Page 17 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

We both knew I wasn’t bluffing. I’d not only planted the seed in Papa’s mind about upsetting the Russians, but I also went ahead and mapped out the entire frigging blueprints—every single significant detail, down to the men who’d bust into the secret location to force Jabril into switching sides after he saw incriminating photos of him in several hotel rooms with different women. The death of the Russian soldier was the one thing we hadn’t accounted for.

But it had happened, and there was nothing to do about it except move on and keep our eyes on the goal.

Jabril possessed wealth and sat in the seat of power in one of the world’s largest and top corporate ventures. His net worth cost more than cash cows. But he was a bloody unfaithful pig and didn’t want the world, including his wife and children, to know how big of a scumbag he truly was. He knew, as well as we did, that such scandal would cause a serious crash and burn of everything he’d spent years of investments on.

We had him hooked and left him no option but to accept our proposal. It was a good ploy. A solid one. Jabril couldn’t say no. And while we wondered how the Russians hadn’t gotten their hands on that information, I chalked it up to them never having a reason to conduct a deeper background investigation on their star partner.

That was until now, probably.

Now, they were getting him back effortlessly, or rather, more clearly,Rafayelwas getting him back without a sweat.

My hours of research and due diligence before executing a perfectly crafted plan to steal the multi-million-dollar client from under their noses were about to be brought to naught because the sly, conniving asshole knew how to deal his cards like a pro.

I screamed again, this time with less concern for whose ears I upset outside those doors. They could all grumble from discomfort, for all I cared.

Anger burned in my core, and I acknowledged the tension rolling off my shoulders when I relaxed.

Raw anguish and maddening anger echoed off the walls and filled the silence in the empty room.

God, how did I let myself get blindsided?

How and why did I not see this coming somehow?

It didn’t matter. I’d learned my lesson, even if I’d had to learn it the hard way. This situation that occurred with Ivan marked the last time I was ever underestimating anyone ever again, even if they looked like they couldn’t hurt a frigging fly.

Heaving, I glared at the ropes keeping me fastened to the chair like they were another source of my problem. Somehow, I had to admit, they were. I couldn’t entirely take the blame for being unable to escape sooner when the ropes felt as thick as boulders.

Giving up, I threw my head back, redirecting my pent-up annoyance at the white bulb above my head. Watching a moth dance around the flickering light caused a resurfacing of the moment Rafayel stood in this room, almost between my legs.

If I set my ego aside and inhaled long enough, traces of his distinct cologne lingered in the air, leaving a scent that was extremely far from rats and weasels. The cocky bastard. I had to admit, the Russian was too bloody beautiful and intelligent for his own good. It made being pissed at him a challenge.

Damn him!

Damn all of him!

Starting from those arctic eyes of his, that dark landscape that sucked you in, held you bound, and rummaged through the depths of your soul until it left you bare and empty. His sleek brown hair, Armani suits, and bloody expensive Richard Mille watches painted the charade of a calm and collected affluent gentleman, which he was absolutely not. Well, not the wealthy part. That part, he was—very filthy rich.

I knew better than anyone else the monster that lurked behind his rational and sensible get-up. When I looked past the hard jawline and enticing lips and, yes…that frigging diagonal scar running across his left eyebrow that caused my fingers to twitch, I remembered the man I almost ran over two years ago.

I remembered the crazed look in his eyes as he stood in the middle of the road, poised with one hand tucked into his pocket and the other aiming a gun straight at my car.

I remembered the man who pulled the trigger without hesitation, having every intention of finishing us off that night.

So, tonight, when he came close enough to see the worry in my eyes, filling my senses with his heavy, manly scent as he peered deep into my soul while caressing my scalp with calloused fingers, I forced myself to ignore the burning sensation that rippled on my skin and rose to my cheeks—an effect of being close to him.

And when he pulled back with a handful of my hair, a warning gift to Papa, reality came into focus, reminding me once again that his appearance was certainly an icon of deceptiveness.

I wanted to knee him in the nuts and whack my head forward to knock him senseless. Sure, he definitely had his charm working for him with other women, and that wasn’t taking a wild guess. In this life, men like him had women crawling on their knees between their legs without even lifting a finger. The hussies would clamor for his attention, beg for histouch, smile when he treated them like shit, and crown their inanity with a Thank You if he had to cut off part of their hair.

But not me. I wasn’t a part of that crowd of admirers and never would be. Given a chance, I knew I’d show him just how appreciative I was of his grand gesture of keeping me locked in here.

Again, I vented my anger on the thick ropes, grunting hard as I tried to lift myself off the chair. The stupid things wouldn’t budge. God! If I could just….

If I could just what? Lift myself and hopefully smash an iron chair against the wall, then I’d set myself free?

Pfft.

Sure.

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