Page 1 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

Chapter 1 – Rafayel

Rewards were a natural part of life. If they weren’t necessary, they would not exist.

I wasn’t a good man. I didn’t believe in the morals that framed the foundations of the world. But I had some reasonable integrity, believing that, all things being equal, dealing fairly where my business was concerned was non-negotiable, and one of the few results of my benevolence happened to be this moment—walking into theObsidianwith ecstatic, eager men trailing closely behind.

Soft golden light danced across lavish décor, glittering like diamonds. The ceiling shimmered like glass, and the stone pillars were works of art trapped in archaic and medieval times. I liked it, the ambiance of a secret underground world strictly reserved for us, the nightlife lovers.

“We’re here, baby!” Laughing, Vasili whistled at a blonde dancer on the stage.

She whipped her hair back and forth, struck a suggestive pose, and winked at him. My men hooted, and he lifted his shoulders like a man who knew he was getting some tonight. To his credit, Vasili always got some. No one knew how he did it—and that was only if we were judging by the visible jagged scar running in a parallel slash from his left eyebrow to the sharp edge of his right jaw, the full-sleeved skull inked on both arms, and the dead look in his eyes. He was the roughest and toughest-looking in the bunch. You’d think the women wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, but he always got them.

“Ya ne pomyu, Kogda v poslyedniy raz ya imel odnogo iz nikh.”

I can’t remember the last time I had one of those.

Maxim raised a brow. “Thought you preferred Latinas.”

“I do. Some days, I prefer them light.” He gave Maxim’s back a playful slap. It was a loud, solid clap. Of all my men, he had the shortest fuse, but I watched him allow the steam to roll off his shoulders because tonight was an exception. It was a good—no, agreatnight.

Oh, happy day! Oh, happy fucking night!

We had Santana in the bag. Formidable partners Miguel Angel and Javier Hernandez were two of the biggest sharks in the corporate ocean, specifically Santana Corporation, a conglomerate with far-reaching influence beyond Mexico and California. Getting them on the hook had been easier than I thought. A compelling, strategic proposal, a few sweeteners, and…done. A solid handshake to seal the multi-billion-dollar deal. The alliance of the Mexican corporation with the Bratva was going to revolutionize the entire industry, and in anticipation of yielding unprecedented profits and promising substantial expansion, the men had worked the hardest to close this deal. I knew we had to celebrate.

In the end, no one could really say no to me.

Getting to the VIP section, Maxim peeled Vasili’s fingers off his shoulder, edging forward to raise the lush red ropes demarcating the private lounge from the main area. We got settled, Vasili and Maxim taking spots beside me on the wide black tuxedo sofa. One by one, they picked tumblers off the table, snatching bottles alongside.

Slinging an arm above the rim, I leaned back to relax. While they talked, I let my eyes linger across the club and inhaled a lungful of air. It was heavy, a mix of Kauffner, tequila, and champagne. The rich scent always appealed to me, like a strange, unique blend of culture I never paid attention to but somehow noticed. The hype and exquisite class were two of the reasons I preferred theObsidianto other clubs. Being insidehere was different, like a sudden hush on the constant noise in my head. I could just sit for a minute and not think.

“Don’t forget, we’ve got work to do in the morning. Let’s get straight into the fun and turn in early.” Maxim had a tumbler raised while admonishing the men. Besides possessing the shortest fuse, Maxim was an unapologetic workaholic, always trying to keep the men in check and their eyes on the goal. “All play and no work makes Jack—”

“One successful son of a bitch.” A lopsided grin settled on Vasili’s face when he spread his arms to welcome two blondes on his thighs. They squealed and collapsed on his legs with glee.

Maxim took his tumbler to his mouth, hiding a faint smile. “Idiot.”

One of the girls flipped her red hair, eyeing Vasili with interested eyes. “Who’s this handsome devil?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to think I could be your guardian angel.”

Vasili groped the redhead from behind and tilted backward to watch the girls move in a seductive rhythm on him. In harmony, they whined, twisted, and twerked, and in seconds, the scene turned from PG to R-18.

To be honest, the view was entertaining, watching each of them take turns to grind Vasili and playfully fighting each other to have a taste of him. But a part of me had wilted, grown weary of the action, because that was all there was: fun and no promise of anything more substantial or daring.

When you were born into a world like mine, you learned to accept the packages that came with it: the good, the bad, the ugly, the gruesome—all of it.

Power, influence, and pleasure were a few of the items in the good package, and those three things often had women attached to them. I had my fair share—that was no secret—butthe rollercoaster of rising body counts rapidly depreciated from the green rise to red lines.

One of the girls slid from Vasili’s thighs over to Maxim. She was bubbly, with brown hair, bright blue eyes, and straight teeth. If I had to guess, the pretty one wasn’t older than twenty years.

Her fingers found the gold snake chain on his neck, and she twirled it, leaned forward, and whispered indistinctly into his ear. Maxim stayed still before lifting a quizzical brow.

I gave it a few seconds. If she was alluring enough to catch my attention, the big guy wasn’t going to stand a chance.

Ten seconds down, and he whispered back. The sound of her laughter tinkled like tiny bells when she nodded, and Maxim snaked a tattooed hand around her neck before crashing his lips against hers. I looked away.

Taking my glass to my lips, I opted to blame maturity. When a man grew far from the razzmatazz and nuances of being twenty-five, realizing he was forty, I believed he tended to change or modify hismodus operandi.

That was my story.

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