Page 4 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

In the twenty-three years of my life, I always put family first.Always.My destiny was premeditated, even before I was born, and I’d never tried to fight or question it. Protecting my father’s legacy and preparing myself for the big shoes I would feel as the daughter of the Italian Don was the primary focus—my priority. I’d done it all, the necessary training, the meetings, the preliminary inductions into the mafia, and I let nothing stand in my way.

But after family, racing came next. It wasn’t just a passion; it was oxygen. The countless hours of tireless training, sweat-drenched sessions, and sacrifices—every moment had led to this big one. The Long Beach Grand Prix.

One hundred thousand dollars—100,000 freaking dollars!—hung precariously in the balance. I could get that money from my father in less than ten minutes, but then it wouldn’t be earned. It wouldn’t be consideredmine.

“Already practicing how you’re going to cry after I beat you?”

I turned away from my car with a grimace at the driver in a green-and-black leather jacket. He was young and had racing experience, like me. Typical cliché, this one. Tall and brooding with a lean athletic build, he had intense grey eyes that were the shade of brewing storms, dark, tousled taper fade hair, structured cheekbones, a defined jawline, full lips, and a foreign symbol inked on the left side of his neck.

Other girls here would die for him. Some of them were already falling at the grandstands, hysterically shrieking his name and crying to get his attention.

But I wasn’t other girls and never would be.

This intruder was, in fact, someone I’d been at loggerheads with from time immemorial—my arch-nemesis and rival, for two major reasons:

One, we’d been opponents on the tracks for a few years, and he made it clear that he wasn’t going to stop trying to outshine me. Granted, he had decent skills, but that was as far as it went. Decent, but not good enough to beat me.

Two, Ivan Yezhov was proudly Russian, and it didn’t stop there. Maybe, if he was a decent Russian fighting to survive like any other ordinary human being, I might have considered going easy on him a few times, but…no.

This particular Russian hailed from a long line of filthy bastards who believed they were better than everyone else. People who had no conscience, got their hands dirty, and trampled on others like they were meaningless trash—the Bratva.

I wasn’t a saint; neither was my father nor our ancestors. We understood what this line of business demanded. But there were some people you could tolerate and others you just couldn’t. The Bratva was on the latter list.

Ivan and I never held a reasonable conversation for more than three minutes, so his ignorance was clear; he didn’t care much about knowing me beyond my name and who my father was. But I knew him and had gathered enough about his family to understand why Papa wanted them eliminated and wiped off the face of planet Earth.

Fun fact: They sickened me—all of them.

My grimace turned to a full-blown smile when I entered the car and strapped myself into the cockpit. He followed me, lowering his head to glare at me through the window as I fixed on my helmet.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

This pestering technique of his was very intentional, trying to spite me, to rile me up, with that smug look and spark in his eyes, and it wasn’t working. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of watching me unravel.

“What?” I blinked, flashing a smile as innocently as it could get. “What was that? I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you over the noise of my victory. But don’t worry, okay? I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to sign an autograph.”

If his ego was bruised, it didn’t show. Then, again, the Yezhovs had a thing for striking back despite how low they fell to the ground.

“Nice to see you already pumped up.” Eyes glinting wickedly, he stroked his chin. “What’s that thing they say about overconfident brats? Oh, that’s right; they always fucking lose in the end.”

The smile on my face wobbled, and I frowned it off.

“I’ve got a better one: Race starts in three minutes, loser. Why don’t you worry about moving your garbage can over there instead of polluting my air with your bad energy? Yeah, that’s right; fuck off.”

Scoffing, he backed away, and I pumped the car out of the shed and toward the staging area.

“Ce la puoi fare!”You can do it.Gavin’s voice came through the earpiece. “No distractions.”

He must have picked up on the brief banter between the Russian and me, but Gavin understood me well enough to know nothing could faze me at this point when I could almost taste the victory at the end of the finish line.

“D’accordo.” Agreed.

Leaning back on the seat, I shut my eyes for a second and tightened my grip on the steering wheel until I was sure my knuckles had turned white. Beside me, other racers were already gearing up. Engines roared to life around me, and I felt my heart pounding in my chest, every beat stronger than the one before.

Ivan’s blue Ferrari Enzo pulled up beside me. I felt the heat of his stare prickle at the side of my face but didn’t turn. What I needed now was focus.

Focus.

Nothing short of that.

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