CHAPTER 4: A Fateful Encounter

SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA (THE BRATVA'S EMPIRE)

The Pakhan's 70th Birthday

The grand hall of the Bratva Empire shimmered with unapologetic wealth. Crystal chandeliers rained golden light over red velvet drapes, priceless paintings, and plush carpets that swallowed the sound of footsteps. Tables glittered with gold-plated cutlery, crystal glasses, and porcelain dishes fit for emperors.

Under that glow, the world’s most powerful criminal families gathered—Italians, Americans, and others—mingling with wine, whispers, and calculated smiles.

La Famiglia De Luca made their entrance with elegance and purpose. It was their first appearance within Bratva territory, and they needed to make an impression.

Ivan De Luca, the Sicilian Capo, walked tall in a tailored black tuxedo, his wife Anastasia graceful in a flowing silver gown. Valerie, their eldest daughter, wore a flirty, chic dress that radiated youthful energy. Donatella, however, stole the show. Her backless black gown with a daring slit drew eyes across the room—every step exuding power, every glance commanding attention. Her sleek ponytail and smoldering makeup made her both a mystery and a storm.

Ariana, the youngest, looked radiant in a modest yet elegant gown befitting her age. Ronan Marino, Ivan’s towering personal guard, and Barino Moretti, a seasoned underboss, followed like shadows with sharp eyes.

Guests watched curiously. The De Lucas were outsiders, new blood in a hall where reputation reigned. But they moved like they belonged—and that mattered more than blood.

As the De Lucas took their seats, the hall filled with polite chatter and raised glasses. But the moment the doors creaked open again, all conversation halted.

The Bratva had arrived.

First came Alexei Morozov and his sister Natalia, stepping in with quiet dominance. Alexei wore a navy suit that sculpted his athletic build. Natalia’s navy ball gown sparkled beneath the chandeliers. Her updo and long gloves added a vintage edge to her calculated beauty.

Behind them followed Nikolai Morozov and his wife Savannah. Nikolai, broad and stoic in his black suit, was every inch the politician’s heir. Savannah, glowing in a champagne dress with a thigh-high slit, looked like innocence dressed in diamonds—her smile soft, her blonde hair cascading in waves.

Then the air changed. Heavy. Still.

Mikhail Morozov entered.

He wore black tailored like armor. His eyes were cold steel, his frame imposing, his presence unmistakable. The room reacted—not with cheers, but silence laced with unease. By his side was Vera Sergeeva, stunning in a crimson gown that left very little to imagination. She walked like she knew the whispers were about her. She preferred it that way.

The Morozovs walked together, a royal procession of power, their footsteps a slow declaration of dominance. They reached their seats, and still, the room watched.

Then came the announcement:

“The Prime Minister, Denisovich Volkov, and his wife, Catalina Volkov.”

The guests stood immediately in a synchronized show of respect. Volkov entered smiling, shaking hands with known allies. Catalina, graceful and reserved, offered warm nods. The couple was escorted to their table near the front, near the Bratva throne itself.

The Master of Ceremony stepped onto the platform, voice booming:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Bratva Empire. Tonight, we celebrate the 70th birthday of our revered Pakhan, Sergei Morozov.”

Thunderous applause followed.

“Please rise to your feet as we welcome the man who built this empire with iron and fire.”

The hall stood again as the final doors opened.

Pakhan Sergei Morozov entered slowly but with purpose. Grey-haired and sharp-eyed, he wore a brown senator suit and leaned on a gold-tipped cane. On one hand shone the emerald ring—a symbol of Bratva sovereignty.

Flanking him were Igor Stravinsky and Adrian Barinov, elite guards sworn to his grandsons. Deadly. Loyal. Silent.

The Pakhan walked past the applauding guests, nodding respectfully at the Prime Minister. Volkov returned the gesture. When his eyes found his grandchildren, he smiled—Alexei, Natalia, Nikolai, Savannah.

Then, Mikhail.

There was no smile for him, but something else passed between them: understanding.

The Pakhan reached his grand seat, high and carved from dark wood. Adrian and Igor stood on either side as human statues. The crowd settled.

And the night—one of legacy, politics, and bloodline—had officially begun.

*********

The ceremony continued with vibrant energy as dignitaries and family members stepped forward to present their gifts to the Pakhan. The Prime Minister offered a luxurious watch, while the grandchildren unveiled a finely crafted painting. Other guests followed suit with lavish jewelry, rare artifacts, and elegant tokens of respect.

When the final gift was presented, the Master of Ceremony returned to the stage.

“Pozhaluysta, please welcome the Pakhan, Sergei Morozov, for a vote of thanks.”

The hall quieted as the Pakhan stood, leaning on his gold-tipped cane, and made his way to the stage.

“Thank you for joining me on this special night,” he began, his voice steady. “I’m honored to have the Prime Minister, Denisovich Volkov, here. Your presence is deeply valued.”

He turned slightly toward his grandsons. “To my grandchildren—Alexei, Natalia, Nikolai, and Mikhail—you are my pride. Watching you grow into your roles is the greatest reward of my life.”

As he spoke, Donatella quietly stood. Her mother, Anastasia, gave her a sharp look.

“Where to, Dona?” she asked without turning.

“Relax, Mama. Just need some fresh air,” Donatella replied coolly.

“Sit down. You don’t know anywhere.”

“I’ll be back,” Donatella said, ignoring her mother’s disapproval. She slipped away from the crowd and stepped toward the back of the hall.

The Pakhan’s words drifted behind her, muffled now. But Donatella didn’t listen. Her thoughts were her own, and for the first time since arriving, she felt something stir inside her.

**********

She stood there, staring out at the cityscape, taking in the breathtaking view. The landscape stretched out before her, a seemingly endless expanse of towering buildings and bustling streets. She felt a sense of wonder wash over her as she breathed in the cool night air. This was her first time in Russia, and she was already falling in love with the atmosphere.

As she gazed out at the city, she suddenly heard the sound of footsteps behind her. She turned to see a tall, imposing figure standing behind her. His chiseled features and piercing eyes seemed to bore into her very soul, leaving her breathless. She felt a jolt of surprise, and her eyes locked onto his, unable to look away.

The man's deep voice broke the silence, “Keep on staring,molodaya ledi(young lady)." The words were laced with a hint of amusement, and Donatella felt a flush rise to her cheeks.

She snapped back to reality, rolling her eyes in annoyance. "You think you're the only handsome person in the world?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

The man didn't seem to take offense, instead, he walked towards her, his movements fluid and confident. As he drew closer, Donatella could feel the heat emanating from his body, and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

"Captivating" he said, his voice low and husky.

Donatella raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. "I know I'm beautiful, you don't need to tell me that."

The man's response was a low, "Tough, huh?" as he raised an eyebrow.

Donatella's right hand rested on the pillar behind her, her elbow bent and her hand supporting her weight. She turned to face him, her eyes flashing with challenge. "Yeah, you got a problem with me?" she said, her voice laced with a hint of attitude.

The man didn't respond, instead, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke curling up into the air. Donatella coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. "I'm out of here," she said, turning to leave.

As Donatella turned to leave, her high heel caught on the hem of her long gown, causing her to stumble and lose her balance. She felt herself falling, her hands instinctively reaching out to break her fall. But before she could hit the ground, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back up.

She gasped as the force of the catch took her breath away. The force of the catch was sudden, and the delicate fabric of her gown couldn't withstand it. The tiny hand strap of her dress tore, revealing a glimpse of her skin.

The tear was small, but it was enough to expose a part of her cleavage. The man's eyes dropped to the exposed skin, and he stared directly at it for a moment.

“Nice boobs you've got.” He said with a smirk on his smug face.

It was like he statement brought her back to earth, because she released herself from his grip immediately. “Fuck you!..pervert!.”she sneered.

As Donatella tried to compose herself, a voice pierced the air. "What's going on here, Mikhail?" Vera's tone was laced with a possessive edge, her eyes narrowing slightly as she gazed at the scene before her.

Donatella, having managed to fix her dress, stared at her meaningly and said, "Excuse me." As she tried to step away, but Mikael's gaze lingered on her, his eyes seeming to bore into her very soul. Till she left he was still staring at her.

Vera's confusion was palpable as she watched the exchange. "What's going on?" she repeated, her voice firm but laced with a hint of uncertainty.

Mikael's response was delayed, and when it came, it was explosive. He grabbed Vera's neck, pushing her against the pillar with force. Mikhail's face twisted in anger. "How dare you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "What right do you have to question me? You're nothing but a whore I can change anytime! I can replace you without a second thought" he yelled angrily.

The air seemed to vibrate with tension as Vera struggled to free herself. Finally, Mikhail released her, and Vera stumbled back, coughing. "I'm sorry," she gasped, her eyes wide with fear.

As Vera regained her composure, Mikhail's stare alone was terrifying and she shifted back in fear from the impact of his gaze on her.

“Be warned..whore!” He said and walked out back into the hall.