by Jane Henry
“And I love our child that you carry. No one will ever hurt you again,” he says. “And I will keep our family safe no matter the cost.”
“I know you will,” I whisper.
His father brought him back to Atlanta and appointed him head brigadier, for now. As son to the pakhan, Nicolai will eventually be appointed leader.
Stefan and Nicolai worked tirelessly for months, ensuring that no one who worked for my father had affiliations with the Atlanta contingent. The Bratva men found my father’s actions appalling, and welcomed me and Nicolai home with open arms. Tomas still checks in on occasion, and once a month, Nicolai flies back to Boston and works for him as well.
What my father did was inexcusable even to the most hardened men of the brotherhood. It brings me some consolation knowing as Nicolai’s, I bear the protection of the entire extended brotherhood. And now I carry an heir to the Bratva throne.
“Tomas is coming to pay us a visit,” Nicolai says. I once feared the head of the Boston Bratva, and though I still am not comfortable around him, I trust him.
“Oh? Why?”
“It’s time he found a wife.”
I give him a curious look, waiting for him to tell me more, but when he doesn’t, I prompt him. “Oh? And how will coming here help him with that?”
Nicolai sighs. “He’s been promised the daughter of a rival group, and my father will officiate.”
“Nicolai,” I say, pleading, but I don’t know for what. It seems every time we make any progress, and I’ve accepted the ways of the Bratva, something happens to remind me how they live by their own set of rules.
“It isn’t as terrible as you might think, Marissa.”
“No? Being wed to a man you’ve never met? And dragged away from everyone and everything you love?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes, unlikely unions happen as a result.”
“And sometimes you end up wed to a man you despise.”
But Nicolai shows no sympathy. “Fools marry every day,” he protests. “They know nothing about loyalty or self-sacrifice or honor. Any woman that belongs to Tomas will be glad to call him husband.”
I don’t agree, but it isn’t worth fighting with him. I can’t control this. And I know he’s loyal to Tomas.
With a sigh, I take his hand and place it on my belly. Our baby boy kicks, and I watch as Nicolai’s eyes grow misty. He swallows hard. Bratva men don’t cry, but they aren’t made of stone.
I’ll never forget the way his eyes lit up when the pregnancy test came back positive, or the way he held me when we accepted the news that we’d created new life. We’ve come through hell and back, but each step together—marriage, family life, reinstatement in our family brotherhood—moves the pain of the past further behind us and forges a new road.
Twenty years later
“I’m nearly forty, you know,” I tell Nicolai. I’m staring at myself in the mirror before me, frowning. “Almost an old lady.”
He scoffs. “Forty is the new thirty.”
He was forty over a decade ago and insists that age is just a number. I don’t much care myself, though it’s remarkable to me how far we’ve come. Our oldest son is a sophomore in college, and our daughter is a senior in high school. Nicolai has taken on the role of pakhan. Though Stefan is still youthful and of completely sound mind, he no longer wanted to bear the weight of brotherhood leadership. Nicolai volunteered. It’s time.
I touch the few grays at my temple and stare at the laugh lines around my eyes. My cheeks are fuller, my body curvier, and there are traces of silvery stretch marks in places hidden under my dress. It’s late fall in Atlanta, the weather slightly cooler. I take my book and I head to the porch. I look up when the door opens behind me. Nicolai follows.
I smile at him and slide onto the porch swing. He sits down beside me, and pulls me onto his lap.
“I’ll squash you!” I protest, more than a little self-conscious about the extra few pounds I’ve gained in the past few years. With a growl, he turns me over and slaps my ass, hard.
“Ow!”
“Don’t let me hear a word about your curves,” he says warningly, every bit the dominant caveman he was decades ago. “I love those curves. I love everything about you.”
I kinda melt into him a bit more.
The porch door swings open again, and our daughter Fiona joins us on the porch.
“Boys are idiots,” she pronounces, flouncing onto the white wicker chair that sits across from us.
“Oh?” I ask, eyeing Nicolai. He’s stiffened, his eyes narrowing.
“Relax,” I tell him.
“Please, dad,” Fiona says. “You don’t have to start polishing your rifle.”
Nicolai doesn’t own a rifle. He does, however, own a veritable arsenal of weapons he has readily at his disposal, and Fiona well knows this.
“I’ve been good to your boyfriends,” Nicolai protests. “I haven’t broken a single bone.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yet.”
“Oh, Fiona,” I say. “He won’t.” But I’m not so sure he wouldn’t if one of them mistreated her.
“You know,” she says wistfully. “I just want what you two have. None of my friends’ parents have been married for twenty years. You guys are so into each other it almost makes me sick.” But she smiles. “And I want that.”
Nicolai looks at her gravely. “You deserve that,” he responds.
She gets to her feet with a smile and trots down the stairs, waving over her shoulder when her friend pulls up to the curb. One would think we were an almost normal family, if they didn’t see the black car that follows her friend when they leave, or the trademark Bratva ink.
“You know,” I say teasingly. “I wouldn’t worry so much about the boys pursuing her. Remember, she isn’t into boys so much.” I chew my lip thoughtfully. “It’s her bodyguard I’d keep an eye on.”
I laugh out loud when he sits up so straight I nearly topple off the porch swing.
“I’m teasing,” I tell him. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s gay.”
His eyes crinkle around the edges and he pulls me closer before he bends down and kisses me.
“I’m feeling wistful tonight,” he says. It was twenty years ago we said our vows, on a night just like this. I look up at him and rest my hand on the side of his face. Though he’s aged, sporting salt and pepper in his beard that wasn’t there before, his eyes are as blue as they were the day I met him.
“Oh?” I ask. I rest my head in his lap and sigh into him when he pulls me even closer.
“You are still my precious star,” he says, holding my hand to his chest. “Zvezda moya. All this… our home, our children, your love… what you’ve given me is beyond the worth of a thousand kingdoms. Priceless.”
Zvezda moya.
I’m his star, his light in a world of darkness, and I will shine on.
Beyond Measure
Copyright © 2019 by Jane Henry
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art by PopKitty Designs
Photographer Wander Aguiar
Synopsis:
USA Today bestselling author Jane Henry delivers a gritty, impassioned romance of arranged marriage, fearless love, and ultimate triumph over evil.
I’m the girl no one wants.
Scarred beyond repair and locked away, I’m tainted and tarnished.
Unworthy of friendship, love, or hope.
But I was born into Bratva life, and my life is not my own.
I’m ripped from my home and forced to marry a man I’ve never met, sight unseen.
He’s ruthless, possessive, fierce... My husband.
BEYOND MEASURE
Chapter 1
Tomas
I scowl at the computer screen in front of
me. As pakhan, the weight of everything falls onto my shoulders, and today is one day when I wish I could shrug it off.
A knock comes at my office door.
“Who is it?” I snap. I don’t want to see or hear anything right now. I’m pissed off, and I haven’t had time to compose myself. As the leader of the Boston Bratva, it’s imperative that I maintain composure.
“Nicolai.”
“Come in.”
Nicolai can withstand my anger and rage. Over the past few months, he’s become my most trusted advisor. My friend.
The door swings open and Nicolai enters, bowing his head politely to greet me.
“Brother.”
I nod. “Welcome. Have a seat.”
When I first met Nicolai, he wore the face of a much older man. Troubled and anguished, he was in the throes of fighting for his woman. The woman who now bears his name and his baby. But I’ve watched the worry lines around his eyes diminish, his smile become more ready. While every bit as fierce and determined to dutifully fill his role as ever, he’s grown softer because of Marissa, more devoted to her.
“You look thrilled,” he says, quirking a brow at me. Unlike my other men, who often quake in my presence, having been taught by my father before me that men in authority are to be feared and obeyed, Nicolai is more relaxed. He’s earned the title of brother more readily than even my most trusted allies.
“Fucking pissed,” I tell him, pushing up from my desk and heading to the sideboard. I pour myself a shot of vodka. It’s eleven o’clock in the fucking morning, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been up all night. “Drink?”
He nods silently and takes the proffered shot glass. We raise our drinks and toss them back together. I take in a deep breath and place the glass back on the sideboard before I go back to my desk.
“Want to tell Uncle Nicolai your troubles?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.
I roll my eyes at him.
I made an unconventional decision when I inducted Nicolai into our brotherhood. The son of another pakhan, Nicolai came here under an alias, but I knew he had the integrity of a brother I wanted in my order. I offered him dual enrollment in both groups, under both the authority of his father and me, and he readily agreed. We’ve come to be good friends, and I would trust the man with my life.
“Uncle Nicolai,” I snort, shaking my head. None of my other brothers take liberties like Nicolai does, but none are as trustworthy and loyal as him, so he gets away with giving me shit unlike anyone else. “It’s fucking Aren Koslov.”
Nicolai grimaces. “Fucking Aren Koslov,” he mutters in commiseration. “What’d the bastard do now?” He shakes his head. “Give me one good reason to beat his ass and I’ll take the next red-eye to San Diego.”
He would, too. Nicolai inspires fear in our enemies and respect in our contemporaries. Aren falls into both categories.
“Owed me a fucking mint a month ago, and hasn’t paid up,” I tell him. I spin my monitor around to show him the number in red. “And you don’t need me to tell you we need that money.” As my most trusted advisor, Nicolai knows we’re right on the cusp of securing the next alliance with the Spanish drug cartel. Our location in Boston, near the wharf and airport, puts us in the perfect position to manage imports, but the buy-in is fucking huge. We have the upfront money, but the payout from San Diego would put us in a moderately better financial position.
Nicolai leans back in his chair, rubbing his hand across his jawline.
“And you have meeting after meeting coming up with politicians, leaders, and the like.”
I eye him warily. Where’s he going with this?
“It’s easy to say you need money. But that isn’t what you need, brother.”
I roll my eyes. “I suppose you’re going to tell me what I need.”
“Of course.”
“Go on.”
“You know what you need more than the money?” he asks. I’m growing impatient. He needs to come out with it already.
I give him a look that says spill.
“You need a wife,” he says.
A wife?
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Sometimes I think your father dropped you on your head as a child,” I tell him. What bullshit. I look back at the computer screen, but Nicolai presses on.
“Tomas, listen to me,” he says, insistent. “Money comes and goes, and you know that. Tomorrow you could seal a deal with the arms trade you’ve been working, and you know our investments have been paying off in spades. But a good wife is beyond measure, and Aren has a sister.”
“You’ve been married, for what, two fucking days and you’re giving me this shit?” I reply, but my mind is already spinning with what he’s saying. I never dismiss Nicolai’s suggestions without really weighing my options. Aren is one of the youngest brigadiers in America and has a reputation that precedes him everywhere he goes. He commands men under him, and I’m grateful he hasn’t risen higher in power.
He grunts at me and narrows his eyes. “I’ve loved Marissa for a lot longer than we’ve had rings on our fingers.”
“I know it, brother,” I tell him. “Just giving you shit. Go on.”
“Aren’s sister is single, lives with him on their compound. Young. I don’t know much about her, and haven’t seen a recent picture, but I met her years ago when I first came to America. And she was a beauty then. I imagine she’s only grown more beautiful.”
Seconds ago, this idea seemed preposterous, but now that I’m beginning to think about it, I’m warming to the idea.
“You think he’d let her go to pay off his debt?”
“With enough persuasion? Hell yeah. And a good leader needs a wife. You’ve seen it yourself. There’s something to be said for having a woman to come home to. The most powerful men in the brotherhood are all married.”
He’s right. Just last week, I met with Demyan from Moscow and his wife Larissa. He brings her everywhere with him. The two are inseparable. And he’s risen to be one of the most powerful men the Bratva has ever known.
“And face it, Tomas. You’re not exactly in the position to meet a pretty girl at church.”
I huff out a laugh. The men of the Bratva rarely obtain women by traditional means.
I lift my phone and dial Lev.
“Boss?”
“Get me a picture of Aren Kosolov’s sister,” I tell him. Our resident hacker and computer genius, Lev works quickly and efficiently.
“Give me five minutes,” he says.
“Done.”
I hang up the phone and turn to Nicolai. “I want to see her first,” I tell him.
“Of course.”
“How’s Marissa?”
He fills me in about home, his voice growing softer as he talks about Marissa, but I’m only half-listening to him. I’m thinking about the way a woman changes a man, and how he’s changed because of her.
Do I need a wife?
The better question is, do I want Aren Kosolov’s sister to be the one?
My phone buzzes, and Nicolai gestures for me to answer it. A text from Lev with a grainy picture pops up on the screen, followed by a text.
There are no recent pictures. This was from a few years ago, but it should give you a good idea.
Still, it’s a full profile picture. I murmur appreciatively. Wavy, unruly chestnut hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, with fetching tendrils curling around her forehead. Haunting hazel colored eyes below dark brows. High cheekbones, her skin flushed pink, and full, pink lips. She’s thin and graceful, though if I’m honest, a little too thin for me. The women I bed tend to be sturdier and curvy, able to withstand the way I like to fuck.
I don’t want to have this conversation via text. I call him and he answers right away.
“Background?” I ask.
“Never went to college. Under her brother’s watchful eye since her father died.”
“Lovely,” I mutter. He might not give her up easily.
“Temperament?” I ask, aware that
I sound like I’m asking about adopting a puppy, but it fucking matters.
“Not sure, but she has no record on file at school or legally. Perfect record. Graduated top of her class in high school.” He snorts. “Volunteers in a soup kitchen in San Diego and attends the Orthodox Church on the weekend.”
Ah. A good girl. Points in her favor. Sometimes the good girls fall hard, and sometimes they’re tougher to break, but they intrigue me.
“Boyfriend?”
“None.”
“Name?”
“Caroline.”
“Caroline?” I repeat. “That isn’t a Russian name.”
“Her mother was American.”
I nod thoughtfully. Caroline Koslov.
She would take my name.
Caroline Dobrynin.
I drum my fingers on my desk, contemplating. I nod to Nicolai when I instruct Lev. “Get Aren on the phone.”
Chapter 2
Caroline
It’s still dark when I wake, but the black outside my window is already beginning to turn to light. I reach over to shut off the blaring alarm on my phone and it goes skidding to the floor, spinning out.
“Crap,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes and sitting up in bed. God, I wish I’d woken sooner. I don’t remember my dream, but it was unpleasant, the weight of it still on my chest, my eyes gritty with sleep. Was I crying? I haven’t slept well in years, but I rarely remember what I dream. Maybe I don’t even dream. Maybe I just want to escape into a new life and new place, away from the domineering ways of my brother and the men who obey his orders.
Yawning, I stumble in the dark, reaching for my phone, until I finally find it. I take my glasses off the bedside table and slide them on my face, blinking into the dark room. I groan out loud when I look at my phone. The damn thing’s shattered. I don’t much care about communicating with anyone. No one texts me, and I deleted all social media off my phone a while ago. But I love to read, I keep my books private on an app, and I hate that the stupid thing is broken. I’ll have to find a way to fix it.
