Page 52 of Virgin Bratva Prisoner

Oleg reaches out and takes my hand during takeoff. It’s so strange how such a simple gesture can distract me from my anxiety.

“You don’t like flying?” he asks.

“I’m not really used to it. It is kind of crazy to be sitting in a metal tube hurtling through the air as though you weigh nothing.”

He laughs. “I guess you could look at it that way. I’ve flown so many times I don’t even notice how it makes me feel anymore.”

“You don’t even get excited?”

“All of my flights are for business. This is probably the first time I’ve used this plane for something personal.”

“Well, we had better make tonight extra fun then.” I grin, enjoying the chat and no longer worrying about the flight.

We climb into the car waiting for us, Oleg driving. That is when I find out he has a hanger here as well and keeps one of his cars here.

I can’t even comprehend how much money his family has. They must be doing so well at business. My brothers would be smart to make allies of them.

We drive through the city and I watch out the window, enjoying the new scenery, taking in the late afternoon as people walk along the pavements, talking, enjoying the last bit of sun before it sets.

Oleg stops outside a tall building right in front of a wide marble staircase.

A doorman opens my door for me and holds his hand out for me to take.

I climb out of the car and squint towards the overly lavish-looking venue.

People are arriving around us, all over-dressed in the same manner I am.

The women are giggling and gushing as their dates lead them through the ornate glass doors.

I glance towards Oleg. He looks stiff, but he holds his hand out to me and wraps his fingers through mine as we walk inside.

“Mr. Dubrov, your table is ready for you sir.” The hostess greets him straight away and he nods in polite response.

She leads us to a table near the window overlooking the waterfront and some very expensive-looking yachts.

Oleg still looks stiff. Sitting up too straight with his mouth tight as he looks around the room.

“Are you looking for someone in particular?” I tease him.

“No, I just know too many people here. It’s hard to go out in any city and not feel watched and judged because of who I am.”

“Is that why you look so uncomfortable?” I scrunch my nose. What is the point of going somewhere when you can’t relax and enjoy the evening? “Why did you pick this place?”

“Because, I thought you would enjoy the experience and the food is great. All of the mafia families come here.”

I shake my head. Mafia families. Did he not hear me when I said I was into the Bratva lifestyle? Also, I could swear I remember him saying the same thing.

“Oleg, you look like someone stuck an iron rod into your spine. You are so stiff. This place is beautiful, but it’s really overthe top. Like it’s just about people showing off how much money they have or their status.”

‘Well—I guess that is exactly what it’s about—I thought—“

“No.” I stand up and hold my hand out to him. “I want you to show me who youreallyare, not who everyone elsethinks you are. You would never come here by choice. I can see it all over your face.”

He stands up as well but looks hesitant. “You don’t want to eat here?”

“I want to eat somewhere where you can relax. Where is your favorite place in this city? If you wanted to take yourself out somewhere—to clear your mind—where would you go?”

“Are you sure?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and eyeing me seriously.

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