Page 3 of The Bratva's Hostage

“They do say women are great at covert shit like this you know. If they’re trained. It’s normal for a girl to be underestimated and in dangerous situations no one expects her to be able to do anything, so whatever she does, it’s more effective. It’s like a kid suddenly popping a gun at you. Sure, won’t see that shit coming,” Fyodor mused half to himself.

I didn’t like that it sounded like he was comforting me. “Shut up,” I ordered.

Fyodor pressed his lips together and went silent.

“Look into this shit,” I ground out, heading for the door. I was done with this fucking night. “Find anything you can. I want a name and a face as soon as possible.”

“Yes Pakhan!”

“And fix all the shit that got broken!”

When I got back to my car, my irritation had been completely replaced by tiredness. “Fuck, I had enough on my back as it was.” I started the car.

I was the Pahkan (boss) of the Wolkov Bratva. I was born into the busy life of high crime, so I was well accustomed to its dangers and pleasures. Lately, though, the pleasures have been scarce.

The work was never-ending and so were the hiccups, leaving me a lot of shit to sort out. Adding a mystery woman snooping around my office to my headaches was not a pleasant development.

Who the fuck was she? And what did she want?

Chapter 2 - Elena

This was perfect.

I turned sideways and looked at the back of my dress in the mirror. The long, black satin dress and the five-inch pumps I was wearing made me look much taller than I was at 5’5.

The side split made my legs look impossibly long, and it was cinched at the waist, rippling loosely around my curves with every slight movement I made. It was a work of art.

The shoulder straps were so thin that they were almost invisible. I had pinned my hair up in an elaborate hairstyle and my neck and shoulders looked very elegant.

The diamond necklace I picked for the evening was snug against my throat, the stones felt cool against my skin and the matching earrings draping from my ears caught the light with every turn I made. The jewelry was a recent gift from my father, like most of the things I owned.

I made one final turn in front of the mirror, and satisfied with the image staring back at me, I picked up my purse and coat, and stepped out of the room, giddy with excitement.

My father was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs with a hand in his pocket. He looked very ravishing in his black tuxedo. His full mop of gray hair appeared silver under the light of the chandelier, and he was perfectly at ease.

He glanced up as I descended the stairs, a massive smile spreading on his face. He opened his arms wide and exclaimed excitedly. “Mia ragazza! [my girl] My world, what a beautiful young lady! The sight of you is enough to break a strong man’s heart.”

I laughed and blushed. He always had a way of making me feel special. It was the sweetest thing in the world. “Grazi, papa! You're too kind. You always flatter me.”

He took my hand and helped me down the final steps. Then he kissed my hand and wrapped it in his. The wrinkles at the side of his eyes deepened as he smiled. “You make it easy, mia bambina [my child], too easy. And no flattery there, just the truth.”

I hugged him and kissed his cheek. “You don’t look too bad yourself. You look very dapper.” I touched the piece of jewelry around my neck. “And thank you for the gift, I love it.”

My father gave me his arm and led me towards the front door. “Nonsense, Elena.” He made a sweeping gesture at the massive foyer with his hands. “All of this, everything I have, all I have built. It’s all for you. You understand?”

I heard the sadness in his voice. A common, unspoken sadness that we shared, a gaping hole in the back of our minds that we tried to ignore every day. I gripped his arm tighter and he patted my hand gently.

His men were waiting in the driveway with two cars ready to go. Uncle Lucas was waiting, dashingly handsome as well, in his black tuxedo and dark blue scarf draped over his shoulders.

He was an overweight man with a balding spot in the middle of his head. He was one of the few men I knew my father trusted. So, I did too. He smiled when he saw me approaching.

“Elena, my goodness, you’re growing faster than a beanstalk,” he said, hugging me. “Armando, do you see how beautiful your girl is? Beware; the men will come in droves.”

“They can try,” my father replied eagerly. “They can only try. Well, andiamo, fratello [come on, brother]. We are already behind schedule, thanks to your lovely niece.”

My uncle held the door open for me and I ducked in, accepting his proffered hand. My father got in after me, and Lucas shut the door behind us and climbed into the passenger seat.

I looked out the window as the cars pulled out of the driveway and merged into the busy streets of New York, light rain started falling. People scampered through the sidewalks in search of cover, and cars honked impatiently.

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