Page 2 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

From the moment I seized control of Miami’s nightlife, I knew my destiny. Growth was inevitable. I was no longer content to rule from the margins, so I forged an operation of discipline and fierceness that rivals the great cartels of Latin America in influence and reach.

Where the others saw chaos, I imposed order. Where others showed weakness, I exercised strategic power.

Around me, the elite of two worlds mingle under my roof: politicians with hungry eyes, celebrities chasing danger, captains of industry pretending they aren’t already bought and paid for. And in the private area, beyond the frosted glass, my most important guests wait.

These are the men who control the arteries of the underground trade, from Mexican routes to American distribution. And tonight is critical, with the appointment set to seal our international shipment alliance.

All it takes is one handshake, one final toast, one signature in blood if necessary, to bind us in a contractual brotherhood for years to come.

There’ll be no more fragmented territories or unnecessary competition. With that seal, Miami’s entire nightlife, every port and highway of the trade, will submit only to me.

Someone moves to stand by my side, a sudden breeze of cologne and wine suffocating the air. I cock my head to the side to see a half-frown plastered on my brother’s lips.

“A few seconds ago, you were downstairs. Is there a problem?”

Ruslan shrugs, then adjusts the collar of his black dress shirt. “Not yet. Everything’s under control and going according to plan.”

I lean against the smoked-glass railing of the mezzanine, my eyes narrowing as I throw a quick glance to the private area behind me.

Sprawled across a pile of deep crimson cushions like he owns the place, is Joaquin.

He’s broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, his dark hair slicked back with a touch of silver at the temples. A neatly trimmed beard frames a mouth that smiles too easily for a man who’s ordered entire villages burned to the ground. His skin is sun-bronzed from the harsh Mexican sun.

Tonight, he’s dressed for business, in a black silk shirt unbuttoned low enough to reveal the gold chains around his neck and the edge of a tattooed crucifix on his chest. A large emerald ring glints on his finger as he lazily strokes the bare thigh of the half-naked stripper curled against him.

The girl is all soft curves and shimmering skin, wearing nothing but a tiny jeweled thong and strands of crystals that catch the low red lighting.

She drapes herself over his leg, her cheek resting on his thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns near his knee.

Joaquin beams down at her—a slow, wolfish smile full of dark appreciation. His hand slides possessively along her spine, and she arches into his touch with rehearsed hunger.

Around him, four of his soldiers sit like statues—hard, weathered men with flat, unreadable eyes and the kind of stillness that comes from years of surviving the clash of blood and bones.

One has a fresh scar slicing through his eyebrow and a gold tooth that flashes when he mutters something low to the man beside him. I recognize that one—Emiliano Sorreno, Joaquin’s lieutenant.

Another wears a pistol in a shoulder holster beneath his open leather jacket. They lounge on the surrounding low couches, but their postures remain alert.

Bottles of my finest tequila and whiskey sit half-empty on the low table between them, along with lines of pristine white powder they haven’t touched yet out of respect for the negotiation…or perhaps just discipline.

Either way, they intently watch everything: the girls, the doors, their boss, and occasionally the stations where my own men stand guard.

Joaquin laughs softly at something the girl in his lap whispers. He takes a slow drag from a cigar and blows a cloud of smoke that curls around them.

I take my arms off the railings and straighten to face my brother. “And the Mexicans?”

“So far, so good,” he sighs. Then his jaw ticks and taut muscles flex beneath his shirt. “I’ve tied up all loose ends and cleared up all ambiguous details. Trust me, they know what they’re in for. Joaquin understands this, and he knows who’s in charge now.”

“Sounds easy, until you remember Joaquin trusts no one,” I murmur, still slightly pissed off that it took this long to put a seal on our agreement with the Mexicans.

He doesn’t say a word, but a ghostly smile flickers across his lips before it disappears.

“What?”

Ruslan arches a brow suggestively. “You’ve not exactly given him a choice. Look at him. He’s here in Velour, eye-fucking Lucy like a starved animal. Plus, the shipment is safe and secure. He’s got no reason to cause trouble or pull out.”

“That’s a good way to—”

The rest of my words die in my throat as my gaze drops to the busy bar on the ground floor.