Page 57 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“Because you’re mine now, and you will be for the rest of your life,” I purred into her ear, brushing my thumb across her lips. “Let another man touch you, and I’ll serve you his head on a platter.”

She giggled, her eyes lighting up. “That won’t be necessary. I’m yours, Andrei.”

“You’re mine.” I cupped the back of her head and pulled her closer.

She licked her lips, and a blush crept up her cheeks. She looked so innocent, fragile, and pure—everything that I wasn’t.

I inched closer, pressing my lips against hers before I claimed them in a passionate kiss.

If she thought I was done with her, then she was wrong because I hadn’t even started yet.

Tonight was going to be long.

Chapter 20 – Giselle

The morning air was crisp and still, and the serenity before me was a kind that only came from being in a place that invoked a deep sense of nostalgia.

Two weeks had passed since Andrei and I tied the knot, and it still felt like it was yesterday. I couldn’t believe I’d gone from hating the mafia and despising Andrei’s existence to wearing his shiny diamond ring around my finger.

I was supposed to hate this, so why didn’t I? Why was I barely pretending to not like the fact that I was now married to the same man who should be my enemy and acting like I only accepted his proposal to avenge my father?

I glanced at the diamond rock sitting pretty on my ring finger and sighed. It was gorgeous, and I swore it must’ve cost a fortune, too. I loved it, and I loved that I was now a Yezhov, despite the pang of guilt in my chest.

What would Dad say if he were here? Would he have let me go ahead to marry a mafia enforcer, or would he have been against it? I couldn’t tell, to be honest.

I’d been struggling to make peace with Dad’s death, my marriage to Andrei, and finding the shipment for the last couple of days; it was the reason I asked to spend some time away in the vacation house Dad used to bring me when I was way younger.

The vacation house was on the outskirts of the city, far away from the buzzing noises and busy life of New York.

From my window, the ocean stretched endlessly, shimmering beneath the golden embrace of the morning sun, its rays spilling over the waves like liquid fire.

This place used to be a sanctuary for Dad. He’d spent a considerable amount of time here after his divorce with Mom, and I wondered if he knew that it would someday be my sourceof peace, too—a place where I’d come to reflect on the mess my life was like he used to do.

Or maybe he had other plans for me.

It was right here, in this very room, watching the sunset, that I’d drawn my very first painting.

The corners of my mouth lifted as memories from that day flooded into my mind. Dad had been very supportive, promising to get me more paints and brushes so that I could develop my artistic skills further.

Mom hadn’t liked it very much. She wanted me to get a degree first and then pursue whatever interest I had in painting. They argued for a while, and Dad ended up giving in to Mom’s demands.

That hadn’t stopped him from supporting my dreams, though. He invested in many art collections just so I could use them as inspiration to improve my painting skills.

I stepped away from the window and walked down to the basement, where Mom had packed away some of the things the last time she was here. I rummaged through the stack of old artworks I created when I was younger.

The stack was covered in dust and cobwebs, and some of the papers were already old and grey from age. The first painting I pulled out was one of Mom and Dad sitting together under the sunset on their tenth wedding anniversary. Dad had his arm wrapped around Mom, and she leaned against him with a wide smile.

The second painting was an eye—a grey eye. I still remembered the day I painted this very vividly. I’d gotten the inspiration from a portrait Dad brought home. It didn’t mean much to me then, but now that I thought about it, it looked weird.

It wasn’t just artwork; it resembled a secret message—one of those you’d find in sci-fi movies. Or perhaps I was overthinking it, and it wasn’t anything at all.

I hurried out from the basement to Dad’s room, where the painting hung above his bed.

His room still felt like he’d been here only recently and would walk in anytime to pick up his wallet. He always forgot to take it with him whenever he was going out.

His bed was neatly made from the last time he was here; his clothes were well folded except for his brown winter coat, which he always hung on the armrest of the recliner.

He was gone, but his presence lingered as if he was still here. As if he could come back at any time and hug me the way he used to.

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