Page 11 of Kidnapped By the Bratva
I wipe my tears with the back of my hand, feeling the hollow ache settle in my chest. It’s like everything I thought I knew is unraveling in front of me. All those years of wondering why he accepted me so easily, why he took me in without hesitation, suddenly make sense. He didn’t bring me into his life out of love or responsibility—he did it because I was valuable to him. A way to build alliances. A way to grow his empire.
I glance at the mirror across the room, catching my reflection. My face is red, my eyes puffy, and my heart feels like it’s breaking. This isn’t the life I wanted. This isn’t the future I dreamed of.
I wanted love. Real love. A marriage built on something other than power and duty. That’s not what I’ll get. Not with Jackson Miller. Not with the life my father has mapped out for me.
I push myself off the bed, walking toward the window. The sun is setting, casting a warm, golden glow over the estate. It looks peaceful, almost beautiful, but all I feel is the weight of the cage around me. A cage made of expectations, obligations, and duty.
I place my hand against the cool glass, wishing there was some way out of this. Wishing I could find the strength to fight back. What would that even look like—running away, defying my own father?
I don’t know. And that uncertainty terrifies me more than anything.
All I know is that I can’t stay here much longer, trapped in a future I never chose.
Chapter Five - Maxim
The dim lighting of Obsidian, one of the Bratva’s most exclusive luxury clubs, casts a sultry glow over the private room. The place reeks of opulence—gold accents, leather seats, and glass walls that give a view of the pulsating energy outside. The music is a heavy, steady thrum in the background, but in here, it feels distant, like a heartbeat you barely notice.
Obsidian is just one of many clubs I run, along with other businesses under my control. On the surface, it’s all about luxury, exclusivity, and status. The real purpose is much darker. These places are perfect fronts to launder the black money we make from our other, far more illegal ventures. It’s a smooth operation, one I’ve perfected over the years, but tonight, I can’t focus on any of it.
I sit in the plush corner of the private room, my eyes cold as they scan the room without seeing anything. Artem and Timur are sprawled out across the opposite side, each of them with a woman draped over their laps, laughing and pouring drinks. They’re enjoying themselves, as usual, but I have no time for that. The weight of my father’s death is still pressing on my shoulders, the rage simmering beneath the surface, growing hotter with every second that passes without action.
The sound of Artem’s laughter cuts through the haze, and I catch his eye. His grin falters as he looks at me, realizing I’m not in the mood for this. His brow furrows as he watches me, the concern in his eyes growing. He says something to the women, waving them off, and they leave the room with pouts on their painted lips.
Timur, noticing the shift in the room, sighs, setting down his drink. “What’s going on?” His voice is rough, but there’s a hint of curiosity there.
Artem looks at me, then back at Timur. “He’s still thinking about the Kace Preston situation.”
Timur raises an eyebrow. “That bastard from New York? Thought we were just keeping an eye on him for now.”
I sit forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my jaw tight. “We are,” I say, my voice low, controlled. “For now.”
Timur leans back, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. “You’ve been obsessing over this for weeks, Maxim. What’s really going on?”
I clench my fist, feeling the familiar surge of anger pulse through me. “I found out it was Kace who rented the car that was used to murder my father.”
Timur’s casual demeanor shifts, his eyes hardening. He knows how personal this is. “Shit,” he mutters, his voice thick with disbelief. “That piece of shit killed Uncle Arlo?”
Artem nods grimly, his hands resting on his knees. “Maxim’s been chasing leads for months. Now we know Kace is involved.”
Timur sits up straighter, his eyes flicking between us. “So, what’s the move? We can’t just sit on this forever.”
I lean back against the leather seat, the frustration boiling within me. “We can’t move recklessly,” I say, forcing the words out, though every part of me is itching for action. “Dominik wants us to be careful, to wait for the right moment. Kace is still too powerful. If we strike now, we start a war we’re not ready for.”
Timur runs a hand through his hair, clearly not happy with the thought of waiting. “So we do nothing? We let this asshole walk around free while we sit here twiddling our thumbs?”
I glare at him, the tension thick in the room. “We’re not doing nothing. We’re gathering intel, finding his weaknesses. Kace may have power, but he’s not invincible. He’ll slip up eventually, and when he does….” I let the sentence hang, knowing they understand the unspoken threat.
Artem taps his fingers on his knee, his eyes locked on mine. “We need something concrete to move on. Something that’ll cripple him and make sure he doesn’t recover.”
I nod slowly. “We will. I’ve already got people looking into his businesses, his finances. Once we find the weak link, we’ll hit him where it hurts. I don’t just want him dead—I want everything he’s built to crumble around him first.”
Timur exhales, clearly still agitated but nodding in agreement. “So we bide our time.”
“Yeah,” Artem adds, his voice steady. “We keep watching him, keep gathering intel. When the time’s right, we’ll make sure Kace pays for everything.”
I sit back, letting the tension ease slightly, though the anger still churns within. I hate waiting. Every day that Kace walks free feels like an insult to my father’s memory. I know that this isn’t something we can rush. We’ve got one shot at this, and when we make our move, we need to make sure it’s decisive.
I glance at Artem and Timur, both of them on edge, but committed. “We’ll finish him,” I say, my voice cold. “When we do, it’ll make sure nobody crosses us again.”
