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

His aunt. God. The thought of meeting my father’s mistress churns my stomach, yet here I am, having boldly declared that “people love who they shouldn’t,” possibly alerting my father to my relationship with Markov. But really, what was I expecting? My father has always played by his own rules, always prioritizing his desires over the needs of others. He wouldn’t even permit us to skip a drink and a visit to his suite, let alone forgive his bodyguard for falling in love with his daughter.

As we enter the suite, Markov’s stiffness beside me is palpable. I try to muster some courage, but honestly, I just want this meeting over. We can meet her, then escape back to our lives.

The suite is a testament to opulence, unsurprising given my father’s penchant for displaying luxury and power. The iconic silhouette of the Kremlin frames the backdrop of several interconnected rooms—a private office, a dining area, a sitting room, and a bedroom, all dominated by heavy, imposing leather furniture.

“Now, now, don’t be shy,” my father coaxes. At his beckoning, I notice a woman perched on the edge of a massive leather chair, her back to us. At the sound of his voice, she stands.

I gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth. Beside me, Markov freezes.

“Vera, Markov, so nice to see you,” Irina greets us, her dark gray gown complementing her sleek silver hair. Her smile is warm and disarming.

I’m struck mute, my mouth agape. How? Why? What does this mean?

Markov’s gaze hardens, and he steps protectively between me and Irina. My father retreats to the bar, his back to us, oblivious to the tension. As I move my gaze between Markov and Irina, it becomes evident—one of them is lying. Possibly both. They clearly aren’t related; they met for the first time upon our arrival. . . or had they?

The tension escalates. Thankfully, my father is preoccupied as he pours himself a glass of wine and offers one to Markov and me. Markov gives me a stern look and subtly shakes his head: Don’t drink it.

My father takes a hearty swig of his wine and addresses us. “Vera, it’s because of Markov’s aunt that you have the finest bodyguard available.” It’s possibly the only truthful thing he has ever said.

“I wasn’t aware that your. . . girlfriend was working with us,” I manage to say with a strained smile. “Why didn’t you inform us, Irina?”

My father looks confused. “You know her?”

His response is interrupted by a loud knock. “Yes, yes, who is it?”

“Sir, there’s an urgent matter.”

“It better be, interrupting me like this.” My father frowns and strides over. Meanwhile, Irina’s smile remains unfazed.

He has a hurried discussion at the door, their voices a mix of urgency and concern, before he turns back to us. “Excuse me. My apologies, I must see to something briefly,” he says, his expression etched with worry.

Irina rushes to him. “What is it, Petr? Can I assist with anything?” she asks.

“No, no, just stay with my daughter until I return.” He closes the door behind him, and Irina locks it.

Silence engulfs us, heavy with unvoiced questions. Markov remains tense, his eyes locked on Irina, who still wears her cryptic smile.

“Vera,” Irina begins, her tone now softer, contrasting sharply with her earlier formal greeting. “There’s much you don’t know about your father, about me, and the real reason Markov is here.”

I glance at Markov, searching his face for any sign of denial, but find none. His jaw is clenched; his gaze never strays from Irina as if trying to solve an intricate riddle.

“Start talking, Irina,” Markov demands, his voice low and threatening. “Enough with the charades. Who are you really, and why are you here?”

Irina exhales, her poised demeanor slipping momentarily as she gestures toward a cozy sitting area by the fireplace. “Let’s sit. It’s time we cleared the air. I could ask you the same, couldn’t I?”

“Firstly, Vera, your father and I were more than just old acquaintances, as you’ve been led to believe,” she reveals, taking a sip of her drink. “Go ahead, take a sip. I assure you, it’s not poisoned.”

I ignore the drink, my heart hammering in my chest as I turn to Markov, whose stern expression has not softened. His eyes remain cautious.

“Don’t trust her, Vera,” he says.

“And Markov,” Irina continues, turning her attention to him, “is not merely a visitor and certainly not my nephew. You see, Vera, I hired an assassin. It was easy enough to seduce your father and convince him I had a nephew in need of a job. My aim was to eliminate you, as you are the only obstacle between me and my goals.”

The word ‘assassin’ echoes in my mind, drowning out all other thoughts.

There are things you don’t know about me, Vera. Things that, if known, you could never forgive.

“Ironically, I had no clue who Markov really was but knew he was not the man I hired. I wanted to see his end game. I wanted to see how I could manipulate the situation to get what I needed. So, I waited. I couldn’t just kill you outright; it had to appear accidental.”

I stare at Markov, whose narrowed eyes remain intently focused on Irina. His hand is hidden in his pocket. What is he concealing? He can’t simply kill my father’s mistress without consequence.

“Petr was called out just now because one of his men has been found dead. That will keep him busy while we decide our next move. Get rid of her, Markov,” she directs, nodding at me. “Then you and I can dominate the Ivanov empire. It’s as simple as. . .” She snaps her fingers.

“Never,” Markov asserts firmly. “You will not harm her!”

“Oh, dear,” Irina sighs, feigning disappointment. “I’ll have to move to another plan.”

My world tilts on its axis. What is happening? Who are these people?

They both deceived me. Everything has been a lie.

“You used her.” Markov seizes Irina, swiftly disarming her. He shakes her violently.

“Markov!” I shout, even though I doubt that’s his real name. “Stop!”

“She just confessed that she wants you dead,” he growls, lifting her off the ground by her neck. She struggles vainly against his grip. Suddenly, there’s a pounding at the door, and I hear my father’s voice.

The door bursts open, and my father rushes in, flanked by his guards. “What is the meaning of this?” he thunders.

Markov releases Irina, positioning her in front of him with a gun to her temple. I stare, disbelieving.

“Petr,” she pleads. “Petr, help me!”

My father stares at Markov, realization dawning. “You would kill your own aunt?”

“They aren’t related, Father,” I say in a choked voice.

My father stares. “Who are you?”

Markov stands resolute, the most commanding presence in the room. Despite my heartache, I can’t help but feel a surge of pride in him.

“She deceived and betrayed you,” he declares. “She intended to murder your daughter, but now, the truth must be revealed.” He fixes his gaze on my father. “Tell your men to stand down, or I will kill her.”

My father glares at Markov but gives the order.

Markov continues. “My name is Nikko Romanov. I am here on behalf of the Romanov family, your rivals from America. You attacked my brother and attempted to poison his wife. I came to seek justice. Tell the truth, Ivanov, or your mistress dies.”

My father’s face drains of color. “Romanov,” he whispers, recognition and fear bleeding into his voice.

“The truth!” Markov thunders. I gasp.

“I never ordered such a thing,” my father protests, shaking his head. “Yes, there were tensions, but I never sanctioned violence against your brother.”

Markov’s eyes narrow, his suspicion evident. “Yet you acknowledge the incident I refer to.”

The room spins, the revelation overwhelming me. Spots cloud my vision.

Markov presses the gun to Irina’s head. “Now you. Confess your role.”

“I orchestrated the attack,” she admits. “It was simple enough. I used his phone to coordinate it, and his foolish men followed blindly.”

“Why? Why would you do this?” my father demands.

“Because they were a threat to you, and it’s my intent to take over the Ivanov family. You’re so powerful, Petr. So, so powerful. Can’t you see how we could rule together?”

I finally speak up. “She said the same damn thing to Markov when you weren’t here,” I seethe.

My father stares. “Markov. Please. Release her. Allow me and my men to take care of her. Send my deepest apologies to your family for what the Ivanovs have done.”

Markov stares. Shakes his head. I don’t believe my father any more than he does.

He looks back at me, and in his eyes, I see what I longed for—a plea for forgiveness and a pledge that the two of us matter. I choke back a sob.

Markov’s voice booms through the room, every word loaded with the weight of years of enmity. “Your life is forfeit for what was done, for what your men have done, even if not directly on our behalf,” he says, standing tall and unyielding before my father. “There is only one way forward. Only one way to bring peace between the Romanovs and Ivanovs and put it all to rest. No more hiding. No more betrayal. We face this like men.”

My father nods, but I think he’d give Markov—or whoever he is—anything right now.

“Release her, Markov, and our families can form an alliance.”

Markov stares and seems to think this over.“We’re in agreement, then. We’ll honor a time-honored tradition that brings families together. Give me your daughter, Ivanov.”

My father casts a knowing glance between Markov and me. His eyes linger on my tear-streaked face. Silence engulfs the room, tension thickening the air with old grievances.

“My daughter?”

“Give her to me. Give me Vera, and we will end the feud between our families.”

I stare, disbelieving.

“Take her,” he says, his voice resolute. My blood turns to ice. “If this is what it takes to end our families’ feud, to prevent further loss, so be it.”

Mutterings from the Ivanovs’ corner swell like an impending storm. Disbelief and anger ripple through them, yet their leader raises a hand, commanding silence.

“No!” Irina struggles within Markov’s firm grip. “Petr, you promised me!”

“You betrayed me,” my father booms, stepping toward her. He reaches out, wrenching her from Markov’s hold. I flinch as he raises his hand to strike her, but she seizes her opportunity. With a swift knee to my father’s groin, she breaks free, reaching into her dress to draw a concealed gun.

“You will not hold me back!” she screams, her voice a mixture of fury and desperation. “After everything I did for you. After everything you’ve promised me!” She aims the gun and pulls the trigger. “You’re a lying cheat! How dare you!”

My father’s guards react instantly, weapons drawn, but it’s too late. A gunshot rings out.

“Father!” I scream. “No!”

But it’s too late. His body hits the floor and blood pours from him. Her bullet struck her target: straight between his eyes.

As Irina pivots, her gun now aimed at me, Markov acts. With no hesitation, he leaps in front of me, intercepting the bullet meant for me. His body slams into mine as we hit the floor together.

“Nooooo!” I cry out in horror.

Too late, one of the guards fires, striking Irina. She falls, her threat ending with a thud against the floor.

My medical training kicks in amid the chaos. Authority surges through me as I rise to my feet, facing the guards.

“You!” I command, pointing sharply. I’m taking no risks. “Make sure she’s secured immediately! My father is injured, and I am his daughter. Do what I say!”

My father is more than injured. Even I know that.

But I can save Markov. I have to.

This is my moment. This is what I know. I’m trained to handle intense, high-stakes medical situations under pressure.

The guards snap to attention, hesitating only a moment before moving to comply with my commands. They quickly observe the still body of Irina, ensuring she poses no further threat, while others rush to my father’s side, checking for signs of life that I already fear are absent.

I kneel beside Markov, my hands trembling as I assess his wound. I blink back tears and push every thought aside. I have to focus on saving him.

I can do this.

Blood blooms across his shirt, a stark red against the white fabric. His eyes meet mine, filled with pain yet revealing so much strength. “It’s okay, Vera,” he whispers, his voice strained. “I’ll be fine. You are the one who has to remain safe. Now that Irina and your father no longer pose a threat, I’ll have to trust his guards. . .”

“Shhh,” I whisper. One of my tears drops to his shirt, a dark circle spreading alongside the blood.

Ignoring the tears that blur my vision, I press my hand firmly against his wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. Around us, the room is a flurry of activity—guards shouting, the distant sound of sirens approaching, the heavy footsteps of medical personnel arriving. Someone here at the hotel’s made some calls.

“Stay with me,” I whisper. “Let me see how badly you’re hurt.”

I tear open his shirt and assess the wound with a frown. I need to assess the wound—location, size, and type. Prevent the loss of blood.

Please be only a graze. . . please be only a graze. . .

“It looks like a flesh wound,” I whisper, frowning at the sight of his blood on my hands. I’m shaking, but stay calm. “Potential superficial muscle injury but we’ll only know with further testing. It hasn’t hit any major arteries, and you’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re a big guy⁠—”

“Vera.” Markov holds my hand, blood making our grip slippery. “Go with your father. I’ll be taken into custody by the rest of his men. Even if my injury is minor, my life is forfeit for treason.”

I break out in a cold sweat. Markov isn’t…Markov. What does that mean for us? What does that mean for him?

His life is forfeit, yet…he saved my life.

It’s then that I realize we’re surrounded by my father’s men, EMTs putting my father and Irina on stretchers. I watch in shock as they pull a sheet over her body.

I look at the men who stand above Markov. “He kept me safe. That bullet was meant for me.”

“We have our rules, Ms. Ivanov.”

I blink back tears.

“You can’t take him. You can’t!”

I’m pulled away from Markov by strong hands, everything passing in a blur. I struggle and scream and rail against them, but I’m overpowered. I can’t stop them. I watch in helpless agony as the emergency team takes my father but the Ivanov men take Markov.

A sob catches in my throat when I see my father taken away.

Despite everything, he’s still my father. I never allowed myself to believe that his end would be so abrupt, so violent.

As they wheel my father away, I stand on the threshold of the now eerily quiet room. The weight of leadership in the wake of tragedy settles on my shoulders.

A uniformed officer speaks to me in Russian. I didn’t even know they’d arrived. When he realizes I don’t understand him, he gets a younger female officer to translate.

“Your father was a friend. As the daughter of Petr Ivanov, you’ve been exonerated from questioning,” she says. He knew people, he must have. I swallow hard. “Is there someone you can call?”

I do the only thing a strong, independent woman whose world has been shattered does.

I call my mother.