Page 20 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

Three weeks ago, after the Russians graciously released me, I’d gone back to my apartment to cool off and snuck time in with Gavin for more practice.

Maybe it was the shitty experience with Ivan and his household, but I had never felt more exhilarated and focused on the track. With more practice racing under my belt than ever before, I dedicated those weeks to honing my skills and, with Gavin’s encouragement, built a higher level of confidence that allowed me to push myself to new limits. Every lap, every turn, and every straightaway had felt more intuitive, more precise.

I pushed hard, relearned and mastered the subtleties of braking, acceleration, and cornering, and my instincts had become razor-sharp. There was something about the rush of adrenaline that was addictive, and every time I strapped in my seat belt, it felt like I was in my element, completely at one with the track.

The fun lasted until it didn’t, and I had to emerge from the four walls of my apartment to ride to the tunes of reality. Papa hadn’t set eyes on me for weeks, and one missed call andthree vague messages from him said my presence in the house was due.

I mustered a small smile at the men and pushed the door open, almost bumping into Marco waiting in the foyer. Marco was Papa’s second—the only one who could attempt to speak when my father ordered everyone to be silent.

He'd been by Papa’s side for as long as I could remember—fought by his side, endured the rocky waves that hit hard every once in a while.

Marco was insanely skilled and a trained boxer, too. I’d watched him knock out three men in a ring in less than ten minutes. He was brawnandbrains, and it was one reason Papa liked having him around.

To top it off, if loyalty was a person, it was Marco.

Dark eyes regarded me, with a frown etched on his face and his bushy eyebrows drawn when he folded his arms across his chest.

“Leo.”

I had to crane my head backward to meet his gaze.

Marco was tall, with broad shoulders and chestnut brown hair that would have run down the length of his back for ages if he hadn’t chopped off a bulk of the silky mane about a year ago.

“Marco.”

He cursed between his teeth and rubbed the Saint Claire of Assisi tattoo on his neck. I’d known Marco for nothing short of a decade but still had no clue what that tattoo meant to him or why he always reached for it when he was stressed.

“Tuopadreè malato.”

Your father is sick.

Unlike Tikhon, Marco made small talk, smiled less, and went straight to business without any intention of wasting time. But now, I wished he’d beat around the bush a little before dealing the blow.

The weight of his words caused a wedge between my chest, and somehow, the air suddenly pricked like needles as it flowed in and out of my lungs.

“And Matteo? Does he know?”

Marco shook his head. And I wasn’t going to tell my brother, not until anything was confirmed.

I gave nothing away, but Marco knew me well enough to know the turmoil crashing in my head like a rollercoaster ride breaking down, with all the pieces falling out and the riders shrieking hysterically.

This should’ve flown above the radar. It shouldn’t have been a big deal.

But it was, and seeing Marco’s usual composure slowly faltering proved the same thought.

“How long?” I seemed to be asking that a lot lately.

Marco’s lips tightened. “Before your competition, which, by the way…congratulations.”

“Grazie.How bad is it?”

Marco dragged a hand down his face. “Santiago says it could get worse.”

In simple English, it meant our family doctor was preparing us for the prospect of Papa’s illness getting worse. But I needed Marco to be clear. He didn’t mince words. If he was doing so now….

“Don’t fucking baby me right now, Marco.”

“Alright. The Don’s dying.”

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