Page 1 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

1

VIA

This is the safest choice for me.

I repeat the words like a mantra, trying to sync them to the frantic, hummingbird beat of my heart. Mikhail stands at the altar, looking every bit the "safe" man my father promised.

He’s wearing a beige tie and it matches his personality perfectly, bland, predictable, and remarkably similar to unflavored oatmeal.

Everyone says he’s a good man and I don’t know if that’s what I want.

My father, Petr, says he’s the key to my future.

Mikhail has worked for the Denisov family for a decade, laundered our money and never once looked at me with anything other than polite reverence.

So why do I feel like I’m walking toward a firing squad instead of a husband?

Maybe I’m just paranoid.

Growing up as the Bratva’s best-kept secret will do that to a girl.

Twenty years in a gilded cage, high-security SUVs, silent bodyguards, and windows that don't open tend to skew your perspective on "safety".

I adjust the heavy, white lace of my sleeves. The fabric is beautiful and feels exactly like a shroud.

"Smile, Viallentinka," my father whispers beside me, his hand heavy on my arm. "Today, you become a woman who is protected."

"I feel protected, Papa," I lie, my voice small. "I also feel like I can’t breathe. Is the corset supposed to be this tight, or is the church just running out of oxygen?"

My father doesn't laugh. He doesn't do humor. He does power.

We reach the end of the aisle. Mikhail reaches out, his fingers cool and damp as they take mine.

I try to find that spark everyone talks about… that happily ever after sizzle, but all I get is the overwhelming urge to check the exits.

The priest begins the liturgy, his voice a droning hum that blends with the scents of lilies and old incense.

I look up at the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral, wondering if God is actually watching or if He’s as bored by this lifeless ceremony as I am.

Just say 'I do', Via. Just say it and the dread will go away.

The priest turns to me. "Viallentinka Denisova, do you take⁠—"

BOOM.

The massive oak doors of the cathedral burst open loudly. They are blown off their hinges in a spray of splinters and ancient stone. The shockwave hits me first, rattling my teeth and sending a cloud of white dust swirling through the air.

My bones freeze. My blood turns to slush in my veins.

Through the settling debris and the screams of the socialites, I see a man walking in through the doors.

He walks through the smoke with a slow, terrifying confidence. It’s like a wolf entering a sheepfold.

He’s tall in a red suit and surrounded by men who look like they’ve crawled out of the darkest corners of hell.

I can’t move. I can’t even scream. I just stare as the man in the center lifts his head, his eyes locking onto the altar.

What the heck is going on here?