“Good. That’s the goal.” I smooth my hands over the navy dress for the hundredth time. Anya and Kristina chose well. The fabric is soft, the fit is flattering, and the silver embroidery makes me feel almost elegant.
Almost.
But elegant or not, I’m still walking into a gathering of one of the most powerful Bratva families in the country. No amount of pretty stitching can prepare me for that.
Menlow parks and cuts the engine. He doesn’t move to get out.
“Kirsten.”
I turn to face him.
“They’re going to love you,” he insists. “Just be yourself.”
I sputter my lips and reply, “I’m a data analyst from the suburbs who’s never held a gun or attended a black-tie event. I don’t think that’s what your family is expecting.”
“My family is expecting my wife. That’s all you need to be.”
Wife. The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like a costume I haven’t quite figured out how to wear.
“Fine.” I take a breath. “Let’s get this over with.”
Menlow comes around to open my door. I take his offered hand and step out into the cool evening. The scent of roses drifts from somewhere nearby—a garden, probably. The kind of garden that requires a full-time staff to maintain, if I had to bet on it.
The front door opens before we reach it, and Anya appears in a stunning gold dress to wave us inside.
“Finally! Everyone’s been asking when you’d arrive.” She pulls me into a quick hug before I can protest. “You look amazing. I told you that dress was perfect.”
I manage a smile. “You did. Thank you again for helping me find it.”
“That’s what sisters are for.” She links her arm through mine and tugs me toward the door. “Come on. Time to meet the rest of the family.”
The inside of the house is even more impressive than the outside. High ceilings with intricate molding, polished hardwood floors that gleam under crystal chandeliers, and artwork on the walls that probably belongs in museums. Fresh flowers have been arranged on antique tables, and their fragrance mixes with something delicious cooking in a distant kitchen.
But what strikes me most isn’t the wealth.
It’s the noise.
Laughter echoes from somewhere down the hall. Children’s voices, high and excited. The clatter of dishes and the sound of conversation happening all at once. It sounds like… a home.
Anya leads me through a grand foyer and into a massive living room. It’s packed with people. Far more people than I expected. They’re scattered across sofas and armchairs, gathered in small clusters, drinks in hand. A few kids chase each other around the furniture while adults try halfheartedly to calm them down.
This is not what I pictured when I imagined a Bratva gathering.
I expected cold, formal men in dark suits speaking in whispers about business and violence.
Instead, I see a woman with wavy brown hair laughing at something a blond man just said. A dark-haired woman bouncing a toddler on her hip while talking to another woman with honey-colored eyes. Two men arguing good-naturedly over what looks like a chess game while a third watches with obvious amusement.
A little boy runs past us, nearly colliding with my legs before darting off again. Someone calls after him in Russian, sounding exasperated but fond.
It’s warm, chaotic in the best way, and so incredibly normal.
“Overwhelming, isn’t it?” Anya’s voice is sympathetic. “Don’t worry. You’ll learn everyone’s names eventually.”
Kristina appears beside us, elegant in a deep green dress with detailed embroidery along the sleeves. Her dark blonde hair is swept up, and her green eyes are kind as she looks me over.
“You made it. How are you holding up?”
“Ask me in an hour.”
