Page 27 of Captured By the Bratva

Anya chuckles, a warm sound that cuts through the tension in the room. “He cares about you,” she replies with a knowing smile.

“Usually, he barks orders at everyone in Russian, expecting them to obey without question. You should have seen him instruct the entire staff the day you got here. They are all to speak only English for your sake. For him to do such a thing is unusual.”

I blink, her words sinking in. It’s such a small gesture, almost insignificant, and yet it doesn’t fit the image I’ve built of Ivan as an unfeeling, unyielding force.

This small concession, this quiet adaptation for my comfort—it contradicts everything I think I know about him. I don’t want to let it mean something, but it lingers, tugging at a corner of my mind.

Anya watches me, her gaze softening. “You may see Ivan as heartless, golubushka,” she murmurs, her voice almost tender, “but sometimes the strongest hearts are hidden behind the coldest walls.”

15

CATHY

Two days later…

The silence of the mansion is unsettling, vast and hollow in Ivan’s absence. For days now, he’s been on business somewhere.

I find myself treading carefully through the corridors as though his shadow lingers, watching.

The mansion is alive with secrets, each room seemingly steeped in layers of a past I can only guess at. I’m grateful for the freedom to explore without his gaze burning into me, but the quiet has its own way of making me feel trapped.

The halls stretch endlessly, dimly lit, and the air is thick with the scent of old wood, faint traces of cigar smoke, and something else I can’t quite place—fear, perhaps.

I trail my fingers along the walls, feeling the coolness of the stone. Every so often, I pass a portrait of Igor or Sofia, and I can’t help but wonder about them. What were they really like?

I push open one more random door and step into a small, forgotten parlor. The room is filled with ornate furniture draped in dust, as if it’s been abandoned for decades.

Light filters through a half-closed window, casting a pale glow on the dark wood, and I feel like I’m intruding on something private, a scene frozen in time.

Dusty shelves line the walls, each filled with old books and trinkets. Some are polished, lovingly preserved; others are forgotten, tucked away as if their memories were too painful to keep close. My gaze settles on a framed photo on the table.

It’s faded, the colors softened with age, but the faces are clear: a young girl with a bright, carefree smile, her arm thrown around two boys close to her age. They look happy, their laughter captured in the photo as if nothing in the world could darken their joy.

The girl’s face is familiar—Elena. Ivan’s sister. She’s laughing, her gaze alight, and beside her is clearly Ivan and Nik.

There’s something pure about the image, a glimpse of a life untouched by the darkness that now fills this house. It feels almost intrusive to stare, but I can’t look away.

The warmth in their expressions, the way they lean into each other, it’s so starkly different from the Ivan I know, from the Nik who guards him like a shadow.

My fingers brush the frame, and I feel a strange pang of sadness, an ache that I can’t quite name. Whatever softness once existed here is gone now, buried beneath layers of loss and pain.

I glance around the room, taking in the keepsakes, each one a fragment of a life that’s been shattered and pieced together again in the quiet shadows of this house.

It’s haunting, this room of memories, and I can’t help but feel as though I’ve stepped into Ivan’s mind itself—a place where warmth was once possible but has since turned to stone.

The quiet creak of the door pulls me from my thoughts, and I freeze, turning to see Ivan standing in the doorway. His gaze is hard, piercing, the calm before a storm.

His eyes scan the room, lingering on the photograph in my hand, and I can see the tension in the set of his jaw, the tightly controlled anger simmering beneath his expression.

“You’re back,” I manage to say, wincing as I expect him to lash out at me. He looks furious.

My heart stutters, a flush of panic and guilt tightening in my chest as he steps inside, filling the room with his presence. His silence is more unnerving than any words, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place.

He stops just a few feet away, his posture rigid, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel the air thicken, heavy with the unspoken intensity between us.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice is low, each word laced with quiet menace, and I can feel the accusation cut through the air like a blade. “I made it clear that certain parts of this house are off-limits.”

I swallow, unable to look away, his intensity freezing me in place. There’s more behind his words than anger—a flicker of something that looks almost like pain, as though the memories here are wounds he keeps hidden, guarded. But the hardness in his gaze makes it clear he isn’t willing to discuss them.

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