Page 3 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

Max comes closer and my breath falters. I feel tiny as he gets bigger in my field of vision. “Lyric, here’s the thing. We were just about to celebrate something, and we ordered an escort. Then you showed up at our door.”

“Whoa.”

“I know, right? Pretty confusing,” he shoots back with a wry smile. “That doesn’t mean we can’t still make the most of this conundrum.”

“I’m a PhD candidate and I came here for an interview,” I state, sounding like an idiot to my own ears.

“Yes, and we’ve already explained the interview isn’t going to happen,” he replies. “Do you want to walk out of here feeling like this time was wasted or enjoyed?”

I stare at them, not knowing how to react.

I’ve never had sex before. I’ve had a few close calls here and there, but my studies—my algorithms, in particular—take up most of my time. I’ve been so stressed out about this interview that maybe this is my sign from the universe to take it down a notch.

But something still isn’t making sense here. I’m missing an important detail.

“I’m sorry, what happened to Mr. Bowman again?” I ask.

Max and Artur glance back at Ivan, who replies with a shrug. “She’s going to hear about it by tomorrow, anyway,” Ivan says. “You might as well tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

“Mr. Bowman will be in our custody until he yields to our demands,” Max replies.

I gasp. “Oh, my God! You kidnapped him?”

“Kidnap is such an ugly word.”

“Sequestered him.”

Max gives me a wink. “That’s more like it.”

Dear God, who the hell are these people? And why can’t I just find the nerve to get up and run screaming? “What are you going to do to me?”

“No harm will come to you,” Artur assures me. “A few orgasms, maybe, but I’m pretty sure you’ll enjoy those.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Let me offer a more thorough introduction. I’m Max Sokolov. This is Ivan Sokolov. Perhaps the surname rings a bell?”

I stare at him in sheer disbelief. Of course, it rings a bell. My father’s entire political campaign over the past three months has been centered on the Sokolov Bratva, whom he has repeatedly named “the bane of our great city of Chicago.”

Bowman and my father partnered up a while back on a policy proposal designed to rid Chicago of its mobster families—if my father gets the state senate seat in the fall.

“I think she knows who we are,” Artur mumbles.

“Russian mobsters,” I breathe, my eyes growing bigger, my breaths coming quicker.

“Technically speaking, Russian-American,” Max states nonchalantly. “Ivan and I were born and raised here. Artur came over from Moscow when he was a wee little boy, though he’s naturalized. Therefore, also Russian-American.”

“Okay, Russian-American mobsters,” I reply sarcastically.

Ivan chuckles. “Great. We ordered an escort, and instead we get this lovely little prude with a moral code. Now what?”

“Like I said, why consider it time wasted?” Max shoots back.

“You’re joking,” I say.

I’m not sure why I don’t sound or feel as outraged and scared as I should be. Either my brain cells are completely fried from all of the studying I’ve been doing, or I’ve suddenly developed a soft spot for mobsters with big shoulders, hard, strong bodies, and gorgeous chiseled faces.

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