Accidental Bride For My Mafia Stepbrother

Viktoria 'Toria' Malchov pov

(Aged fifteen)

Catch me if you can," I squeal as I dash out of the house, running across the snowy compound. My younger brother and cousin, Ivan and Ilya, follow right behind, their shoes sloshing through the wet snow.

They are adorned in these comfy and warm pants-while I'm... well... stuck in a flowy dress that keeps tangling around my legs, getting in the way and slowing me down.

Guess I'm super screwed!

"You're so dead, Tori. Watch us!" Ivan shouts, his voice echoing through the hills surrounding our vacation house.

A small part of me itches to steal a glance backwards to see how close he is to me, but the rational part of me rules against it, as it will only manage to slow me down.

So, instead, I run towards the garden, my shoes sinking into the deep snow that has covered the once green garden.

This part of the country snows so hard that it is impossible to win against it, yet my family owns multiple cottages in this region, as Papa loves to say, 'it's far away from the loud chaos of the city.'

I sprint the length of the garden, my breath catching thanks to the terrain and taking in the frozen air. I pause and admire the vast snow that stretches across the hills, as far as my sight can take.

"I said, watch out!" Ivan squeals, and I break out in another sprint, going around one of the gigantic trees surrounding the property.

"Damn it, Ivan! I almost got her," Ilya yells when I slip out of his reach, and he almost trips on the ice.

"Too slow!" I yell, dragging the words out in a sing-song voice. I glance over my shoulder and pull a face at them, waggling my tongue and blowing a loud raspberry at them before taking off, but this time I run backwards.

"I can't believe all that hardship training with Papa and Dyadya hasn't borne any fruit," I sneer, my voice laced with feigned disappointment.

A fringe of his blonde hair escapes from his beanie, blocking his vision, and he angrily swipes his gloved hand over the rogue strands, clearing them to reveal frosty blue eyes that blend perfectly with the snow.

Ivan and Ilya are the closest to me by age-they are twelve and I'm fifteen- yet they are annoyingly taller than I am. And they have been rubbing it off on my face all through puberty, let alone the constant way they love ruffling my curly red hair.

However, I'm faster than them because obviously nothing says run freely like a stupid dress, girly shoes and the softest pink coat imaginable meant to bring out my feminine side.

"What got you in a sour mood, little munchkin?" I taunt, "what's the use of your long legs if you can't catch your..."

My words get stuck in my throat when my back bumps into something solid. I slowly turn around and wince. Misha-my older half‑brother-stares down at me.

He and I are the exception to the blonde gene running in the family. He sports this dark hair while I have red hair. But his is always styled to perfection while mine are these unruly curls that would battle a bird's nest. While I'm always taunting the boys and running around the house, Misha is the complete opposite-he's the embodiment of composed and impossibly controlled, like nothing in the world could ever rattle him. To me, that's a boring way to live this life.

What?

I really can't remember a time he played something fun other than the annoying chess games with me. He keeps saying that it will help me get into my mind, but honestly, it all makes no sense to me.

"What did I say about running around, Solnyshko?"

Did I mention that he disapproves of my every action? Because he does that quite often, let alone his constant glares. Oh, and his strange way of showing love, like buying you gifts and never giving them directly to you.

I fake a wide smile, "Playing?"

Ivan and Ilya catch up to me, and they bury their gloved hands into my hair, before screaming at the same time, "We got you!"

"No, you cheated!"

But the rascals are already bolting back to the house with their heads thrown over their shoulders, wearing smug grins.

I glare up at Misha, "Do you have to ruin the fun and stand in the middle of my way."I snap. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders while he glares at me, "Shouldn't you be seated inside?"

"Yeah", I say resignedly, my shoulders bunching forward.

"You know it's boring inside there. Especially with Babushka sitting across from you with her cane that is always stretched your way looking and collecting each and every of your posture."

Very annoying"

Misha's perfect brow lifts in amusement, but he tries to mask it, but I can see it, "You're never quitting to complain?"

"Well, try being me," I throw my hands up in the air, motioning at my dress, "and try wearing this 'cute' dress."

His straight lips twitch in what looks like a smile before he grabs my left shoulder and drags me inside the house, "It's time for dinner."

"You know I can walk myself just perfect without you handling me like a sack of potatoes," I try wriggling from his hold, but that only tightens his grasp on my shoulder, and basically pushes me inside.

Immediately, I'm met by a warm, joyful atmosphere. The Christmas spirit is in full swing-the gigantic decorated tree stands just below the staircase, sparkling and glittering with a handful of ornaments. Soft lights are strung all over the house, their glow contrasting with the magnificent chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

Joyful Christmas carols drift through the speakers, mixing harmoniously with the excited chatter and the echo of footsteps around the house-the staff bustle about, busy setting up the dinner table just as Mama and Babushka had instructed.

Speaking of Mama...

"Toria,"

I wince as Mama's sharp voice, and Misha chucks me free before getting into an upright position. He and Papa may take care of business, but Mama is the monarch inside the house. So they listen to her.

She comes to a halt a few inches from me, her hand etched on her hip. It is an elegant red dress that hugs her curves and pregnant belly. She is a tall, elegant woman with a high-jawed face and red curly hair that she passed down to me. Although I inherited her hazel colour in the eyes, I also got blue eyes. Are they from papa? Maybe...

Now my eyes hold a rare heterochromia-one a piercing blue, the other a deep green.

"Did I not tell you that you have to look presentable tonight, Toria." She fumbles with the buttons of my jacket before shrugging it off my shoulders.

"Look at your shoes!" she huffs, "you already ruined the leather. She reaches the cabinet at the entrance and withdraws another pair of sandals to help me change into them.

"You need to grow up," she brushes my curls with her fingers that don't get stuck, thanks to the damp moisture from the melting snow. Misha breaks into a wide grin while he nods his head.

"No need for that. You can remain my little girl forever," Papa's voice interferes before he brushes a kiss on my cheek, but Mama spares him a look. When he kisses her and rubs his hand on her pregnant belly, she releases a sigh.

Everyone is seated at the table, Babushka at the head of the table, and his three brothers, Erik, Nero and Anton, sit on her right side while their wives are seated opposite them.

The grandchildren follow next, and I'm sitting between Misha and Ilya. A hand sneaks beneath the table and pulls one of my seats' legs, and I nearly fall; both Ilya and Ivan suppress a laugh.

You want to play with fire?

I push Ivan's head so that he bumps on the table, and he winces. A cane taps on the ground, and Babushka fixes me with a glare while Misha's hand finds mine on the table, squeezing it in a warning.

Both Ilya and Ivan snicker. Those bastards want to have me dead. After everyone has sat, we start eating as we chatter away, but Ilya and Ivan try stealing sushi from my plate. So I pinch and kick them under the table, which earns them Misha's disapproval glares.

Pasha, the family's head of security and Papa's right-hand man, rushes inside towards Papa's seat. His face is contorted in these harsh lines, and Papa glares at him before grumbling, "what this that can't wait? didn't I tell you not to disturb me during family dinner?"

"No, sir. There is an emergency. The security system has been di–"

A red laser dot appears on his forehead.

Then the shot comes.

His head snaps back as the bullet tears through his skull.

"What's all these?" Babushka yells, tapping her cane on the floor in that ole familiar authoritarian move.

Everything happens in slow motion, and when I look up, everyone has those red dots either between their eyes, on their chest, or on their forehead.

Oh, no.

What's happening?

Loud footsteps echo through the now pin-drop silent room before masked men in combat gear spill in from both sides. Massive rifles are slung over their shoulders, all pointed at the dining table. It looks like something straight out of a John Wick scene.

"Everyone down," Uncle Anton yells as he pulls Babushka down the table with his hand around her head. But before they can disappear, her brains are blown out while a bullet slices through his throat and blood splashes from his mouth.

Mama shrieks, but it is cut off when bullets slice through her chest. I scream and scream as I sink below the table. The room is filled with wails, raw shrieks, and that tangy iron stench of blood.

From my blurry vision, Misha grabs his gun from his waist and fires aimlessly until it is empty.

"Shh," Ivan whispers, "stop screaming and stay still," he breathes, and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as my fingers tighten around his hand that is around my neck.

We shake against each other, our damp faces against one another, and I slam my eyes closed to try and calm my racing heart before a weight falls on me, something hot trickling down my head and face, and I open my eyes a little.

Blood splashes from Ivan's chest. I stare sideways to find half of Ilya's face gone. I open my mouth to let out a scream, but Ivan, who is gulping for air, shakes his head at me, muttering, "No...please don't."

He releases me, and his body jerks backwards before sprawling over me, its weight suffocating me as a sharp pain penetrates through my left shoulder.

"For a moment, I think I've been shot because the gunshots all but die, and the screaming and wailing die down, only for the breathy gasps coming from the dying bodies.

All I can do is tremble and cry silently, watching my body get drenched with my brother's blood.

At this moment, I wish for death.

I wish for it.

I pray for it.

But it never comes...