Chapter 2
NATALIA
ONE MONTH LATER…
Anton Romanov sounds like a lovely person, but no one will think so by the time our wedding is done.
Mama chattered away about what a nice young man he was while she helped me into this dress, swept my hair up into a braid around my head and pushed in diamond hair pins. I couldn’t help smiling in satisfaction at how wrong she was.
“Remember that we need you to make the right marriage, malyshka. Our good name depends on it. The Romanov boy is handsome, and his family are our allies. It will help everyone, this marriage. You will like being married, once it happens, you’ll see that it’s not so bad.
Nothing to be afraid of. Some parts of it you will enjoy… ”
She squeezed my shoulder as she said it. I tried not to roll my eyes.
My mother has been trying to sell me on the idea of marriage for years.
I know that my father and mother went through with an arranged marriage, and they’re happy with each other.
As far as I know, my mother has never wanted anything other than a marriage and children and lots of Bratva events to attend.
She is perfectly content being married to my father.
For me, marriage seems like a chore. I’m only twenty-one. Right now, I’m happy staying at home with our paintings and Dasha.
Not to mention that the only reason that any of these men want to marry me is the power they’ll gain with the rest of the Bratva.
If my brothers hadn’t been murdered by that madman, my life would be perfect. Though I suppose there’s no use dwelling on the past. That’s what my parents would say, anyway.
I will get married at some point. I’m sure of it.
When I do, it won’t be a boring, pre-negotiated transaction with another Bratva family.
Though, it would be a shame not to wear this dress. It’s my favorite so far, after four engagements.
The shimmering bodice is hand-embroidered with pearl beads, and the silk skirt is deliciously comfortable.
I’ve started quite the collection — of course, you can’t choose the same dress for different weddings, even if the occasion never goes ahead.
That would be terrible luck, Mama tells me…
Although bad luck is not something I’m opposed to, when it comes to my weddings. Some might say I invite it in.
Papa always tells me that my standards are too high.
I can’t help that I’m a perfectionist.
I’ve blown off the past four fiancés that he’s shoved in my face — all with good reason, of course.
At the altar, I’ve revealed a scandal about each of my previous fiancés.
Second family. Stolen identity. Secret gambling addiction. Too close relationship with an infamous FBI agent.
These things happen in the Bratva, but everyone pretends they don’t. So when I bring them to light on a public occasion — my wedding day — with compelling evidence to back them up, everyone has to act horrified. Even if, behind closed doors, they have just as many skeletons in their closet.
Some might say it’s lucky, that I’m placed in a household where there’s so much Bratva gossip that I can’t help overhearing. That I’m just an unlucky bride whose parents keep selecting the wrong men.
Those people underestimate me.
I think my father knows the truth. That I painstakingly research each of my fiancés, digging deep into their pasts for every shred of scandal, in the same way that I analyze the paintings the Bratva brings in to check for authenticity.
My father hasn’t said anything, but his disappointment grows greater with each cancelled engagement. The engagement periods are getting shorter. When I was seventeen, engaged for the first time, I had a whole year to research.
Now, on my fifth fiancé, Anton Romanov and I have only been engaged for a single month.
At first, it looked like he was squeaky clean.
The thought had me panicked. What if my parents had finally chosen the one Bratva suitor who didn’t have a scandal in his past?
My initial inquiries with the kitchen staff — always the best place to start — went nowhere. A quiet word with my mother’s assistants didn’t help either.
Even using my allowance money to discreetly commission New York’s top private detective came up with nothing.
Nothing. Nol.
What if Anton Romanov was exactly as he seemed on the surface — tall, handsome and perfect?
My mother certainly seemed more relaxed about this engagement, as if Anton’s superficial good looks meant that there was no way I would jeopardize the marriage.
I can admit that he’s aesthetically pleasing, but a handsome face doesn’t change any of my reasons for not marrying. I still went in search of a scandal. My doubts deepened with every passing day. I was trapped, with nowhere to turn, nothing to do to escape this engagement.
That was, until I received a padded mailer full of documents about him last week. Meticulously organized.
The handwritten note said, “Thank me later,” in a barely-legible scrawl.
The files were everything I could have wanted. Like my prayers had been answered.
Every detail was juicier than the last. I stayed up all night reading. I don’t know where this information came from, but I’ve never had such a convincing case against a fiancé before. It was a treasure trove.
Emails, photographs, text messages, even a link which took me to a video, recorded on CCTV.
Whoever it came from, they had access to information that no one in our circles even suspected.
My wedding day jitters are not nerves about what married life will be like. Instead, I’m jittery with excitement about the bombshell I get to drop at this ceremony.
When my hair is done, my mother pulls back with a flourish and turns my head so that I’m looking straight at my reflection. My hair is a little too tight for my liking, but I thank her anyway.
“A perfect bride, ready for a perfect wedding, malyshka. We are so proud of you.”
I feel it then, a pang of guilt for letting her and Papa down again.
I know how badly they want me to marry, that the future of our family name is riding on this, and that they’re giving me safe, reasonable choices.
Not one of my prospective fiancés has been cruel. They just haven’t been right, either.
As I slide my feet into the cream silk stilettos lined up next to the mirror, I let myself dream of a love that makes my heart pound and my breath catch — the kind of love you read about in books.
That’s what I’m waiting for.
That’s what I’m fantasizing about as I step into the candlelit church.
My mind is a whole world away from the eyes of the Bratva.
At this point, my weddings are an annual event, so I recognize the guests looking back at me. Children who have grown a whole foot since the last time I saw them, newlywed couples, grandmothers, cousins, the place is packed. Every one of them is wondering whether I’m going to go through with it.
As my father walks me down the aisle, he murmurs in my ear.
“This one is a good match, Natalia. Remember that no one likes a scheming woman. Don’t do anything foolish.”
I won’t.
But I fear my father and I have different opinions on what would be foolish.
The priest clears his throat to begin, but I step forward, dropping Anton’s hand. There’s no point in making these people sit here for hours until he asks if there are any objections. My father, standing in the front row, shoots me a look of alarm.
“I have an objection,” I say crisply.
A groan goes through the room, followed by a titter of laughter.
Anton’s face shifts from that handsome smile into something darker.
“What are you doing, Natalia? This is not the moment for objections. The priest hasn’t even opened his mouth,” he explains to me, as if I’m an imbecile who doesn’t know how a wedding works. This is my fifth.
I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. I keep my focus on the crowd.
“Anton Romanov, my fiancé, has been passing information to a mafia contact in exchange for money. If you all look under your seats, you’ll find that I have convincing evidence—”
“Maksim!” Anton lets out a roar, that chiseled, clean-shaven face reddening in embarrassment. He runs straight for my father in the front row of the chapel. “We had a deal. You said that you could control this little bi—”
This always happens.
The men glare at me, they yell about how I’m a bitch who doesn’t know what she’s talking about, they deny their wrongdoing with forceful, harsh words. I don’t know why they’re always so angered. If their life choices embarrass them so much, why do it in the first place?
I think this reaction only proves the truth of what I’m saying — and the fact that they’re willing to curse in a church doesn’t exactly raise their status in the eyes of the crowd.
I raise my voice a little and keep speaking calmly.
“In these files, you’ll find considerable evidence that Anton has been paid to provide information about our activities to the Mafia. Romeo Cavilleri has profited from Anton’s loose lips, time and time again. For ten years, since he was eighteen years old, he’s been on the mafia payroll.
“He’s ruined business deals, territory acquisitions, and most importantly — he’s destroyed lives. Several times, the information he willingly provided has seen Bratva blood spilled. Lives taken. Families devastated.”
I’m satisfied by the gasp that runs through the crowd as I pause. “Anton Romanov should not be trusted to take on the Bryusov seat on the Council of the Bratva, in everyone’s best interests. Would you really want an informant at the very top levels of our organization?”
The Romanovs explode in outrage. Anton rushes across to them, voicing his denials and excuses, even as they shove the compelling case I’ve prepared in his face.
Others in the crowd pick up the booklets I’ve prepared for this occasion.
They will find the information fully referenced, with footnotes and evidence.
Stills of the CCTV footage. Even a photo of Anton and Romeo Cavilleri, the Italian mafia don, smiling together as scantily-clad waitresses parade around in the background.
The crowd, in a word, descends into chaos, shoving files at each other, tossing accusations across the aisle.
The main thing is that no one is looking at me anymore.
I can slip out of my own wedding, unnoticed, a mere five minutes after I stepped up to the altar. I can’t suppress a small, triumphant smile as I step down from the altar.
One man is laughing louder than the rest of the crowd, his eyes fixed on me.
I don’t recognize him, but he’s hard to miss. A ragged scar mars his left cheek, he’s covered in tattoos, and he’s huge.
I catch a flash of his blue eyes following me as I storm down the aisle, tossing the bouquet of white roses to the floor of the church. He seems amused, even pleased, by my behavior.
At least somebody is on my side.