The Fixer: A Dark Bratva Romance

Chapter 1-2

Maxim

Fuck. Me.

There’s no way I would refuse Igor his dying wish—or order, as the case may be. But this one is a f*****g doozy.

I have to marry Sasha, his mafiya princess brat. The one who ruined my life. Not that I regret leaving Moscow. Igor’s right—life is so much easier in Chicago under Ravil’s rule. I don’t constantly feel like a knife’s about to go into my back the way I did here. But now I will again.

Of course, that’s why he needs me to marry her.

Igor’s oil well interests are worth at least sixty million. And his colleagues are unsavory, at best. We are the brotherhood of thieves, after all. So I have to presume at least thirty men will have their eyes on stealing that fortune in whatever way they can—killing Sasha, killing me, or even taking out the entire Chicago cell.

But I’m the fixer. Like Ravil, a master strategist, I have a reputation for outthinking my opponents. Igor knows his friends and enemies alike will think twice before they try to steal his fortune if it’s in my care.

I take a good look at my unwilling, manipulative bride. She’s even more beautiful than she was at seventeen, when I found her n***d in my bed, set on seducing me.

She’s drop-dead gorgeous, like her mother. Long, thick red hair. High cheekbones, porcelain skin. She has bright blue eyes and Cupid’s bow lips. Her narrowed gaze is filled with hurt and rage.

Blyat. I will have my hands full with her.

Vladimir returns with the papers and a nervous-looking government official—I presume a clerk from the Department of Public Services. Someone probably paid or threatened him into making this a house-call instead of us going there.

If it were anyone besides Igor, I would demand to review his will to make sure the agreement is really as he states. But it’s Igor, the man who literally saved my life, took me under his wing, and made me the man I am today. I’m not going to insult him. If his dying demand is that I marry his daughter, I’ll do it.

Then again, Vladimir could be trying to f**k my bride out of her money, which is exactly the reason Igor inserted me into this mess. I keep my voice low and respectful. “Do you wish me to review it first, Papa?”

He considers me for a moment, then nods, so I take the sheaf of papers and skim through as quickly as I can. There are provisions for Galina, but all through Vladimir. Other than the oil interest, Igor’s only legitimate business holdings, everything else goes to Vladimir, with strict provisions that he provides monthly allowance and protection to Galina.

The oil interest goes in a trust to Sasha, with me as trustee. We must remain married, or we forfeit the wells, and they go to Vladimir, or in his absence, Galina. If she dies first, Vladimir becomes the trustee. If I die first, Ravil. I nod and hand the papers to Igor to sign.

The clerk clears his throat and shifts on his feet.

“We’re ready,” I tell him.

Galina propels an angry Sasha forward to stand beside me. “This isn’t happening,” she complains in English, perhaps so her father won’t understand. She’s lucky she speaks it, or her new life would be even harder.

“Do you have rings to exchange?” the sweating clerk asks me.

“No.” I shake my head.

Igor takes a platinum ring from his pinky finger. He’s worn it for as long as I’ve known him. I remember him saying things to me like, “I, too, started with nothing, Maxim, and now I wear platinum rings.”

His hand shakes when he hands it to me. His breathing is labored.

Galina notices and dashes to his side. “Are you all right, my love? Do you need more morphine?”

“Go on.” Igor gives an impatient wave to the clerk. “Marry them.”

The clerk swallows and launches into a brief ring exchange. I put Igor’s ring on Sasha’s finger and tell the clerk to skip it when he comes to her ring for me.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I face Sasha, but she turns away, so I drop a kiss on her cheek. “It is done,” I say to Igor.

“A-after you sign the certificate,” the clerk stammers.

I snatch the pen from his hand and scrawl a quick semblance of my signature on the paper then hand the pen to Sasha.

Her fingers won’t form around the pen. She looks up at me, rebellion swirling in those ocean blue eyes. As if either of us could stop this ball that’s clearly been rolling long before we stepped in this room today.

“Sign it,” Igor snaps. Or attempts to snap. It comes out as more of an angry wheeze.

Galina’s mouth tightens. “Do it, Sasha.”

Sasha grips the elegant fountain pen, the muscles around her jaw tightening as she signs the certificate.

The clerk signs it and nods at Vladimir. “It’s complete. I’ll have it filed in an hour.” His hands tremble as he puts the certificate back in a folder, which he holds to his chest.

“Good. Bring the copies here, and you’ll receive the rest of your payment.”

The clerk exits like the room is on fire, and we all turn to Igor, whose breath has turned to a gasping.

“Get him morphine!” Galina barks at Vladimir, who calls in a nurse.

It’s all too much to absorb. Igor dying. My sudden marriage. My bitter bride.

“Sasha,” Igor pants. He’s restless in the bed, thrashing his legs under the covers like he can’t breathe. Or is in pain. His lips are turning blue. “Come.”

When she doesn’t move, I place a gentle hand at her lower back and propel her forward to his side. The nurse dribbles a dropper of medicine in his mouth. He reaches for his daughter’s hand.

“Sasha,” he says again.

“What is it?” I hear the tears in Sasha’s voice. Anger, too.

“Trust...Maxim,” he tells her.

Goosebumps race across my skin, up and down my arms and legs. On the back of my neck. Igor’s fears for her life may be more substantial than I initially guessed. Or he’s afraid Sasha will bolt.

Blyat.

He takes a short breath. Then nothing.

“Igor!” Galina cries.

“Papa?” Alarm rings out in Sasha’s voice.

Igor breathes again.

“Oh!” Galina heaves a sigh.

But it was his last breath. His body twitches as the life goes out of it.

For the first time, Galina looks at me. “He waited to die until you got here,” she says, but it’s an accusation not a compliment.

I waited too long to come. I dodged his calls, not wanting to find out what it was he wanted to give me before he died.

I was afraid it would be his position as head of the Moscow bratva. Or some other high up position. I thought he was calling me back to service.

Never in a million years would I have guessed it was to wed his daughter.

“May the earth be soft for him,” I murmur the traditional Russian saying then turn and walk out.

I don’t have time to grieve the loss of a man who already threw me out of his life six years ago. I need to figure out how to keep his stubborn daughter safe when she has no desire to be attached to me.