Page 3 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

As bustling as it is, it’s not the brightly lit bar that catches my attention. Rather, it’s the woman standing behind it in a black tube top and black jeans, moving with efficiency as she adds ice to a customer’s glass and pours a drink.

Ruslan notices the dent in my composure and frowns. “Something wrong?”

“Yes, Ruslan.” I narrow my gaze, jaw clenching. “It’s all fucking shades of wrong.”

She shouldn’t be here.

She shouldn’t be anywhere near me or my business after the shit she pulled a year ago.

My confidence fractures the instant I notice her. Irritation sparks hot in my chest and quickly twists into something darker.

Almost on cue, like she senses me watching her, our eyes meet briefly across the distance, and she doesn’t look frightened or apologetic. She looks composed…almost unimpressed.

And that unsettles me more than hatred ever could.

A vicious flicker of rage ignites in my veins, spreading like wildfire. My jaw tightens, fingers curling into fists at my sides as the urge to storm down there surges through me.

But before I can react, a man steps up behind me and clasps my shoulders with big, calloused hands. His grip is firm and his smile congratulatory. “You’ve got me in the bag, Igor.”

I suck in a slow breath, forcing the mask of control back into place even as the rage continues to simmer beneath my skin.

I manage a placid smile, ignoring the stench of tobacco and tequila that oozes off him. “Joaquin. I trust you’re enjoying the night? You have everything at your disposal.”

“Sí. You are a good host, Igor. I never thought I’d see a night like this.” He points at himself, then to me. “Villalobos and Nazarov, bound together by manipulation and forced loyalty.”

Ruslan clears his throat beside me and my brows furrow.

But Joaquin merely barks a guttural laugh, his eyes shining with mirth and burning with ambition.

“You need to relax, Nazarov. Try some tequila. Or better yet…” He leans in, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper. “Those knots in your shoulders could use some loosening. We could share Lucy. I don’t mind.”

I flash a tight smile, patting him on his chest as he tilts backward. “Lucy’s yours tonight, Joaquin. I’m good.”

“Then celebrate, leader,” he bellows. “This is not a fucking funeral! Tonight seals more than a partnership,” the cartel leader says, his voice low with satisfaction. “It’s a bond that holds promises for the future.”

I nod in agreement, right before music cuts off.

And my gut instantly tells me something’s fucking wrong.

It’s not a glitch or a technical failure.

The music is brutally cut mid-beat, leaving the bass still vibrating in the walls like a dying heartbeat, and for half a second, the grand opening of Velour hangs in stunned silence.

Then the screams start, ripping through the crowd with mass hysteria.

People race toward the exits in a panicked wave.

The lights keep flashing, painting the pandemonium in sick, disorienting bursts of red and blue. But these aren’t club lights anymore.

Ruslan curses under his breath, a hot mix of English and Russian. “Fuck. Igor, it’s the police. What the hell? How did they—”

My brothers voice fades into white noise at the back of my mind as I watch the men in uniform storm in from every entrance, cutting through the crowd like wolves in a henhouse.

Shouts of “Down! Get down!” echo off the walls.

Somewhere downstairs, glass shatters. A woman in heels stumbles and falls, and the air turns thick with fear.

I stay rooted in place on the upper level, too enraged to move while the storm rages below.