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Book:Arranged To The Bravta King Published:2024-11-11

Maria
We step out into the long hallway. Paige walks in the direction of the front hall as I follow Natasha to a back door that is heavily guarded. We step outside into the crisp autumn air and the scent of fallen leaves mingling with the distant sound of birds. The estate sprawls before me, and Natasha guides me toward a secluded building.
“The estate is well-guarded,” Natasha says as we approach the range. “You won’t get anywhere on foot.”
We step into the building-the ceiling is low, but the length of the building is long. Individual stalls are set up with dividers in between. At the end of the stall is a target. “First lesson: firearms are not accessories,” says Natasha. “They’re tools and demand respect, so don’t aim unless you intend to shoot.” She hands me a sleek handgun, surprisingly heavy in my grip. “This is a Glock 19. It’s reliable, accurate, and easy to use.”
I turn the gun over in my hands, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement I make. “Okay.” I steady my hands. “What do I do?”
“Take a deep breath,” Natasha instructs, her voice calm and patient. She positions herself beside me, guiding my stance and grip on the weapon. “Now, aim at the target. Focus on the center, and when you’re ready, slowly squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it. Don’t compensate for the recoil. Breathe, naive girl.”
I stare down the barrel of the gun, the world narrowing to the small black circle at the center of the target.
Natasha speaks. “Now, pull the trigger.”
With a deep breath, I squeeze the trigger. The gunshot is deafening, reverberating through my entire body as the recoil jolts my arm. My ears are ringing despite the protection, but when I look downrange, I see I’ve hit the target. Not the center, but I hit the target.
“Molodets!” Natasha praises with a genuine smile. “Again.”
With each shot from the gun and the reverberations coursing down my arms, I feel a newfound strength flowing through me, transforming my nervousness into exhilaration and determination.
Natasha is right.
A pakhan’s wife should know more than how to kill with her looks.
Flexing my fingers, my hands are sore from pulling the trigger while Natasha and I pack up the guns. Up close, I stare at the small holes I shot into the target. The edges are curled and slightly burned from the impact of the bullets. I can’t deny that it gives me a sense of power. It’s a feeling that’s been missing from my life.
The guard is no longer at the back door, and as we enter, we hear a commotion from the front. Mikhail’s voice carries through the hallways, and I stop to listen to his angry curses. I cast a worried look at Natasha, but she simply shrugs.
“Go to him,” she says, her tone betraying concern. “Before you regret it.”
I race toward the front hall, making my way toward the door, each step faster than the last. The hall is crowded with Sorokin’s guards, all armed and blocking my way. Sorokin stands in the doorway, preventing Mikhail from bursting in. As I approach, I’m pushed back by one of the guards, and his cold look warns me from going any farther.
The small coatroom near the door has a small window, and before anyone can stop me, I hurry in there. In one leap, I stand on a built-in bench by the window. Stained glass obstructs the view outside, but I can lift the latch and open it wide.
The path to the front door is a makeshift battleground, as Mikhail and Pavel stand in the middle of a circle formed by Sorokin’s men. Guns are raised, and each man’s stance is unyielding as their eyes lock in a deadly standoff.
Pavel is usually coolheaded, but the determination in his eyes mirrors Mikhail’s. They’re ready for whatever Sorokin and his men throw at them. But it’s only the two of them.
They can’t win. What is Mikhail thinking?
“I’m warning you, Mikhail Ivanov!” Sorokin says. “This is insanity, and for what? Her?”
I can feel the intensity of Mikhail’s rage from where I watch.
“I don’t care,” he growls. “I’ll kill the world if the world tries to take Maria away from me.”
Mikhail declares his love for me without hesitation, but he’s risking his life to do it. I can’t let him risk everything for our love. Not when I know what’s at stake.
“Stop this madness,” Sorokin snarls. “Winning is impossible in your circumstances. Don’t push me to prove it.”
Neither man will back down to the other. And I fear that our twisted love story may be the spark that ignites a war nobody can win.
“Mikhail!” I call out the window.
His demeanor changes almost instantly. His gaze softens as it locks on mine, but his hands are gripping that gun too tightly. “Maria!” he shouts. He takes a step forward, and the guns are lifted higher. Mikhail won’t walk away unless I make him believe in the future.
“Once this war is over, Mikhail, we can be together again. I promise.”
Sorokin steps onto the path where I can see him, and the guns are lowered slightly. “Listen to her, Mikhail Ivanov. Leave while you still can.”
Mikhail’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might lash out. But after an agonizing silence, he nods abruptly. With one last lingering look at me, he brushes past Sorokin’s guards and heads back to his SUV, and Pavel follows. Mikhail jumps into the SUV, and then Pavel backs it down the driveway to the iron gates. Mikhail stares at me the whole time.
I grip the stone windowsill to force my knees from trembling. When the SUV is gone, I turn away slowly, and Sorokin is standing in the doorway of the coatroom, watching me. His look assesses me again, but his expression is thoughtful, not as cold as before. He must be wondering what to do with me.
“That was well done, Maria Zakharovna,” he commends me. “Lying to him in a way that he accepts.”
I swallow hard, struggling to maintain my composure. “What?”
“The truth is,” Sorokin explains, “you are a distraction for Mikhail. Neither I nor the other pakhans will permit you to be released to him when this is all over.” He pauses. “We disapprove of your marriage. Understood?”
My hands clutch my belly, and fear threatens to rip me into pieces. But I won’t let this man think he can rule my life. I tell one more lie.
“Understood,” I reply with a steady voice.
“Good,” Sorokin says before turning and striding away.
As soon as he’s gone, I lean against the wall. My knees shake, threatening to give way underneath me, and I force myself to take deep breaths. I refuse to break down here in front of these men. I walk out of the coatroom and quickly make my way down the hallway. Finally, I reach my own room and lock the door, and as soon I’m alone, I slide down onto the floor. I press my face against the prickly rug and sob.
Am I mad? I’m being treated both violently and tenderly at the same time. There is a contradiction between what I’m experiencing and the reality of my situation. I’m expected to accept the morals of the Bratva as my new norm.
But what if I can’t accept violence as acceptable social behavior?
And what if Mikhail can’t let me go?
Why does our love have to be the one thing that threatens everybody?
The lie I told Mikhail hangs over me like an oppressive shadow of doubt. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the image of his face when I made that empty promise. The hope in his eyes when I reassured him it would be okay. But it won’t. I knew that before Sorokin even spoke to me.
“Fuck!” My hands ball into fists and strike the floor. “Fuck everybody.”
Alone, I indulge in my misery. For now, I give myself permission to break down.
But when the crying is over, I’ll get even with these brutal men.
When the last embers of their Bratvas have flickered out, I will find my way back to Mikhail.
No matter how long it takes.