Page 32 of The Bratva's Hostage Bride

“Research and record my podcast,” I say, a little breathless.

“Right, well, I’ll be in my study if you need me.” He gives me a hesitant smile. “Glad to see you’re feeling a little better.”

“Thank you,” I say genuinely.

I walk out, feeling a little awkward. I go upstairs and set up the books around me. I make notes and search articles online until I’m ready to record the introduction. It takes three tries because my voice is a bit scratchy at first, but I’m happy with the third take.

While taking a break, I activate my Virtual Proxy Network and search the Internet, or rather the Dark Web, for information on Luka Milov.

What comes up surprises me. I knew his family was questionable, but I’m still surprised to see his brother Kervyn is the head of the Bratva mafia in Vegas. I start to research the Bratva, and it leads me to dozens of articles on people supposedly killed by them, illegal sites owned by them, illicit businesses, and casinos run by them—so many casinos.

Luka has a casino.

I glance at my watch. It’s late afternoon now, almost dinner time.

I get up and walk outside the room, almost walking straight into Luka, who has Kitty in his arms.

“Your furball puked in my shoe,” he says, but he’s smiling.

I take Kitty from him. “Naught Kitty. Don’t puke in the husband's shoe.” I let her go, and I straighten up. “I have questions.”

“About what?” Luka asks.

“Your family.”

It’s as though he was expecting it. He nods. “We should probably do this over drinks. Come on.”

We go back to the bar, and he pulls out a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses, which he fills. “Sip it; don’t down it.”

I nod and take a small sip, wrinkling my nose.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Are you really in a mafia family?” I ask.

“Yes, but I can’t go into details. My family is very powerful, that much I can say.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.” He looks at me honestly and sips his drink. “Never intentionally.”

I raise an eyebrow, and he says, “Next question.”

“Was I kidnapped by a mafia family?”

“Armenian, to be exact. They seem to have aligned themselves with one of our rival families and are trying to clap back at us. They attacked the casino.”

I down my drink. “More. I need it.”

He fills the glass.

“Why did you move from Ohio to Vegas?”

I’m caught off guard by the question as he downs his drink. “What? I can’t ask you stuff?”

“My cousins invited me to the city because I had just stayed in a quiet little town and was going nowhere. How did you know I came from Ohio?” I ask.

“The accent, and I did some background on you too. You’re not the only one with access to information.”

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