Page 37 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

But the man was full of surprises, and his mansion certainly wasn’t what I expected.

For a man like him who thrived on control and exuded confidence like a second skin, I anticipated something ostentatious—towering gates, sprawling grounds, a display of untouchable wealth. Instead, the estate was…understated, almost deceptively so.

A line of neatly trimmed cypress trees lined the driveway leading to a house, striking a balance between old-world charm and contemporary restraint.

It wasn’t grandiose, but it wasn’t ultramodern either. Smooth limestone walls were accented with dark wood beams, and soft uplighting released warm glows on the arched windows. It was the kind of place that hinted at luxury rather than screamed it.

Now, inside, the surprises continued.

The foyer was modest, with polished wood floors that gleamed under a minimalist chandelier. There were no oversized portraits or gaudy gold accents—just a clean, inviting space that somehow still felt personal—a quiet elegance.

We walked past the parlor, and I took notes. It was a clash of moods. On one side, a sleek black leather couch and modern glass coffee table suggested a man of practicality and taste. On the other, a wall of bookshelves, crammed with everything from classics to what looked like obscure philosophy texts, hinted at a depth I hadn’t expected. And then there was the massive vintage record player tucked in the corner, out of place but perfectly him—if that was even something I could define.

Every moment with the man felt like different pieces of him were being revealed, each one giving me whiplash.

A simple wooden dining table stood in stark contrast to the intricately designed wine rack on the wall. A quick tour of the study, which was not too far away, revealed stacks of papers, folders, and maps spread across a sturdy desk. The adjacent wall was lined with expensive liquor bottles, like trophies.

This was where he decided the tour ended, though. In his study.

He plucked out two glasses and a bottle of what looked like vintage wine. After he filled both glasses, he handed one to me.

I settled on the leather couch, feeling off balance. And it didn’t help that he was watching me, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Why did it feel strange anddifferent, as though he seemed both more approachable and more enigmatic, here in his home? Like a completely different person, and yet, one and the same?

“This isn’t what I imagined,” I admitted and took a sip from my glass.

God!

It took every shred of dignity in me not to spit the wine back. I gurgled and dropped the glass on the center table, not able to decide if it was too sweet, too strong, or too old.

“What the heck is that?”

Smiling, he walked up to me, gingerly taking more sips from his glass than I was sure I could handle. “Romanèe-Conti.”

“It tastes like a hundred years old.”

“It’s not up there, but it’s vintage for a reason.” He smirked, dropped to the couch beside me, and leaned back against the armrest. “Didn’t think I’d be the simple type?”

“Simpleisn’t the word I’d use.”

“Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

I wasn’t sure if he meant the house or himself, but either way, he wasn’t wrong.

Giving him a serious look, despite the fact that my heart was beating crazy in my chest, I rose to my feet, dusting my frayed denim bum shorts as I cleared the distance between us.

“I also didn’t imagine you invited me over here for an actual drink.”

So, I was being forward, throwing myself on him like a thirsty odalisque.

So what?

I always went for what I wanted, whatever or whoever it was.

His eyes dropped my bare torso peeking from underneath my cropped T-shirt, lingered for a second longer, and darkened.

When he lifted his chin to gaze up at me, his dark irises grew stormy, like two gleaming onyx stones, as if the turmoil of his soul was brewing within their depths.

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