Page 4 of Savage Truce

“You can stare all you want. That man is way out of your league,” she sneers. “But he’s right up my alley. I think I’ll invite him backstage after the show. I’m sure he’d like to warm my bed.”

Chuckling with a triumphant expression, she walks to where Irene is putting on one of the period dresses.

Bitch.

Walking back to where I left my sewing kit, I sigh because she’s right. A man like that will never look at me.

Irene glances at me, then snorts before saying something to Sofia.

They can go to hell. I have bigger problems to worry about.

Like Russia.

I just know it’s going to be a million times worse once I’m back home. A Bratva princess is supposed to be delicate like Sofia and Irene, a beautiful woman who can be paraded in front of some allied family to seal a deal.

Over the years, Mother has always reminded me that I’m a Bratva princess. Fedorov blood runs through my veins, and my life belongs to the family. She never misses the chance to tell me I’d better lose weight before Grandfather lays eyes on me. He won’t be happy if he sees how fat I am, and being on his bad side will not end well for me.

Screw them.

Part of me is actually relieved I’m plus-size. Looking the way I do might be what saves me from an unwanted marriage. The last thing I want is to be handed off to some ruthless man twice my age like I’m nothing more than a pair of shoes.

CHAPTER 2

Rodian

As the curtains close, the applause dies and people get up from their seats.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, drawing a sigh from me.

No rest for the wicked.

At least I got to enjoy the play, which is something I don’t get to do as often as I’d like.

Pulling the device out of my pocket, I look at the screen and see a bunch of notifications.

Yegor’s blowing up my damn phone, throwing a fucking tantrum because I’m in England for a business deal and not in Russia.

Yegor Fedorov’s been the head of the Bratva for way too fucking long, and once I have enough manpower behind me, I’m taking him down.

He’s old-school and refuses to move forward.

Before I took over from my uncle as underboss, he thought convincing Yegor to have his daughter, Yelena, marry into the Irish mafia would finally drag the old bastard into the twenty-first century.

Yelena gave birth to a girl, though, and because of complications, she couldn’t have more children. To Yegor, that meant the Irish could never give him a male heir, so he slammed the door shut on the alliance.

After that, Yelena and her kid disappeared from Bratva life, and my uncle was taken out by pneumonia. His son, Artem, suffers from a severe anxiety disorder and has had some developmental issues growing up. He isn’t built for the violence and pressure of our world, so I took over in his stead.

In the three years I’ve been underboss, the Bratva has started taking heat from every corner of the world. If we don’t form solid alliances with other organized crime groups, we won’t survive.

I read a few of the messages, then type out my reply.

Rodian: I’ll be back in a couple of days. Just got the deal with Sharma signed, giving us a foothold in India.

As I lock my phone screen, someone says, “Sorry to b-bother you, sir.”

My eyes flick up, and in a split second I take in everything about the young guy. He’s probably in his mid-twenties, scrawny build, and doesn’t come across as a threat at all.

The guy bristles under my stare and shifts his feet while clearing his throat. With a squeaky voice, he stutters, “The l-l-lead actress, Sofia, h-h-has invited you b-b-b-backstage to spend t-t-time with h-her.”