Page 27 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

The club is massive, split into three tiers of concrete balconies wrapping around a central dance floor. The light is dim, a smoky haze of red and purple neon that makes everyone look like a shadow. But this isn't a normal club. There are no teenagers or college students here. The private booths are filled with older men in expensive suits surrounded by silent, heavily armed guards with earpieces.

It’s a snake pit. And I’ve just walked in wearing a target on my back.

I can feel the eyes on me the second we step onto the main balcony. The whispers start, a low, buzzing hum that’s instantly swallowed by the bass. The Denisov girl. The stolen bride. The Pakhan’s new toy.

I keep my shoulders back, my stride steady despite the height of my heels. I don't look at the guards. I don't look at the guns. I focus on the VIP lounge at the far end of the second tier, where a massive horseshoe-shaped leather couch is surrounded by a dozen men.

"Ah, the Ghost arrives," a voice calls out over the music.

A older man with slicked-back white hair and a deep scar running from his ear to his jawline stands up from the couch. He’s wearing a dark grey suit and a massive gold ring on his pinky finger.

Viktor Russo. The head of the rival family. The man who wants Ilya’s head on a spike.

Ilya doesn't smile. He just guides me to the empty seat in the center of the horseshoe, his hand staying firmly on my lower back. "Russo. I see you brought your captains. I didn't realize a quarterly business summit required so much security."

"We live in dangerous times, Ilya," Russo says, his eyes sliding down my body with a slow, slimy curiosity. "Especially when Pakhans start blowing up churches and taking things that don't belong to them."

"Everything in this city belongs to me if I have the strength to take it," Ilya says, his voice flat as he sits down, pulling me down next to him.

The space is cramped, his thigh pressing against mine, his arm draping over the back of the leather couch behind my shoulders. It looks like a protective gesture, but I can feel the warning in the weight of his arm.

A younger man sitting across from us lets out a loud, wet chuckle. He’s got greasy, dark hair, a crooked nose, and a gold chain hanging over his unbuttoned collar. He’s holding a glass of amber liquid, his eyes fixed entirely on my chest.

"So this is the Bratva princess," the younger man says, his voice carrying over the thrum of the bass. "I have to admit, Petr kept her hidden well. But she looks a little... used, doesn't she? I wonder if Mikhail got to taste the goods before he took a bullet."

The table goes silent.

Dmitri, standing behind our couch, shifts his weight, his hand moving slowly toward his jacket. The guards on the Russo side go rigid, their eyes darting to Ilya.

Ilya’s face is a perfect mask of cold stone. He doesn't move. He doesn't reach for his gun. But I can feel the sudden, terrifying vibration of his muscles tensing against my side.

If Ilya shoots him, the war starts right here. Papa dies tomorrow.

The younger man smiles, leaning forward, emboldened by the silence. "Come on, Ilya. Share the wealth. We all know she’s just a stolen toy. Once you’re done playing with her, I’m sure some of my boys would love to see if she’s as tight as she looks."

Before the words can even finish leaving his mouth, I reach out, grab the tall glass of sparkling champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and hurl the entire contents directly into the younger man’s face.

The liquid hits him with a wet slap dripping down his nose, his gold chain, and soaking the entire front of his white silk shirt. The bubbles fizz against his collar as he gasps, his eyes wide with a shock so absolute, he looks like he’s just been struck by lightning.

The entire VIP section goes dead silent. The music from the main floor seems to fade into a distant, hollow thud.

"If you want to talk about used goods," I say, my voice steady, sharp, and cutting through the quiet like a razor blade, "we can discuss your mother. I’ve heard she’s very popular at the docks."

The younger man’s face turns a dark, dangerous shade of purple. He stands up so fast his chair screeches against the concrete floor, his hand flying to the holster under his arm. "You little bitch⁠—"

In a flash of movement, Ilya is on his feet.

He reaches across the low glass table, grabs the younger man by his gold chain, and slams his head directly into the marble tabletop.

The sound echoes in the room.

The Russo guards draw their weapons in a split second, but Dmitri and four of our men are already there, their rifles raised and aimed directly at Viktor Russo’s head.

"Sit down, Vladimir," Viktor Russo says, his voice a low, dangerous whisper as he looks at his bleeding captain on the table. "And keep your hands where I can see them."

Ilya slowly releases the gold chain, letting Vladimir’s head flop back onto the leather seat, a dark streak of blood already smearing the table. He wipes his hand on a linen napkin, his eyes fixed entirely on Viktor Russo.

"Excuse us," Ilya says, his voice carrying the weight of a death sentence.