Page 1 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

Prologue – Sofia

Moscow

Sixteen Years Ago

The apartment smells of old paper and black tea.

It’s my favorite smell in the world.

I sit cross-legged on the rug beside the coffee table, my socks sliding against the faded fabric as I lean closer to the book spread open in front of me. Snow taps softly against the apartment windows, and somewhere beyond the glass, Moscow groans under the weight of another winter night.

But here, with my papa, it’s warm and safe.

The radiator hisses quietly in the corner. Books tower around us in uneven stacks—on shelves, beneath chairs, beside the couch. Papa says we’re running out of space, but every month, he still brings more home.

I think the apartment is made of books more than of walls.

“Again,” Papa says softly beside me.

I wrinkle my nose down at the page.

“The fox…” I pause dramatically, sounding out the longer word. “Disappeared into the forest.”

Papa smiles faintly. “Good.”

I beam at him anyway.

His praise always feels important. Like winning something invisible.

He reaches over and taps the page gently with his finger. His hands are elegant—long fingers, clean nails, ink stains near the side of his thumb.

“What does ‘disappeared’ mean?”

I think for a moment before answering, all seriousness. “Gone.”

“Yes.” His voice is warm. “But not always forever.”

I nod as if this is very important information.

Because when Papa speaks, it usually is.

The lamp beside us casts a golden glow across the room, softening everything around the edges. Outside our apartment door, the building is quiet except for distant footsteps and the clanging of pipes somewhere upstairs.

Papa closes the book and studies me. “You notice patterns very quickly, Sofia.”

I blink. “Patterns?”

“The way things repeat.” He reaches for another book from the stack beside him. “Most people look at words and only see stories.”

“And what do you see?”

A strange expression passes over his face then. So brief that I almost miss it.

“Instructions,” he says quietly.

I don’t understand what that means, but I nod anyway. Papa always speaks like there are hidden meanings tucked inside ordinary sentences.

He opens the second book and slides it toward me. “Do you remember what I taught you yesterday?”