Page 4 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“You’re lying.”

He doesn’t respond, just signals to the driver. The van starts moving, pulling out of the parking space with smooth precision.

Through the tinted window, I catch a glimpse of security finally rushing toward the garage entrance, too late and too far to help.

The man beside me settles back against his seat, adjusting his cuff links with the same calm control he’s displayed since appearing. Like abducting a senator’s daughter is just another item on his evening’s agenda.

I force myself to breathe, to think, to remember every security briefing I’ve ever sat through. Panic kills. Information saves lives.

So I study him the way he studied me in the ballroom—cataloging details, looking for weaknesses. The expensive suit, the military bearing, the Russian accent, the absolute authority his men showed him.

This isn’t some desperate criminal. This is someone powerful enough to walk into a high-security political event and mark his target in plain sight.

Someone dangerous enough that my father might actually have known this was coming.

Chapter Two - Pavel

The estate sits twenty minutes outside the city, far enough from curious eyes but close enough to remain practical. I’ve used this property before—for negotiations that require privacy, for holding assets until terms are finalized, and sometimes for situations where visibility becomes a liability. The house itself is unremarkable from the outside, designed to blend into the wooded landscape surrounding it.

Security is already in place when we arrive. Fedor meets us at the front entrance, his expression carefully neutral as he opens the van door. He’s worked for me long enough to know when questions are unwelcome.

“The house is clear,” he reports in Russian. “Staff dismissed as instructed. Perimeter is secure.”

“Good. Station two men at the gate, one at the rear entrance. Rotation every six hours.” I step out of the van, then turn back to extend a hand toward Serena.

She stares at it like I’m offering her a snake.

“I can manage,” she says coldly, pushing past my hand to climb out on her own. Her heels click against the gravel driveway, and despite the torn dress strap and disheveled hair, she holds herself with the same rigid composure she displayed at the gala.

Interesting.

Most people would be falling apart by now. The shock, the fear, the realization that their circumstances have fundamentally changed—it usually manifests within the first hour. Tears, bargaining, desperate attempts at manipulation. I’ve seen it countless times in various forms.

Serena Souris walks toward the house like she’s arriving at a hotel. Her chin is up, shoulders back, every line of her body radiating controlled fury rather than panic.

I follow her inside, watching as she takes in the entry hall with quick, assessing glances. Hardwood floors, minimal furniture, everything functional rather than decorative. This isn’t a home. It’s a holding facility dressed up just enough to avoid looking like a prison.

She knows the difference immediately. I can see it in the way her gaze lingers on the security cameras mounted in the ceiling corners, the reinforced doorframes, the absence of personal touches that would indicate anyone actually lives here.

“Upstairs,” I tell her, gesturing toward the staircase. “Second door on the right.”

She doesn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about.”

“You’ll be more comfortable discussing this sitting down.”

“I’m comfortable enough right here.” She turns to face me fully, arms crossed over her chest. The defensive posture would be more effective if her hands weren’t trembling slightly. She’s managing the fear well, but it’s there beneath the surface, carefully contained.

I consider insisting, then decide against it. Small concessions cost nothing and sometimes reveal more than force ever could.

“Your father has been interfering with Bratva operations,” I say, keeping my tone neutral and factual. “Financial manipulation through his banking connections, political pressure on businesses under our protection,coordination with law enforcement to disrupt our supply chains. The interference has become expensive.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I catch the slight widening of her eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or possibly confirmation of something she already suspected.

“So you kidnapped me to send him a message,” she says flatly. “How original.”

“Not a message. A solution.” I move past her into the sitting room, trusting she’ll follow out of sheer need to understand her situation. “The Bratva leadership decided that continued conflict with your father serves no one’s interests. An alliance became the logical alternative.”

She does follow, stopping just inside the doorway. “What kind of alliance?”