Page 2 of Kidnapped Bratva Virgin

“Hey, Ava. I’ll take the burger and soda special. Add a slice of peach cobbler pie as well.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“No.” Rodney doesn’t look up, shaking out the paper, mumbling his last sentence as I’m about to walk. “Make sure the coffee’s hot, otherwise no tip.”

Fuck me.I need to get out of here as quick as I can. Could I get another part-time job? Maybe, but the one thing Gunther does give me is extra shifts, and lots of them. That’s the problem, and the only way he’s been able to hang on to me.

As I take orders from equally ungrateful customers, I let my mind drift to working at the top commercial litigation firms and leaving Chicago. I could work at Hamson & Clark. God, they are good. They’ve won so many class action suits it puts other litigation offices to shame. Maybe I could get an internship to Thompson—”

“Ava!” Gunther barks, his round, stubbled face red like a beetroot. “Table eight is up! Let’s go.”

Scurrying around to the counter to pick up the meal, I grimace, hating that customers can hear him yelling at me.

Screw you, Gunther.I can’t wait to walk in and tell him I quit. That’s going to be one of the most satisfying moments of my life.

I get through the shift by nightfall, my shoulders aching, and longing for an extra hot shower to wash away the grime, complaints, and negativity of the job. Plopping on my small couch, I rub my throbbing feet, only for my cell phone to ring.

“Please. I can’t handle much more,” I whine, my energy depleted and hoping the person will hang up, but after the third ring, I decide I better pick it up. The caller ID is blocked, but I still answer. “Hello, Ava Knight. Who is this?” I snap.

“Ah, hello, Ms. Knight. I’m sorry for the late call. My name is Aiden Smith and I’m calling from Barker Associates law firm where I represent Jackson Knight as his legal attorney.”

My jaw slackens, my curiosity piqued, but still unsure as to why I’m receiving a call. “Uh, are you sure you have the right number? I don’t know a Jackson Knight. Maybe you’ve got it wrong.”

Aiden chuckles down the line. “Is this Ms. Ava Knight, daughter of Sully Knight?”

“Yes.” Shivers roll down my spine. “Okay, you’re scaring me now,” I tell him slowly, my ear growing hot.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I know this call might come as a shock. Your response is completely normal. Jackson Knight was your father’s uncle. Does that help jog your memory?”

In a lightbulb moment, I do remember my father mentioning Jackson once or twice, but I never laid eyes on the man. As far as I was concerned, they were simply tall tales. “Ah yeah… he’s not someone my dad spoke about much. There was a falling out, and I never met the guy. Why is your office calling me?” I reply, sinking back into the couch.

“Good question, Ava. Jackson Knight unfortunately passed away last week, but he had his will and affairs in good order before he did. He has no direct blood relatives, but he was very fond of your father and at one time they were close. There’s ah—a property, on the outer limits of Wisconsin, and it’s been requested to be transferred to you.”

Confusion racks my brain. “What? A property?”

“Yes. A property.”

“Is it a house or barn or something?” Surely the man couldn’t have left me much. He didn’t even know me.

“Ms. Knight, it’s more than that. It’s approximately ten thousand acres of land and it’s known as Raven’s Peak.”

I take the phone away from my ear, staring at it, but a grin rises on my face. “Oh, I get it. This is a prank call. Hardy har, har.Who put you up to this? One of my classmates? Which one was it?” I rattle off, amused by the voice on the other end of the line.

Silence rests between us for a beat. “Umm. No. Ms. Knight. This is not a joke. You have rightfully inherited Raven’s Peak and it’s a four-thousand-hectare property.” Feeling woozy, I feel the phone slipping from my fingers. From Charlie’s shithole diner to a four-thousand-hectare property in Wisconsin. How is this even possible? “Ms. Knight, are you still there?”

Chapter Two – Dimitri

I watch from my lavish glass tower on the fortieth floor as a tourist boat cruises slowly on the Chicago River in front of me. Every day there are new passengers on the cruise learning about the ins and outs of Chicago. Smirking, I scratch at my beard wondering if the host tells them about the Chicago of old and all the bloodshed on its streets. Yes, Chicago might have cleaned up its act from the outside looking in, but underneath lies the ongoing seedy underbelly of corruption, power, money, and greed, and I’m grateful to be leading the charge from my new digs.

A gradual transition from running operations in New York to Chicago has been in the works for some time, but finally I’ve resettled in the city. I never wanted to leave in the first place, but the undoing’s of my father led me into the Big Apple and proving myself in one of the toughest cities in America. I made it work, carving out a niche for myself in security operations, networking, cutting deals one by one via blackmail, and placing high-ranking police, military leaders, lawyers, criminals, and other useful people on the Bratva payroll.

Sighing, I soak it all in, waiting for Viktor to return. Apparently, he has news. From the tone of his voice, I anticipate the news to be favorable to the Bratva. The slight smirk on my face sours as I rake a hand through my dirty-blond hair. I’ve had to claw my way to the top and earn every ounce of respect from not only my peers but the Bratva organization as a whole. It’s taken me over six years to prove myself worthy to run my own branch of it, and yet some of my motives remain under fire.

With a steely resolve, I’ve managed to pick up every broken piece of my bloodline’s reputation due to my fathershattering it years ago. A muscle twitches in my cheek when I think about the long hours and sheer grit it’s taken for me to bring us back from the dead. Today has been a long day of meetings and negotiations, each of them chess moves to the bigger goals I hold. An abrupt knock on my frosted-glass door catapults me out of my deep thinking.

“Boss.”

My eyebrow shoots up as Viktor enters with a huge grin on his face. He’s been my right-hand man for over a decade, never faltering when shit hits the proverbial fan. He, too, has had to fight to prove himself in the Bratva. That’s something we have in common and probably why he’s in the position he’s in with me. Rounding the cherrywood mini bar, I grab a crystal tumbler, pouring myself a whisky neat. I might be Russian, but whisky is my dirty drink of choice. Swirling the caramel contents, I answer back.

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