness.

It's the man standing behind him.

Dimitri Morozov. Sergei's uncle, though he doesn't look old enough for the title.

He's the best man, standing tall and imposing in a perfectly tailored black suit.

At forty-two, he's the real power in the Morozov family—the Pakhan, the boss.

Sergei might be the groom, but Dimitri is the one everyone fears.

I've heard the stories. Everyone has. Dimitri Morozov is ruthless, calculating, and absolutely merciless with his enemies. He's built an empire on blood and fear, and he's survived challenges that would have killed lesser men.

And right now, his green eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

I tell myself it's just my imagination. He's probably bored, or thinking about business, or wondering when this ceremony will be over so he can get back to whatever it is that men like him do.

But every time I glance in his direction, those eyes are still on me, tracking my every movement like a predator watching prey.

The priest begins the ceremony in Russian, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The words wash over me, familiar from a lifetime of attending church with my family, but they feel distant, like they're happening to someone else.

I'm supposed to say "I do" when prompted.

I'm supposed to smile and accept the ring and kiss my new husband and walk back down that aisle as Mrs. Sergei Morozov.

I'm supposed to go to the reception, dance the first dance, cut the cake, and then disappear into a honeymoon suite where Sergei will claim his husbandly rights.

The thought makes bile rise in my throat.

The priest asks Sergei if he takes me as his wife. Sergei's response is confident, almost bored. "I do."

Now it's my turn. The priest looks at me expectantly, and I open my mouth to speak the words that will seal my fate.

That's when the first window shatters.

The sound is deafening as glass explodes inward in a shower of colored fragments. The beautiful stained glass window depicting the Virgin Mary disintegrates, and something small and dark flies through the opening.

For a split second, everything freezes. My brain can't process what's happening. Then I see the muzzle flash from outside, and instinct takes over.

I drop to the floor, my wedding dress tangling around my legs.

Around me, chaos erupts. Gunfire—so much gunfire—echoes through the church.

People are screaming, diving for cover, scrambling over pews.

The armed guards along the walls draw their weapons and return fire, but they're shooting at shadows, at threats they can't see.

More windows shatter. I cover my head with my arms as glass rains down on me, sharp edges catching in my hair and dress. Someone is shouting orders in Russian, but I can't make out the words over the screaming and the gunfire.

I look up, searching for Katya, for my family, but all I see is chaos. Men in suits firing weapons. Women in expensive dresses crawling under pews. Blood—so much blood—spreading across the white marble floor.

And Sergei.

Sergei is still standing at the altar, his face frozen in shock. He's looking down at his chest, where three dark stains are spreading across his white shirt. Three perfect circles, right over his heart.

He takes one stumbling step toward me, his mouth opening as if to speak. Then his legs give out and he collapses, falling forward onto the altar steps. His blood pools around him, mixing with the shattered glass, and his eyes—those cold eyes—stare at nothing.

He's dead.

My fiancé is dead.

I should feel something—horror, grief, shock—but all I feel is a strange numbness. I barely knew him. I didn't want to marry him. And now he's dead at my feet, and I'm still in this wedding dress, and the world is ending around me.

Someone grabs my arm, and I scream, trying to pull away. But the grip is iron-strong, and when I look up, I see Dimitri Morozov's face above me. His expression is completely blank, showing no emotion even as bullets fly around us and people die and the church burns.

Because the church is burning now. I can smell the smoke, see the flames licking up the wooden pews. Someone must have thrown an incendiary device. The ancient wood is going up like kindling, and the smoke is getting thicker by the second.

"We need to move," Dimitri says, his voice calm and controlled, as if we're discussing the weather and not running for our lives. "Now."

I try to stand, but my dress is caught on something—glass, or debris, or maybe Sergei's body. I can't tell. Dimitri doesn't wait. He simply bends down, lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing, and starts moving.

I want to protest, to tell him to put me down, to ask about Katya and my parents. But the smoke is choking me, and the heat from the flames is intense, and all I can do is cling to his shoulders as he carries me through the inferno.

We pass bodies. So many bodies. Guards, guests, people I've known my whole life, all lying still on the blood-slicked marble. I see my father's associate face down near the entrance. I see one of Sergei's cousins slumped against a pew, his expensive suit torn and bloody.

I don't see Katya. I don't see my parents.

"My sister," I manage to choke out. "I need to find—"

"Your family got out," Dimitri says curtly. "I saw them leave through the side exit."

I don't know if he's telling the truth or just saying what I need to hear to keep me from fighting him. But I don't have the strength to argue. The smoke is too thick, the heat too intense, and my lungs are burning.

We burst through the main doors into the cool evening air, and I gasp, sucking in oxygen. Behind us, the church is fully engulfed now, flames shooting through the broken windows and licking at the domed roof. Emergency sirens wail in the distance, but they're too far away, too late.

Dimitri doesn't stop moving. He carries me across the plaza in front of the church, past the fountain where I took photos just an hour ago, past the rose garden where I was supposed to have my reception photos taken.

His men are everywhere, forming a protective corridor, weapons drawn and eyes scanning for threats.

An armored SUV sits at the curb, engine running. The back door is already open. Dimitri doesn't slow down, doesn't ask permission. He simply deposits me in the back seat and climbs in after me, slamming the door behind us.

"Drive," he orders, and the vehicle lurches forward.

I twist in my seat, looking back at the burning church.

Flames are shooting from the roof now, and the dome is starting to collapse.

People are scattered across the plaza—survivors, witnesses, the lucky ones who made it out.

I search desperately for Katya's face, for my mother's distinctive blonde hair, for any sign of my family.

But we're moving too fast, and the smoke is too thick, and then we turn a corner and the church disappears from view.

I turn back to face forward, my hands shaking, my wedding dress torn and stained with blood and soot. Dimitri sits beside me, perfectly composed, already on his phone speaking rapid Russian to someone. He's giving orders, coordinating something, his voice never wavering.

I should be grateful. He saved my life. He pulled me out of that inferno when I was frozen in shock. But as I sit here in the back of his SUV, speeding away from the carnage, one question keeps echoing in my mind.

Why?

Why did he save me? Why did he grab me, specifically, when there were dozens of other people in that church? Why is he taking me with him instead of returning me to my family?

As if sensing my thoughts, Dimitri ends his call and turns those intense green eyes on me.

Up close, I can see the details I missed at the altar—the small scar above his left eyebrow, the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, the tattoos peeking out from under his collar.

An eight-pointed star on his right pec, visible through his partially unbuttoned shirt.

The mark of a high-ranking Bratva member.

"You're safe now," he says, and it should be reassuring, but something in his tone makes it sound like a threat.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, and I'm surprised my voice is steady.

"Somewhere secure."

"I want to go home. I want to see my family."

"That's not possible right now."

"Why not?"

He studies me for a long moment, and I see something flicker in his eyes - calculation, decision, something I can't quite read. Then he leans back in his seat and says, "Because whoever attacked that church wanted everyone inside dead. Until I know who and why, you're staying with me."

It's not a request. It's not even really an explanation. It's a statement of fact, delivered with the absolute certainty of a man who's used to being obeyed.

And as we speed through the darkening streets, leaving behind the burning church and my dead fiancé and everything I thought my life would be, I realize with a cold certainty that settles in my bones…

I've just traded one prison for another.