Page 47 of Captured By the Bratva

Nik clears his throat. “What’s the deal with her father anyway? You never told me who he is.”

“Robert Mancini.”

“Shit? The mob boss?”

“The late mob boss.”

“And she’s no idea her father was a mob boss? How is that possible?”

Ivan’s voice is unyielding. “Her mother was a cleaner for Mancini. When his wife discovered he was putting his dick in the help, she forced her out. Then he was last to die after that bomb went off. I left that file on my desk for you to read.”

Nik grunts. “You know I can’t read for shit. So when he died, the estate fell to Cathy.”

“Why else would he get engaged to her? Why do you think he keeps texting her to come back. He needs her to get the money or Bianchi will kill him for not repaying his debts. She’s the key to everything for that little prick.”

“Why not kill him when we first found him?”

Ivan pauses for a moment. “I got obsessed. More preoccupied with watching her than dealing with him. Didn’t think he’d be able to hide this well.”

“Hold on,” Nik says as a phone beeps. “Message coming through. Shit, he’s been spotted. We move, we might be able to catch him.”

“Let’s go now,” Ivan replies, their footsteps fading into the distance as I’m left alone to handle the revelations that have just hit me.

My father was a mob boss. I was going to inherit his money. Jimmy wanted that money. That’s why he was going to marry me. My money.

I know who my father is. And there’s a file on Ivan’s desk. I have to see it.

Right now.

30

CATHY

My fingers skim the surface of Ivan's desk, barely making a sound. The drawer slides open, revealing stacks of files neatly organized, each label precise and deliberate.

I pull out the folder marked with my name, and ease it open, afraid of what I might find inside.

I heard him leaving. Hopefully he won’t be back for some time. This is my best chance to find out the truth.

The first page is filled with a legal analysis, detailing an inheritance from my biological father, someone I never knew.

Robert Mancini.

The document coldly outlines the exact monetary value, the properties, the shares in companies—all assets waiting for me, his unknown daughter. Millions upon millions.

The numbers blur in front of my eyes, almost surreal in their enormity, yet I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just a fortune. It’s a trap that had been lying in wait long before I ever entered Ivan’s life.

I turn the page, swallowing hard as I see a timeline—dates and locations that seem far too familiar. Each entry notes my whereabouts with a precision that sends a chill through me.

Brooklyn, March 17th. Working, July 21st. Shift 7am to 9pm. It’s me, tracked without my knowledge, my life mapped out as if it were a project he was tasked to manage.

The next page is even worse: photographs. They’re candid, taken when I wasn’t looking. One photo shows me sitting at Tony’s bar, my hair swept up, a book open in front of me.

Another captures me laughing, the bright summer sun on my face. I recognize the clothes, the locations—all scenes from my life before Ivan. I feel a wave of nausea as I realize these weren’t taken by chance. They were observed, cataloged, kept.

I turn the page slowly, my fingers trembling. More photos, this time from times I remember well. There’s one of me at the park near my old apartment, walking with a coffee in hand. In another, I’m in the background, oblivious, while Jimmy stands in the foreground, his face turned away.

Further into the file, I find a document with notes written in a brisk, decisive hand. It outlines Jimmy’s financial troubles, his deepening debts, and his dangerous connections to the Bianchi mafia family.

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