Page 17 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Inside, the ceilings stretched high, adorned with intricate chandeliers that cast a dim golden glow over the grand hallways. The floors were polished marble, and the entire place was expensively furnished.

Everything was sleek, modern, and expensive–from the deep mahogany paneling to the leather furnishings, to the heavy drapes that kept the sunlight at bay. It looked and felt like it was designed to intimidate, just like its owner.

Anyone who walked in here could guess his personality. It felt like he was woven into every detail—the sharp lines, the absence of unnecessary decoration, the dominance of black and charcoal tones. Cold. Untouchable. Dangerous. Even the artwork on the walls was carefully curated, a mix of classic oil paintings and abstract pieces, all in moody shades of gray and crimson.

I’d never been in a place this grand before, and although I could already tell from his expensive Lamborghini that he was rich, this just added layers to it.

Andrei wasn’t just rich; he was fucking wealthy.

The room I occupied, which was one of the many guestrooms in the mansion, looked more like it was designed for a billionaire guest, not for a broke, fresh-out-of-college girl like me.

The white and gray monochrome décor made it look like one of those houses Instagram models would post in, and the queen-sized bed was softer and more comfortable than the one I had at my place. Everything was better here.

I rolled on my side, staring at the blue sky through the window. It was morning again, the fourth morning I’d spent here, and I could already tell it wouldn’t be long before I lost my mind from boredom.

There was nothing to do here except watch TV and eat all day. He had maids and chefs, so I didn’t need to lift a finger to get anything done. He wouldn’t let me go back to my place to get some of my things because it wasn’t safe, and I had been too scared to ask if I could hang out with Hazel or at least visit a gallery. I knew he would say no, so it was pointless to ask.

My phone rang, and I dug my hand under my pillow to grab it. My pulse started racing when I saw Mom’s number flash on my screen.

Shit. I couldn’t let her know what was going on. I couldn’t let her suspect something was wrong or that I wasn’t home. She’d be worried if she knew.

I inhaled, reminding myself to remain calm and composed before answering her call. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, baby.” Her voice cracked, as if she’d been crying. I knew she would be. No matter how long she and Dad had been separated, their love for each other was something that never withered.

“Hi, Mom,” I repeated as I turned around to face the ceiling. “Have you been crying?”

“No,” she lied despite her sniffling giving her away. “I wasn’t. I just—”

“Mom,” I whispered, cutting her off before she could think of another lie. “I know you loved Dad. I know you miss him. I do, too. It’s okay to cry.”

“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. I should be there with you, taking care of you and consoling you.” She broke into a full sob now, and hearing her cry shattered something in me. It brought backall the pain I’d tried to forget. “I know how much you loved your father, and maybe if I hadn’t left him, he would still be alive.”

Bargaining: That was the third stage of grief, and Mom was there right now. She thought things wouldn’t have turned out the way if she’d done one thing or the other differently.

It meant she was grieving the right way. She’d been in denial when she got the news that Dad died, and then she’d been mad at Dad and his murderers. Soon, she’d be depressed, and then she would accept things for what they were.

I couldn’t say the same for myself. I skipped denial and went right into rage. I needed revenge. I needed to see the people who hurt my father pay for what they did. Maybe that would help me grieve the right way. That would help unburden the pain I carried.

Keeping my voice calm, I said the only words I could find: “It isn’t your fault, Mom. It’s all on them. They would have killed him either way.”

I could hear Mom fighting to suppress her sobs. “I’ll find a way to come to you, Gigi. I checked for available fights today, and I should be able to get one for the weekend.”

I sat up quickly, my chest aching with a frantic beat. “You can’t!”

She was safer in Oregon. And then there was the fact that there was no easy way to explain any of this to her if she chose to come back. How was I supposed to tell her I’d been arrested for my involvement in shipping a drug I knew nothing about and that I’d been bailed out and was now living with a member of the Bratva—the same people she hated with a passion?

There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. “Why?”

I needed to come up with a lie, quick. “Because I’m spending some time with my friend. I feel better here.”

“Um—is this a friend I know about? What’s her name?”

“It’s not exactly a girl.” I gritted my teeth at how easily I could lie. “It’s my boyfriend.”

She laughed. “Boyfriend? Giselle, honey, you never told me you had a boyfriend. How long have you two been dating?”

I slid my hand through my hair and bit my lip. The more lies I told, the more I would have to continue to tell. My brain couldn’t keep up. “I have to go now, Mom. He’s here. I’ll tell you everything later. Just promise me you won’t book that flight.”

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