Page 1 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Chapter One - Hannah

The music pounds through the walls of the VIP lounge, a bass-heavy rhythm that vibrates up through my feet. My tray wobbles in my grip as I weave through the crowd of well-dressed strangers. The lights are dim, the air thick with perfume and the kind of tension that only comes when too much money and power are crammed into one space.

I shouldn’t be here. Not in this room, not in this dress, not serving overpriced cocktails to people who look like they could buy my whole life without missing a dollar. Bills don’t pay themselves, and being a waitress at The Silver Vine is the best gig I’ve landed since moving to Chicago.

I drop off drinks at a table near the corner, offering my rehearsed smile as I slip away. My shift is almost over. One more round of the room and I’m done for the night. I can already feel the ache in my feet from standing for hours, but the thought of peeling off my heels and curling up with a blanket keeps me moving.

Then I see him.

He’s seated at a booth toward the back, his shoulders broad and his posture impossibly composed, like he owns the whole place. Maybe he does. His dark hair is a little disheveled, a lock falling over his forehead, but it doesn’t make him look less dangerous. It only adds to the air of someone who doesn’t care to follow the rules. His suit is sharp, black as midnight, and tailored perfectly to his frame.

I try not to stare, but his presence is magnetic. He notices me immediately.

“Waitress,” he calls, his voice low and smooth, with the faintest edge of an accent. Russian, maybe. It’s hard to tell overthe noise, but there’s an authority in his tone that makes my stomach tighten.

I force my legs to move, balancing my tray as I approach his table. “Can I get you something?”

His eyes lock on mine, pale blue and startling. They pierce through me like he knows every secret I’ve ever kept. I fight the urge to shift under his gaze.

“Vodka,” he says, his lips curving into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “The good stuff. Two glasses.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Coming right up.”

As I turn to leave, I feel his eyes on me, a weight that follows me all the way to the bar. I don’t know why my hands are shaking as I place the order, but I take a breath to steady myself. It’s just another customer, I tell myself. A rich, arrogant customer who’s probably used to getting whatever he wants.

When I return with the drinks, he gestures for me to sit.

“I’m working,” I say, trying to keep my voice polite but firm.

He leans back, his smile growing faintly amused. “Take a break. One drink. I insist.”

I hesitate. My manager’s rule is clear: don’t get too friendly with the VIPs. Something about the way he looks at me, like I’m the most interesting thing in the room, makes it hard to say no.

“Fine,” I hear myself say, sliding into the booth across from him. “Just one.”

The vodka burns as it goes down, smooth but potent. He watches me, his gaze never wavering, and it’s unnerving how calm he is, like he’s in complete control despite the alcohol.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

“Hannah,” I reply, setting my drink down. “You are?”

“Makar,” he says simply. There’s no last name, no explanation. Just the name, heavy with a meaning I don’t understand.

We talk, or at least he does. I find myself hanging on his words, his voice like a dark melody that wraps around me. He’s charming in a way that feels effortless, and even though I know better, I can’t help but be drawn in.

“Why are you working here, Hannah?” he asks after a while, his tone softer now.

I shrug, playing with the edge of my napkin. “College isn’t cheap. Someone’s got to pay the bills.”

He hums, like he’s considering this. “You don’t belong here.”

I laugh, the sound nervous in my own ears. “I’m pretty sure that’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me I’m out of place.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “It wasn’t an insult.”

Before I can respond, he leans forward, his hand brushing against mine. His touch is warm, his fingers calloused, and it sends a shiver up my arm. I tell myself it’s the alcohol making my pulse race, but deep down, I know that’s a lie.

“You’re different,” he murmurs, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. “I could tell the moment I saw you.”

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