Page 28 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

If I didn’t get a fucking release tonight, I was going to explode.

Chapter 8 – Leonora

Marco accompanied me up the stairs to Papa’s room silently. He was brooding, probably over the report I was going to give Papa. Nothing reached me until it passed through Marco, meaning he’d been adequately informed of the dinner I had with Rafayel last night.

“Grazie.”I nodded and entered when he opened the door for me.

As usual, the room was tranquil and organized, with every item in its designated place. There was something always warm and cozy about Papa’s room, and whenever I stepped into it, for a minute, I forgot who we were and the life we led. He liked to keep his guns hidden, though I knew there was a spare under his pillows. A force of habit.

Sometimes, I thought he liked it too: the sobriety and peace of normalcy, without any pressure to keep watch behind your back twenty-four-seven.

His bed was neatly made, with a few pillows propped up against the headboard, but a somber atmosphere settled over it. The room was shrouded in darkness, the heavy curtains drawn shut to block out sunlight. The only light came from a small table lamp on the bedside table.

I moved to turn off the lamp, eliciting a tired groan from him. Then, I felt my way over to the curtains, my fingers brushing against the cool fabric as I grasped the cord to draw them open. The soft rustle of the curtains as they slid apart was the only sound in the room, and for a moment, I stood there, bathed in the brightness of dawn that filtered in from outside.

Marco stayed by the door like a statue while I marched back to Papa’s bed, nestling by the side.

Papa looked up from the newspaper, his eyes squinting slightly as he took in my presence. I wondered how he waseven able to read that thing without a good source of light. But I’d gotten my stubbornness from somewhere. You could put the man down but not tell him to drop the darn newspapers.

“Principessa.”

He attempted a weak smile, but it faltered. He winced, his face creasing in discomfort. Despite his efforts to hide it, I could see the pain etched on his features.

A pang of worry hit me.

He looked only slightly better than when I saw him a few days ago, but it was clear that he still had a long way to go. His skin was pale, and his eyes had lost their usual sparkle.

“Papa, how are you feeling?” I tried to keep my voice light and cheerful. If he knew how much his ailment was affecting me, it’d only worsen his condition.

Nodding slowly, his eyes returned to the newspaper. “A little better,amore.” His voice wavered. “Santiago says I need to rest and stay on schedule with the medication.”

“Skipping drugs, Papa?”

“Can’t blame me for getting tired,amore.But Marco does great putting up with my shit.” He tipped a finger salute at the soldier by the door.

“That’s good. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

Papa’s smile this time was not as convincing. “How did it go with the Russian?”

Recollections of last night came back in a whirlwind. I had an answer for Papa on the tip of my tongue:Terrible.It was Terrible, with a capitalT. A constant push and pull, a tug of war, and a disastrous ruffle of emotions.

When I’d walked into the restaurant, I wasn’t sure why I didn’t shield myself from that dastardly effect of his, and an upset of fireworks went off in my chest.

Before Rafayel Yezhov, I didn’t know it was possible for a man to look more expensive and tasteful by the minute. I wantedto pinch myself when I noticed his fresh haircut, a slicked back taper fade with a touch of the nineties wave, and the snug fit of his Tom Ford suit across his biceps and chest.

Let’s not even get started on the facials or the constant battle I fought to keep my eyes off his frigging lips.

God.

“Good.” I shifted away to avoid Papa’s direct stare. Now was not the time to have him drilling into my soul to discover the crazy reactions my body experienced whenever I was close to the Russian. “He tried to play hard to get, but we both knew I presented an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“He could.” Papa was grinning from ear to ear. “Rafayel is known asZver.” It was Russian for the Beast. The Italians recognized him asIl Macellaio(The Butcher).

“He doesn’t answer to anyone except thepahkan,his brother. Our offer might have contained all the succulent juices, but Rafayel could have shut it down if he wished.”

Papa dropped his papers and took my hand. A familiar surge of love and connection warmed my insides and strangely made me want to cry. “You did what you do best. You made me proud, my girl.”

Marco shifted by the door, and Papa shared a look with him over my shoulders. A message only both of them understood. I frowned. “Is there something I’m missing?”

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