Page 12 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

Papers matter, and so do signatures, names, and legal recognition. Everything else can be traded.

The private hall where today’s ceremony will take place sits above one of our secured properties in Manhattan, intentionally discreet, not ostentatiously expensive, but sterile. Dark wood paneling runs along the walls, broken by floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city in steel and glass. Morning light spills across polished floors in long geometric bands.

Anton lounges near the bar carelessly, tie loosened despite explicit instructions from Nikolai to stop dressing like he’s going to start a fistfight at every formal gathering. His bruised knuckles wrap around a glass of whiskey, and even sitting as still as he can, he radiates a dangerous recklessness, the kind of volatile energy that makes other men instinctively calculate exit routes.

Nikolai’s lean build stands near the windows, immaculate as always, not a single strand of hair out of place. His suit tailored to perfection, sharp features taking in the people like a sniper. Where Anton breaks bones with impact, Nikolai destroys systems with spreadsheets.

Sergei is the balance between them, as usual. At forty-one, he has mastered stoicism in a way few men ever do. Standing in silence for minutes, he somehow dominates a room without trying. Diplomats trust him, politicians underestimate him, and both mistakes tend to cost the other parties a lot.

As I approach, Anton studies me over the rim of his glass.

“I never thought I would witness this,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

I adjust my cuff without looking at him.

“You have seen far worse.”

“None nearly this entertaining,” he quips, smiling.

Nikolai has made his way over silently, greeting me with a nod. Looking at Anton, he says, “Your definition of entertaining remains deeply concerning.”

Anton ignores him, eyes fixed on me.

“This is real.” He doesn’t even bother disguising it and I don’t bother answering him. Anton exhales through his nose. “That is exactly what worries me.”

A faint smirk traces the curve of my lips. I’m far too comfortable with these men; family is rarely gentle in our world. Concern isn’t soft or careful. It looks like obsessive scrutiny because that is what keeps people like us alive. Answering their questions is a responsibility.

“Why her?” Nikolai bites first, which I didn’t expect him to do.

Anton’s fingers come up to fiddle with his tie, much to Nikolai’s displeasure.

“Yes,” he echoes, ignoring Nikolai’s begrudging glare. “Why her, and why this?”

My cousins already know Zara matters, but they can’t understand why.

Zara Khan operates like a knife, moving through systems built on secrecy to somehow keep finding the Achilles heel everyone else misses. She is reckless, though she would call it determined. She trusts the truth more than safety, believing that information, if exposed correctly, can force justice from corrupt structures.

This thought of hers is wrong often enough to concern me. She is right often enough to terrify everyone else; she possesses no instinct for her own safety, which is her greatest strength and her greatest liability.

I don’t give them this though.

“No one else can protect her the way I can,” is all I can muster.

Anton’s expression doesn’t shift into mockery, like I expected it would.

“That’s not an explanation, is it? More like a verdict.”

“It is both.”

Nikolai studies me with those unnerving serious eyes of his.

“This is not emotional.”

You know emotion clouds judgment, creates weakness, and can compromise us?I know that’s what he’s asking me.

“Of course not. It is not emotional.”

“All the while, it cannot be changed,” Sergei adds, eyes narrowing at me.