Page 1 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Chapter 1

Elena

"Isabella, I'm honored to be your future husband." For once, a faint smile tugged at the corner of Kiryan's mouth as he looked at the woman in front of him. "I can't think of anyone more fit to be Mrs. Morozova."

That low, magnetic voice used to make my heart kick. Now it stabbed straight through it.

I stayed tucked in the corner, watching the two of them under the spotlight like I deserved the hurt.

"Marrying you is my honor, too. I love you, Kiryan." Isabella laughed and threw herself into his arms.

She went up on her toes, aiming for his cheek. He dipped his head and caught her on the mouth.

The ballroom erupted. Someone whistled. Others laughed and shouted for another kiss—something deeper.

"Seamus, you're a lucky man. A daughter and a son-in-law like that?" One of my father's partners patted him on the shoulder not far away. "Kiryan is the youngest Bratva Pakhan in years."

"Isabella has never disappointed me." My father couldn't hide his grin even if he tried. "Her being with a man like Kiryan is good for both our families."

Everyone kept congratulating Kiryan and Isabella. They would get married like it was the most natural thing in the world. They would have kids.

Bitterness crawled through my whole body. I lifted my glass and realized it was empty. I couldn't even remember when I finished it. A server passed by, and I snagged another. The champagne bubbles hit my tongue—sweet, and somehow still bitter.

Onstage, Kiryan still held Isabella close. His hand was big enough to wrap around most of her waist. More than once, I'd wondered what that hand would feel like on me.

I had always liked him—Kiryan Morozov, from the first second I saw him. But the person he loved was Isabella, my sister.

Isabella had been my father's pride, the one who actually looked like a Rossi daughter. She moved like she was born a princess—beautiful, blinding, every gesture polished and expensive. I looked plain. Freckles covered my cheeks. Even stuffed into an overpriced gown that night, I still felt like I'd shown up in the wrong clothes.

I wasn't like her. I should've known better.

The alcohol slid into my stomach and twisted me up. The burn up my throat kept reminding me I shouldn't have been there.

I didn't know how many glasses I'd had. By the time I looked up again, Kiryan and Isabella were gone. Guests stood in little clusters, talking. The blessings were over. Now it was business.

And I could finally leave.

"Elena."

I hadn't even turned before my father stepped into my path. "Look at you."

His gray-white hair was combed perfectly. His suit sat razor-sharp on his frame. The look alone proved how much that engagement party mattered to him.

The Morozov family's status in New York didn't need explaining. And Kiryan—within a few years of taking over the Bratva—had built his own gray-market empire. Using a daughter's marriage to hook a family like that had always been my father's rule for expansion.

"You look like a drunk off the street." He pointed at my face, voice low and vicious. "Why do I even have a daughter like you? You're a disgrace to the family."

I'd heard those insults more times than I could count. They still shattered me every time. I knew what I was to him—useless. The more he adored Isabella, the more he hated me.

I wanted to tell him I'd been invisible my whole life, that nobody ever watched me. That night all I'd done was quietly drown in champagne. I hadn't caused trouble for anyone.

And the man I'd loved for years was about to marry my sister—didn't I even get to be sad?

But I swallowed it down.

"I'm sorry, Father." Like always, I dropped my head.

"Why can't you learn from Isabella?" His voice fell on me like ice.