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Chapter 1
Mariya
"Don't cause me any trouble."
The phrase flutters like a moth around a candle flame, never too far from the center of my thoughts. It wasn’t a statement brimming with the warmth of fatherly concern; rather, it was cold, a stark reminder of the shackles that now bind me. The final decree before I was given away, like an unwanted heirloom, to a man known only for his ties to the Bratva and his supposed ruthlessness.
I cradle the wineglass delicately between my fingers, the crimson liquid shimmering under the soft glow of the setting sun. Taking a sip, I let the rich flavors dance on my tongue, but even the finest of wines seem bland against the backdrop of my current predicament.
From the balcony of this magnificent home in Rublyovka—one of Moscow's most prestigious neighborhoods—I can see the vastness of manicured gardens, each more lush than the last. It's a paradox that such beauty surrounds a life that feels void of it.
The sun dips low, casting long shadows that seem to stretch out, searching for something. I am like the shadows, stretching endlessly in a direction far away from the life that has been chosen for me, a life I hadn't foreseen.
A light evening breeze whispers through the trees, rustling leaves in a soft, serenading dance. Birds return to their nests, their evening songs filled with a freedom I can only envy. It's ironic; I'm in one of the most luxurious neighborhoods, in a grand house with every comfort imaginable, yet I feel more caged than ever before.
The ceremony was a quiet affair, merely a business transaction finalized with a ring and papers. There was no white dress, no veil, no gleeful celebration with friends and family, and no happy groom. There was only the weighty realization that I was now bound to a stranger.
The more I think about it, the more it seems like a strange dream, marrying someone without being able to see their face. The Bratva lieutenant, as everyone whispered, would remain an enigma, only punctuating the mysterious circumstances under which this union was formed. I wonder if he ever stares at the sunset, lost in thought like I’m doing now.
With every passing moment, the garden below becomes a canvas painted in shades of twilight. The hues of pink, purple, and deep blue merge, reflecting the turmoil in my heart. Is this what my life has become? A tapestry of uncertainties?
A soft sigh escapes my lips. I can't help but think of the novels I've cherished, the tales of love and sacrifice. Here I am, living in a storyline I'd only ever read about. And yet, unlike the characters in those pages, I don’t have the privilege of a preordained happy ending.
Setting my wineglass down, I wrap my arms around myself. There's a chill in the air, hinting at the approach of winter. Or, perhaps, the chill is in my mind, the cold reality of my new life settling in. Tomorrow, I'll meet my husband.
Don’t cause me any trouble. Father's words ring again in my head.
In Moscow’s social circles, whispers travel faster than the speed of light. And in such circles, the Tarasov family's financial dealings are a subject of passionate gossip, discussed in hushed tones over crystal glasses of champagne. Everyone knows—or at least they think they do—about our family's dire indebtedness to the Bratva.
My father's ambitious run for mayor, with its lofty promises and glitzy campaigns, was funded with money that wasn’t truly ours. It's said that debts are like chains, and these chains are made of unyielding steel forged by the Bratva's merciless hands. Publicly, we are the Tarasovs, a family of prestige and power. But behind the velvet curtains, the truth is much different. We are entangled in a dangerous game with the most feared organization in Russia.
My radiant and full-of-life sister was the first to pay the price for our father’s ambition. A few years ago, she was betrothed to a Bratva lieutenant, her dreams and aspirations snuffed out in an instant. I watched with a heavy heart as she was unwillingly taken away to a life full of uncertainty and, most likely, unhappiness. It was the familiar storyline often read in tragic romance novels, except it was real, and it was happening to us.
And now, it seems, history has a cruel way of repeating itself. The weight of the family’s debt has now fallen on my shoulders, pushing me down a path eerily similar to my sister’s. My life, with dreams full of flower shops and quiet moments among petals and leaves, was signed away with the stroke of a pen.
I find myself gazing at the walls of this house, a beautiful, sprawling estate in the heart of suburban Moscow. The gardens are vast and lush, the rooms grand and opulent. To any outsider, this house would seem like a dream, but I see it for what it truly is—nothing more than a cage, its bars invisible but ever-present.
Damien Sidorov. The name sounds like a masculine hero from a book I've never read, and yet it's a name that's going to be intrinsically tied to my life from now on. He's the man to whom I've been promised, but he remains an enigma to me. All I have are whispers and fragments telling me that he's the half-brother to the notorious Nicolaevich brothers, that he's ambitious, and that he’s been entangled in the Bratva's web for far too long.
Yet for a man whose reputation seems to precede him, much of Damien’s past remains unknown, almost mysterious. I wonder if he's as apprehensive about this union as I am. Has he watched me from afar, studying the woman he is to call his wife? Or is this just another transaction to him, as straightforward as any other business deal?
I drift from room to room, my footsteps echoing in the vastness of my new home. Every piece of furniture, every draped curtain, seems to hold secrets of its own. Amidst all the grandeur, I feel more lost than ever. There's an uncanny silence that blankets the house, only interrupted by the distant sounds of nature outside.
There’s an old saying that knowledge is power. But as I stand surrounded by the unknown, I feel anything but powerful. I am Mariya Tarasova, the daughter of a politician and now the wife of a Bratva lieutenant, and yet I am but a stranger to myself.
In the quiet solitude of the evening, I find myself yearning for a glimpse of Damien, to put a face to the name, to see the man who holds the keys to my cage. Perhaps, in his eyes, I might find answers to the countless questions that swirl in my mind.
The soft shuffling of footsteps breaks my reverie and an imposing figure strides into the room. Broad-shouldered and with a chiseled jawline, his very presence feels like a barrier, intended, no doubt, to keep me in line. His close-cropped dark hair and cold grey eyes convey a stern authority that makes me instinctively straighten up.
"I’m Oskar," he announces in a deep baritone, though I already know his name from the hushed whispers of the household staff. "I'm assigned to ensure your safety."
I nod, swallowing the apprehension that has suddenly clawed its way up my throat. "Why the need for protection inside the house? Am I in danger?"
His lips barely twitch. "It's protocol. For everyone connected to the Bratva."
Wanting to understand more about this curious situation I've found myself in, I press on, my voice barely a whisper. "Where is Damien?"
"He will be here when he wants to be," Oskar responds flatly, shutting me down before I can pry any further.
