Seduction: A Dark Bratva Fake Marriage Romance (Wicked Vows)

“Well, la-de-da,” I say with a groan.

The moment the car turns down the street leading to the restaurant, the air seems to almost shimmer around us. There are so many luxury cars and uniformed valets lined outside the restaurant, I feel like I’m at an exhibition for the world’s most expensive cars. The entrance is flanked by more uniformed valets who look more suitable as royal courtiers than restaurant staff. The restaurant’s claim to fame is being golden, so there are decorative gold leaves on the ground in front of us, on the lettering on the door, and accented on the uniforms of staff. God. Leave it to my father to pick a restaurant that’s more about social status than genuine connection. Ugh.

I’m dressed in a little black dress, the only elegant dress I brought because every girl needs an LBD and I didn’t know when I’d need something formal. I dressed it up with a pair of gold hoops and gold heels, and I even did my eye makeup for once. After the display of golden opulence here, I sort of wished I’d worn silver jewelry.

Markov looks exceptionally hot in his suit, and it will feel nice walking in beside him, even if we have to pretend we aren’t a couple.

I haven’t told Markov much about my father, but he knows plenty and will see soon enough. My father is a man always looking to make an impression. I’m only his daughter inasmuch as I benefit him, just like my mother. And because I’m loyal to her, he means nothing to me.

Taller than me and polished and refined, if you didn’t know my father, you’d think he was an absolute charmer. His hair and beard are laced with silver, he’s impeccably dressed, and when he smiles, the flash of perfectly straight white teeth nearly blinds me. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, though. They never have.

Markov opens the door for me, nods to my father, then quickly turns to offer me his hand to help me out of the car. It will be the only time he touches me this evening, and I savor the seconds we’re connected before he releases me.

My father doesn’t recognize Markov. I’m guessing they haven’t met yet. But when he sees me exit, he grins broadly, his eyes shining at me. I can’t help it—for one weak moment, I wish it was genuine. I wish he really did want to see me. I wish he cared.

But I quickly push that thought away because I know the truth.

“Hello, Father.” I give him a small, tight smile, which he doesn’t even see because he’s too busy looking around, more concerned with being seen by whatever social circle he’s in than engaging with his daughter.

“How are you?” he asks, kissing both cheeks before reaching to shake Markov’s hand. A wave of cloying, expensive cologne consumes me. My stomach roils.

“And you’re Markov,” he states. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Markov scowls at him, even though he shakes his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” I silently fist-bump him. He is absolutely not going to play a part to please my father.

“And how is everything going at your. . . your program?” my father asks.

“Markov, join us.” It’s unusual for a bodyguard to join us for dinner, so I’m not sure what my father’s planning.

“Oh, things are going well. I’ve been working alongside Professor Morozov. He’s world-renowned for his leading research on the advances made against biological threats. We actually had a simulation today.”

“Oh good, good,” my father says placatingly. He hasn’t heard a word I said.

I wink at Markov behind my father’s back as he arranges for us to have a seat inside.

“We were able to extract DNA from monkeys to cross-breed them with the African elephant with much success. We’ll be able to market our new breed to upcoming entrepreneurs within three years. They’ll be able to climb high trees while maintaining the status as the largest land animal on earth.”

“Is that right?” my father asks, following the waitress toward our table, a circular one at the way back, clearly reserved for VIP guests only. “Fascinating.”

He’s still not listening to a damn thing I say. Ugh. I grit my teeth and go on, making it more ridiculous.

“Mmm,” I say. “Quite. They’ll subsist on a diet that would be far too pricy for the average consumer, but perhaps some of the elite would find a way.” I give him a huge smile. Under the table, Markov pinches my thigh to remind me to behave. I turn and look at him while my father peruses the wine menu and shake my head at him. He narrows his eyes and makes a subtle swinging motion with his palm. Good. I hope he spanks me tonight. Might calm me down after all this nonsense.

“So proud of you, Vera. You always were exceptionally brilliant.” He looks up and winks widely at Markov. “For a woman, am I right? Do what you can, love, before you have to take maternity leave.”

He laughs loudly at his own joke, but I’m pleased to see Markov actually looks horrified. He quickly schools his features, though. “Actually, sir, I don’t believe brilliance is confined to gender. In the short time I’ve witnessed Vera’s accomplishments, I have to say her abilities are at a level and intensity that outshines all her peers. She’s earned that scholarship.” He smiles, and it sort of chills me. He says something to my father in Russian that I don’t understand, then decidedly ignores the glare I give him for freezing me out of the conversation.

My father smiles and looks thoughtful, then nods and responds in Russian. What the hell? I plunk my menu down.

Another warning squeeze of my knee has me immediately wet. Ugh. He can’t turn me on in here. It’s completely inappropriate.

As my father scans the restaurant, I sneak a glance at Markov, who is staring hard at his phone, deeply concentrating, it seems.

“I don’t mean to insult you, Vera,” my father says with what appears to be genuine kindness. I know better. “I just don’t know why you’re putting so much time and effort into your studies when you know the expectations of marrying and settling down are likely your lot in life.”

My cheeks color. I hate how easily I give myself away by blushing, but I’ve never managed to figure out how not to.

“In the modern age, women do both, Father.”

My father snorts, but Markov speaks up. “In my family, we have two women who are unparalleled with their skills. One is exceptionally brilliant with cyber security, while the other’s a marksman like no other.”

“I hear you’re quite skilled yourself with a weapon?” my father asks. “I’d like to see that sometime.”

A waiter appears out of nowhere and brings my father a bottle of wine. He makes a big show of tasting it and pouring it into wine glasses. Still, I take the glass gratefully.

The two of them continue their conversation in Russian for a few moments until Markov looks at me. “Vera doesn’t speak Russian yet,” he says. “We should continue in English.”

My father gives me a look of disdain. “That’s her mother’s fault,” he says, his cheeks flushed already from the effects of the wine and likely something more. He took it as a matter of personal injury that my mother wouldn’t have him back after he cheated on her my entire childhood. She stayed with him, but I knew she had no choice. A woman does not divorce her Bratva husband, especially one whose entire world revolves around his self-image.

I decide instead of discussing my own work, which he’s disinterested in any way, to steer the conversation back to my father’s favorite topic of conversation—him. “Tell me what brings you to Moscow this time, Father.”

He sits up straighter and nods to Markov. “I had business with Markov’s aunt. She unfortunately couldn’t join us for dinner this evening due to a previous engagement and sends her well wishes to you, Vera. She says she hopes to meet you in the near future.”

I stare at my father, uncomprehending at first. How is he so cavalier about his infidelity?

“Who is she?” I ask, my voice dangerously low. “A young little something you picked up on one of your latest travels to a foreign land? Someone who didn’t know you were married with children?”

My father laughs too loudly and snaps his fingers at the waitress. I flinch at the obvious rudeness. “Child,” he says with a laugh. “Vera, my love, look at you. You’re a full-grown woman. An adult. I have no children. You’re my daughter, yes, but a man of my stature and age has the privilege of associating with whomever he chooses.”

I saw how the infidelity wore my mother down. I witnessed how he would gallivant around the world with his mistress of the week, but should she ever do the same, her punishment would be severe and swift. There was the double-standard as a Bratva wife; don’t expect fidelity from your husband, but a woman was expected to bear the ring and name of one man for life, no matter how philandering he might be.

“Please,” I say in a soft voice, not wanting to draw attention to us. “You do what you must, but there’s no need for me to meet whoever she is. Whether you like it or not, I’m faithful to my mother.”

I down the rest of my wine. My father’s face colors and his fingers tighten around his wine glass.

“I’ll have you remember you’re my daughter, Vera Ivanova,” he says in that chilling voice that, even now, never fails to send an unwanted shiver down the back of my neck. It was the voice he used before he broke things or lashed out.

He wouldn’t do that here, would he?

“I know exactly who I am,” I counter, leaning closer to him. “I’ll ask that you do the same.”

My father reaches a hand out for me, but Markov intercepts him.

“Sir, this is neither the time nor place for a show of power,” he says in that quiet way of his. Since he spoke in English, the words were for my ears as well. “If our presence has upset you, I’m happy to escort Vera back to her apartment, and you can give my aunt my best wishes.”

My father stares at Markov’s hand on his wrist and seems to come to his senses. Markov is younger and stronger than my father, but my father outranks him. However, Markov has a bargaining chip. His aunt is my father’s lover. Markov has the ability to pull some strings.

My father smiles and nods. “Yes, yes, of course,” he says, as if he wasn’t just on the verge of hurting me or making an absolute fool of himself. Markov releases my father before he places a reassuring hand on my thigh. I squirm uncomfortably because I know if my father saw his hand under the table, no amount of wish to save face would save Markov.

I veer the conversation back to my father’s pursuits. He talks at length about the subject, going on and on about infrastructure, cost-effective investing strategies, and political alliances that would benefit international relations while I strategically remove all the onions off my salad. Though I’m bored to tears, I can tell Markov listens keenly.

“Fascinating,” I say, giving my father the same energy of bullshit disinterest he gave me, but it’s completely lost on him and only serves to encourage him to blather on. Markov’s eyes twinkle at me, though, and he gives me that almost quirk of the lips. He’s getting kissed thoroughly for that when we’re alone after he tells me what they discussed in Russian.

I’m grateful when the rest of our food arrives and happily busy myself with the house special: a smoked starlet, a prized Russian fish, served with caviar cream and roasted root vegetables and potato medley, thinly sliced and crispy, sprinkled with sea salt. Alongside the vegetables is an arrangement of edible flowers. Markov digs into a steak the size of Manhattan with gusto.

The longer our dinner takes, the more my father drinks. I don’t remember him drinking so heavily, but I’ve hardly seen him in recent years. It seems Moscow brings out the ‘best’ in him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” my father says. “I must take this call. I’ll return shortly.”

He steps away from the table, and I become aware of the three men in suits sitting at a table adjacent to ours, their eyes on our table. One of them rises and approaches.

“Shevchenko,” one says, extending a hand to Markov. “We’ve exchanged texts. I won’t stay long but wanted to make your acquaintance in person. Thank you for your regular updates and dedication to your work.” He bows his head and takes his leave.

My heartbeat quickens. I was only moments away from having a private conversation with Markov. Letting our masks come down for a moment while my father was away from the table. How could I completely forget that my father always brought with him a small group of guards?

Markov looks down at his phone, his fingers flying over the keys. He seems preoccupied, but I’m not sure why. I don’t think he likes being here any more than I do.

Finally, before my father returns, he places his phone down on the table and leans closer to me. “Listen to me, Vera.”

Now, this is the real Markov. The one I know behind closed doors. The one that holds me when we climb into bed at night. Who pays attention when I talk about my studies and experiences. And the one who makes my heart turn in my chest with a mere look.

“Mmm?” I sip my wine, my hand slightly trembling.

“He’s nothing to you,” he says in a whisper of a voice. He might as well be telling me about when we’re going to leave and going over our schedule for the following day. “He’s never been. I can see how disappointed you are in him, and it’s only natural. He has no idea who you are, but I will always tell you with confidence. It’s his loss.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply but goes back to his phone, detached once again, as my father joins us.

I swallow the lump in my throat and take another sip of wine.

“Your aunt says you haven’t been in touch with her, Markov.”

“I am so sorry,” Markov replies. “Vera’s schedule has me quite occupied as I assist her, and I’ve recently switched to a new phone. My contacts are still in the process of syncing. Please have her get in touch, and I will respond promptly. Also, express my gratitude to her for this opportunity she’s given me.” He shares a knowing glance with me while my father is preoccupied with the waitress, asking for the dessert menu. “Being back in the city has been a profound experience.”

His reference to the city must be about Moscow…right? Surely, he’s referring to the geographical and cultural significance of being here. It seems too daring for him to subtly thank my father for being involved with. . . me?

Profound experience.

I give him a warning glare just as my father turns back to us. He eyes Markov coldly, which takes me by surprise. For most of the dinner, he’s actually been trying to get Markov on his side, like part of some twisted brotherhood thing.

“Family is the most vital of assets,” he says soberly. “You’d be wise to remember that. Your aunt is an exceptional woman, Markov.”

I flatten my lips. I have no desire to hear him wax eloquent on his mistress’s many virtues any longer, even if she is related to Markov. No matter how hard I try, no matter how I distance myself mentally from my father, I can’t help the genuine disappointment that wells in my heart at his cold and selfish attitude. I’m frustrated that I still, even now, seek the tiniest modicum of his approval. I’d have hoped I’d know better than that by now.

I put a hand to my head. “While this has been lovely, I seem to have developed a headache. I’m so sorry,” I lie to my father. “I’m going to decline dessert and head back to the campus.”

“Of course,” my father says, folding the dessert menu. He picks up his phone and smiles, obviously taken by whatever conversation he’s reading. “Your aunt says hello, Markov. She wants to know if you’ve spoken to your mother recently.”

Markov stands and smiles. “I’m ordering a ride for Vera. My aunt’s always checking in on me and my mother. Tell her nice try.”

With that cryptic message, he’s gone.

I feel bereft without his presence. I had an ally when he was here. I give myself a mental shake. I’m an adult. A week ago, I didn’t need Markov, and I definitely don’t need him now.

I have a sudden realization, as my father continues his texting conversation, oblivious to my presence, that this is a turning point for me.

I’ve left home. I’ve struck out on my own. My father has made his motives and intentions clear as day.

I don’t need my father’s support. I don’t need my father’s love.

I’ve chosen my path, and he’s chosen his.

He rises when Markov joins us again and gives me a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks.

“Thank you for indulging an old man,” he says with an almost wistfulness. “Markov, take good care of my daughter.”

He shakes Markov’s hand firmly.

Keeping up with those appearances is hard, old man.

“Of course, sir.” He gives me a knowing look my father doesn’t catch. “Taking care of your daughter is exactly why I’m here.”

Once more, I imagine something like regret flashing across his features, but when I look again, his face is impassive as always. I get the distinct feeling that Markov is hiding something.

I’ve had a lot of wine, though. I chalk it up to my imagination.

Someone reaches for Markov’s shoulder. “Nikko?”