Page 75 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“My, my, aren’t you a righteous little thing.”

“Just because you decided to throw away all of your principles so you could get richer, doesn’t mean that there’s something wrong with the rest of us. People still hurt other people. We still need to punish criminals. Corruption is eating away at an already defective system, causing even more pain to innocent people. You’re out there stomping and crushing skulls to fatten your bank accounts, while countless folks rot in a line for food stamps.”

Bowman chuckles softly. “Don’t tell me you want freedom and money for everyone.”

“No, that would be unrealistic. I want equality and fair chances for everyone. You fellas keep tipping the scales in your favor while you’re also audacious enough to get in front of the cameras and claim you’re fighting for the little guy. How many charities are you currently in charge of?”

“About six, I think. And they’re all doing amazing things for the people and for the planet’s ecosystem, might I add.” He sounds irritatingly proud about this.

“And what, you think that washes your sins away? The money you steal? The lives you destroy? Don’t be delusional, Mr. Bowman. It never ends well.”

“It’s going pretty well for me right now,” he retorts. “I’ve got you in my grip, calm and under control. I’ll have to buy your father a yacht or perhaps a Tuscan villa to apologize for this whole circus, but it will have been worth it. I’ve got the Sokolov’s right where I want them. The mob families are falling back in line. Life is good, Lyric.”

“I’ll bet.”

“It could be good for you, too, if you just accept your fate. You’ll be a single mother, but you will at least have spared your father the shame of his daughter cavorting with known criminals. Years from now, you’re going to look back on this moment and understand that I’m doing you a favor.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes at him. “Yeah, I’m beside myself with gratitude.” But then his words hit me, the alarm bells going off in my head. “Wait, single mother?”

“I have eyes everywhere. Money in every pocket in exchange for information. It’s how I built my empire. It’s how I win my battles. Information is key, sweetheart, and knowing everything about you was instrumental in my decision-making process.”

My stomach drops. I feel cold, then hot, then cold again as I stare at him in sheer disbelief. I am more vulnerable than ever and he knows it. Bowman knew it from the moment he walked in here. I have been playing checkers against this man’s 3D chess, and I practically got my ass handed to me.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Oh, believe it, Lyric. There’s nothing that money can’t buy except immortality. Everything else, my dear, is always for sale. One just needs the right price.”

With that, Bowman turns around and leaves.

“How long are you going to keep me here?” I shout at him.

“Just a few more hours and then I’ll call your daddy to come pick you up. That is, of course, if everything goes according to plan,” he replies, though he’s out of sight now.

I hear the door opening once more.

“And if it doesn’t go according to plan?” I ask with a trembling voice.

The door shuts loudly behind him. I guess that was my answer.

I’m left in the silence and semi-darkness of my holding cell, alone with my frazzled thoughts as the parameters of my situation seem to have drastically changed. The mere fact that Bowman knows about my pregnancy adds more danger to the Sokolovs. He’s bound to use it against them if he has to.

26

Ivan

Once I remove the hood from her head, Shelby freezes like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. Her eyes are wide and filled with tears, locks of her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. She’s still in her plush green pajamas, the same ones she was wearing when we barged in and snatched her out of her home.

“Where am I?” she asks, shaking like a leaf as she looks around.

“You’re safe,” I tell her.

“What does that mean? I was safe at home on my sofa!”

“Relax, I have no intention of harming you. I just want to talk.”

We’re in the back room of The Violin, my late cousin’s jazz bar. It is closed for the evening, not another soul in sight.

“We were never properly introduced,” I say, taking my seat in front of her chair. Her hands and ankles are bound with zip ties, but I consider it a temporary measure. I didn’t even tighten them as much as I normally would. “I’m Ivan Sokolov.”

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