Page 24 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“We’ve got an even bigger problem,” Artur lets out a heavy sigh as he looks at Ivan and me. “I can’t stop thinking about Lyric. I want to see her again.”

“You’re not alone,” Max replies, running a hand through his rich, brown hair. “It’s a delicate situation though.”

“How many women have we actually met that were so incredibly responsive to the three of us?” Artur asks and shakes his head slowly. “I don’t care who her father is. I mean, I should, but Lyric is special.”

“We can’t avoid her forever,” I say. “I mean, we could, but it’ll turn into agony soon enough.”

Max finally concedes. “I know.”

It’s quite the shitstorm we’re wading into, yet we can’t seem to stop ourselves from going deeper. I don’t know how this will end, but I do know that I am ready to scorch all of their asses if that’s what it takes.

We’re building something great here, something that’ll take the family away from all these skirmishes with the Feds. It’s going to take time and alliances that will make me want to gag, but it’s a hard game we’re playing, and Bowman just promised us hell if we don’t fight back.

8

Lyric

After Bowman and my father’s speeches about their war against the Chicago mob—the Bratva in particular—I am compelled to reach out to Max, Ivan, and Artur. I haven’t seen them in a while, and the fact that they never made that Friday night happen has finally begun to make sense. Given the circumstances, and Smith’s visit to the library, I’m guessing they were just trying to keep me out of what is clearly becoming a hot, horrible mess.

But I can’t stay away anymore, for a multitude of reasons.

I don’t have their phone numbers or their social media handles, so one evening, after some Internet sleuthing, I managed to find the address of a house on the Upper East Side that is listed as their official residence.

“Whoa,” I mumble, noticing the size of the Sokolov’s house as I advance toward it.

The villa is a two-story splendor nestled between giant sycamore trees, with a lush front garden and imposing, black metal gates. Security is stationed outside and judging by the number of sleek Escalades parked in the driveway, along with the sound of electronic music oozing from inside, they’ve got some kind of fancy event going tonight.

I suddenly feel small as I watch men and women in ridiculously expensive attire walk up to the bodyguards. One of the bouncers checks each guest against a list on his tablet before nodding to his colleague, who then proceeds to scan them with a high-tech metal detector wand.

“Are they inside?” I hear one of the guests ask.

“Yes, greeting folks as they arrive. Max and Ivan, mostly. Artur is by the bar.”

“At least I know I’m in the right place,” I mutter to myself before working up the nerve to take my spot in the growing queue outside the Sokolov villa, though I have no idea how I’ll manage to fake my way inside.

It’s a good opportunity to observe. I focus on the older gentlemen. Some have brought female companions, each loaded with flashy diamond earrings and necklaces—displaying the kind of wealth that proves their upper social status. Others have brought what appears to be their young adult children.

The boys look excited but also a little intimidated. If the stories I’ve read about the Bratva are true, each of these events is an opportunity for the young men to present themselves before the Sokolov’s as potential lieutenants in the future, while the girls are elegantly dressed and on hand to inspire possible marriage offers.

That last thought rubs me the wrong way, especially as I watch a pair of beautiful young women sashay past the guards and up the villa’s white marble steps, disappearing inside beneath a shower of twinkling chandelier lights.

“Can I help you?” the bodyguard asks when it’s my turn. He takes a moment to measure me from head to toe. At least I had the sense to dress in a simple, but tight black dress and stilettos. Had I known they’d have this kind of guest list, I would’ve sprung for some flashier jewelry.

“My name is Lyric,” I reply with a soft smile, my heart racing. “I’m not on the list, but if you would kindly let Max, Ivan or Artur know that I’m here, I’m sure they’ll—”

“Get lost,” he cuts me off.

Another guest tries to take my place, but the urgency of my situation beckons me to try harder. “Please. Just check with them. It won’t cost you a thing.”

“It’ll cost time,” he retorts, still unimpressed.

“Okay. I’ll leave. But I hope you have a good excuse prepared for when the inevitable happens, and they ask why you didn’t tell them that I stopped by. Best of luck, buddy,” I say and turn to leave.

“Wait,” the guy replies, then appears to send a text.

My heart’s stuck in my throat. I can’t believe it worked. The bouncer receives an instant response and gives me a sour look.

“You can go in,” he says. “But you have to pass the metal detector first.”

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