Page 15 of Captured By the Bratva

My hands clench around my glass as I remember her desperation, her heartbreak in those final messages. The darkness she couldn’t escape finally claimed her, and she took her own life.

He took her light and twisted it, poisoned it. And now, he thinks he can get his claws into Cathy just because of who her father is?

He found out who Elena was after she died. Then he hid like a fucking coward while I hunted him. I finally found him a year ago. Was planning to torture him to death until I saw Cathy. I couldn’t help myself. I started watching her. Twelve months I watched her, found out everything about her, became obsessed with her.

I found out who her father was, and why Jimmy picked her as his next victim.

I got caught in her innocence and the little prick vanished again. Like a cockroach, off hiding in the dirt somewhere.

I found out she was in the city. Found out she needed work. Put my plans into motion the same day. Now here she is, locked in a bedroom.

Nikita shifts, a faint flicker of something softening his usually hard gaze. “Elena was something else. She kept us all sane.”

I nod, swallowing down the anger and pain. “He destroyed that.” I glance over at Nikita, feeling the weight of our shared grief. “He will suffer as she did. The waiting will only make the pain sweeter when it comes.”

An alarm barks into life on the wall. I whip out my cellphone and check the source. “Fire, Cathy’s bedroom,” I say.

9

IVAN

The alarm’s shriek cuts through the stillness like a jagged knife, echoing through the house with a relentless urgency. I rise from my chair, a chill settling over me, a calm rage unfurling beneath my skin.

The sound carries, amplified by the high, arched ceilings and winding hallways, its sharpness bouncing off stone walls and darkened corridors. I make my way toward Cathy’s room, my fury mounting with each step.

The smell of smoke hits me before I reach the door, the faint tendrils drifting under the doorframe, clawing their way into the hall. My fingers clench around the handle, the anticipation of her reckless idiocy fueling the burn in my chest. I twist the key, push the door open, and step inside.

The scene that greets me is one of foolish desperation. Smoke lingers thickly in the air, swirling around a small, stubborn flame dancing over a torn bundle of burning fabric on the floor.

Cathy stands nearby, her face pale yet set in defiance, her eyes flicking between me and the fire with a reckless pride, as if she’s accomplished something. I feel a twisted satisfaction as oureyes meet; her defiance will only make her eventual submission more satisfying.

Without a word, I turn and grab the fire extinguisher from the hall, a heavy, familiar weight in my hands.

I pull the pin, aim at the flames, and squeeze, letting the water coat the fire in thick, suffocating layers until the flames surrender. The smell of charred fabric fills the room, choking out any trace of satisfaction she might have felt.

As the last of the smoke fades, I turn to her, my expression cold, my fury sharp as a blade. Cathy stands there, her clothes soaked from the extinguisher’s spray, but her defiance hasn’t wavered. Instead, she wears a smug, almost triumphant look, a glint of victory flashing in her eyes.

“You think this is a victory?” My voice is low, cold enough to slice through the haze of smoke still hanging in the room.

I take a step toward her, allowing her to see the depth of my anger, the fury that burns just beneath the surface. “Do you realize how foolish this was? You could have burned yourself alive—or worse, destroyed a part of my house.”

She crosses her arms, lifting her chin. “Going to let me go now?”

“No.” I laugh, a dark, humorless sound that fills the room. “You’ve proven nothing, Cathy, except that you’re willing to endanger yourself to play at defiance. It’s reckless. Childish.”

She holds her ground, that smug look never leaving her face. “I’ve called the police,” she says, her voice steady, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “They’ll be here any minute, so you might as well let me go before they arrest you.”

I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, really?” I allow my voice to drop to a mocking tone. “You think the police will rescue you?”

She looks away, her confidence wavering for the first time, but she doesn’t respond. Just then, footsteps echo in the hall, heavy and unhurried.

The door opens, and one of my guards steps aside to admit a uniformed officer. “Derek,” I say. “Good evening.”

He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his cap pulled low over a hardened face, his expression unreadable as he surveys the scene, though I see the subtle shift of unease when his gaze falls on me.

“Mr. Morosov,” he says, nodding respectfully. There’s a careful deference in his tone, a subtle acknowledgment of the power dynamic in the room. He doesn’t speak to Cathy, doesn’t even glance her way, his focus solely on me. “A call came through to Central. Thought I’d come in person.”

Switching to Russian, I address him with calm authority. “A minor accident,” I say. “My guest here had a misunderstanding, nothing more. I’d like to keep this private, as I’m sure you understand.”

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