Page 3 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

It wasn’t the first, or second, or third time the Italians were crossing territories, smearing our walls with their filthy hands. They’d been at it, like children beating rattles for attention. But this time, Colombo went beyond the boundaries. Jabril was also one of the biggest sharks in the corporate industry and had a solid link in the sea of politics. Tikhon was right; if we lost them, then having Santana Corporations asclients was insignificant. We were going to lose millions, and more clients would go down the drain.

While we were closing one major deal, one of our clients was being snatched right from under our noses. Where we took time to present solid, meaningful proposals, the Italians enjoyed proving to be brainless crooks who preferred hitting below the belt.

And they called themselves a mafia.

More like a gang of powerless thieves.

I faced Tikhon. “Set up a meeting with Jabril,” I said in Russian. “If he is one minute late, I’m blowing off his fucking head.”

“Da.”

I headed for the door.

I was a fucking businessman, and I didn’t fancy myself a good man, but I took pride in having reasonable integrity when it came to business.

But who said anything about not using my guns when I had to?

If Colombo wanted blood, then he’d better be ready because I was going to use his to build a bank, and I’d fill those packs with pleasure.

Chapter 2 – Leonora

“Car’s Outside” by James Arthur was my best song yet. I had it playing in my ears right now, and it worked its magic again. It was my go-to, the melody I relied on whenever something big was stirring inside me, whenever nerves threatened to take over. And just like every other time, it worked.

I refused to look when I passed by the grandstands and instead tried to regulate my breath.

With sharp focus, I hastened my steps to the paddock. I was already two minutes late. Any more than that off the clock, and Gavin could literally yell my ear off for slacking.

More than hundreds—thousands—of people were gathered, waving everything they could while cheering us on: shirts, pictures, flags, and cardboard. They turned up in various colors, and their energy was electric, charging the atmosphere with a harmonious excitement of spirited chants. Feedback from the commentators resonated from the speakers planted in every corner, formally preparing the audience for the big start. Their chants rose, swirling like wildfire.

Smiling, I finally succumbed to the thrilling temptation to look around. It was kind of like a personal habit I’d formed over the years:Try not to look, and then look.And the view never failed to amaze me. I could never get used to it.

It was about seventy-five degrees out, with clear blue skies and wispy clouds, and the gentle ocean breeze complimented the honey-hued warmth of the California sun. Deeply, I inhaled the Pacific air, filling my lungs with the invigorating freshness of eucalyptus and palm trees swaying gently alongside the track. In the mix, I caught the aroma of seafood, avocado, and citrus wafting from food stalls, but those were going to have to wait until after I claimed my prize.

I got to the crowded shade in time to catch my car backing away from my baby. The 3.8L twin-turbocharged flat-six engine produced seven hundred horsepower at seven thousand revolutions per minute and seven hundred and fifty Newton-meters of torque.

For a second, I paused to adore her. The GT2 Porsche 991, sitting pretty under the shade, did not even need the sun to shine; her sleek red and black track-designed coat carried all the glow she needed.

“Leo.”

Clad in a sleek red and black team jacket, with sweat-dampened salt and pepper hair framing his face, Gavin patted her hood and tossed me the keys. The silver bunch jingled in my palms as I caught them with ease.

He was very unimpressed. “Race is starting in ten minutes.”

The noise around us grew louder, and most of the racers in the shed were already testing their engines. Giving my best remorseful smile, I walked around him to the driver’s door. “I know, I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Gavin narrowed his eyes at me, adjusting one headphone cup pushed back over his ear. “The only way you’re apologizing is by kicking some ass and getting that goddamn money, so listen up, kid. We needed to adjust the torque settings for maximum traction,” he shouted over the roar of engines, his headphones slipping slightly down his ear. “You have to ease off the throttle a bit, or you’ll overheat.”

“Thought you worked that off?”

His gray eyes squinted against the sun, and he looked like he’d aged five years older in seconds. “I didn’t say don’t use it, just don’t put excess pressure. Now, pay attention—this setup change will give you an edge, and the tweak will give you insane speed. It’s pure magic.”

After spending an extra minute guiding me through the last-minute adjustments amidst the frenzied atmosphere, Gavin fixed me up with an earpiece, handed me my helmet, and gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder before diverting his focus to something else outside the shed. “Hai tutte le carte in regola per riuscirci!” You have all the cards to succeed.

And he walked away.

Static whined from the speakers, and the commentators’ voices came back on the speakers. All racers present were to proceed to the staging area. The race was commencing in six minutes. I started for the door, gripping the handle, but my reflection made me pause.

I stared back at myself, taking in everything, from my snug black leggings and cropped team red-and-black leather jacket to the fierce determination in my hazel-green eyes. I stole a deep breath because I desperately needed it and combed my fingers through my short bob.

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