Page 8 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

Giselle stepped aside as I turned to face him, my archnemesis with thick Russian blood running true in his veins.

“Look who came back for an autograph.” I raised an apologetic hand in the air. “Sorry, but this chick beside me was the last one on the line. I’m bumped out, and I should be getting my beauty sleep in, uh, five minutes? Sorry, but we have to wrap this up.” I offered a smile. “The life of champions, am I right?”

“You think this is funny?”

The burning anger and darkness in Ivan’s eyes made me know how upset my victory made him. It was the type of darkness that took a gun to a man’s head to draw blood without remorse. I didn’t only recognize it; being a Colombo ensured I possessed it. That, and the zero tolerance to put up with jealous sons of bitches like this one.

If the baby wanted me to put him in his place, I would be more than glad to.

“The only thing funny here is what you said a minute ago. I pretended not to hear your trash talk, but since you want to go there, it’ll be my pleasure to address it. Did you say lucky?” I looked away, at nothing in particular, with a scoff and back at him. “Sorry that I have to be the one to break this to you, chipmunk, but what you witnessed today had not a fucking thing to do with luck. I outdrove you, Ivan Yezhov. Allow it to sink in.”

“Outdrove me?”

“What, you need hearing aids now?”

The turbulence in his eyes only grew shades darker, cloudier, until his rage and embarrassment were all over the place. He took a step forward and edged closer. Good thing I had a decent height; I didn’t have to tilt my head back too much to hold his gaze. His rigid six-foot frame had nothing over me.

The volume of the music dropped a few notches, and hot gossip-hungry stares surrounded us. Some even had their phones raised, and the breeze chose that moment to play with his hair. Talk about some tense scene from a novel.

Me? I didn’t give a fuck.

“Says the pampered princess riding on her daddy’s coattails.” His taunting smile was immediate, and I suddenly craved the urge to wipe it off with a fist. “The only thing you are is privileged, Leonora. Nothing more.”

BULL-SHIT.

That was exactly what that was. Trash talk, and nothing more. Only Ivan got off on talking trash to me.

Like the Russian Bratva, the Italian mafia did things to a person that ordinary ears were prohibited from hearing. Things that were not allowed to see the light of day. And I was a product of some of those things.

It was true that Papa knew how to get his feet through multiple doors, however, and whenever he wanted. Enzo Colombo was not a man most people said no to. He didn’t allow it. Privileges came with the name, especially being the only daughter and heir apparent to take over his seat of power in the mafia. There was an edge; success and immeasurable wealth were already fixed for me and my brother even before our births.

We could literally have anything we wanted: a luxurious lifestyle, resources, connections—heck, even a degree from Harvard or wherever. Nothing was beyond our reach.

But racing? I’d broken my back for that one. I put in the necessary hours. I pushed hard during training. I spent so much time shuffling from Gavin’s private garage to the practice tracks and back—over and over again.

And on repeat.

Ivan’s ego was hurt and brutally punctured, so that snarky remark was nothing more than a feeble attempt to get back at me. Well, that was what I kept trying to tell myself while glaring at him. But I remembered the feeling that enveloped me when I crossed that finish line, the feeling of accomplishment when I held that check on the podium, and the weight seatedon my chest, suffocating all rational thoughts until one voice screamed louder in my head:

I fucking deserved it.

My hand moved before my mouth did, and a resounding “Oh, shit!” reechoed from the spectators encircling us. Beside me, Giselle gasped. Some female admirers of his cooed, and a few of the guys laughed.

My glass was empty, the champagne gone and now seeping into Ivan’s hair, forming small rivulets down the length of his neck, past the collar of his jacket.

I’d embarrassed him,humiliatedhim. And if given another chance, I’d do much worse.

“You just can’t stomach the reality that you lost to a woman. Why don’t you go back to the junior’s league? Seems like you still have a lot to learn.”

With his jaw clenched and curled fingers digging into his palms, Ivan eliminated the last bit of space between us and dropped his head low enough for me to catch the threat in his glare. Our proximity was so small that I could smell it, a choking rage wafting up my nose and into my lungs like smoky heat from a furnace.

“You’re going to pay for this.”

“Yeah, sure. Definitely.” Smirking, I stepped back. “Or did you forget I can afford to pay for that and probably your entire existence? At least I have a daddy with coattails to ride on. Yours held no major position of power, leaving you weak and powerless. But, unlike you, I’m not petty. I’ll consider forgiving you because you’re pissed, and I know you’re projecting.”

I turned away from him and everyone else, gritting my teeth into my gum hard enough to cause a headache. I still felt him watching, glaring knives behind my head. I raised my hand and flipped him off.

“Go home, Ivan.”

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