Page 3 of Forced Prisoner By the Bratva

He hesitated for a moment as if taken aback by my choice to ride shotgun. Moments later, he shut the door and circled over to position himself behind the wheel.

Connor started the engine, and the soft hum filled the car's cabin. He stole a fleeting glance in my direction before easing the vehicle onto the driveway, the trees standing sentinel as we glided through.

This was Phase One. For Phase Two, I'd have to figure out a way to prove to my family that I was just as good as Liam.

Chapter 2 – Erik

The sleek black Range Rover pulled up outside the luxurious private club, a neutral location chosen for the high-stakes poker game with the O'Brians. They knew the rule; the fate of this business deal would be determined by whether they won or lost.

It would be in their best interest to win, considering how much they would benefit from this deal. The partnership, if successful, would essentially shift the status of the Tarasov Bratva to greater heights. However, with or without the O'Brians, we would attain such heights sooner or later. They, on the other hand, needed us more than they would care to admit.

The Irish mafia weren't particularly known for their straightforwardness in business dealings. Therefore, it was of utmost importance that we put our eyes on the ground and pay attention to even the most minute of details.

Patrick O'Brian wasn't a man I would underestimate for any reason. He was a cunning bastard, smart and quite a genius when it came down to business. His reputation preceded him, and tonight, I was here to oversee the game and make sure that O'Brians lived up to their end of the bargain.

It was believed that Patrick was as clever as a fox, and I needed to assess that claim. He was a man I was about to do a multi-million dollar business deal with. And just like every good businessman, I liked to know whom I was dealing with.

The soft click of the car door caught my attention as one of my men opened it. I stepped out into the cool evening air, buttoning my coat with my fingers and scanning the environment with my sharp eyes.

My most trusted man, Arlo, materialized by my side, shoes clicking against the pavement as he led me into the building. The club's discreet sign, adorned with intricate goldlettering, read, “Inferno,” Latin forhell. The soft glow of lanterns at the entrance cast warm light on our chiseled features as my men and I walked into the building.

Once inside, the maître d’ greeted me with a respectful nod. “Mr. Tarasov, welcome. Your table awaits.”

With an air of confidence, my gaze swept across the grand space, drinking in the opulent decor. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, their warm glow enveloping the guests, the crème de la creme of society. The space was adorned with rich wood paneling and plush velvet drapes.

The soft hum of conversations blended with the scent of fine, expensive cigars and cologne as the aroma of champagne and canapés wafted through the air.

This was one of those gatherings of wolves in sheep's clothing. All of Chicago's elites were here tonight, their faces masked with politeness and curiosity.

However, I was here for one reason only, and in a short while, I spotted a familiar face: Connor Donnelly, the O’Brians’ most loyal foot soldier. He was seated at a table, his eyes fixed intently on the dealer.

Connor had a few other suited men around him and also a woman, but I didn't see Patrick. Did I set eyes on his son, Liam? Could it be possible that Patrick had sent Connor to represent his family?

“Ah, look who it is.” A deep voice cut through my thoughts, and I turned to face the speaker: a portly man with a bald head and white facial hair. “Erik Tarasov.” He chuckled, a wry smirk playing on his lips.

Miguel Gonzalez. He was a Mexican cartel, infamous for his inhumane torture skills and ruthless beheading of his victims. The man was a mindless beast with no code of honor—no rules to keep the monster within. Miguel had no problem killing women and children. So long as they crossed his line, he'dwiped them from the face of the Earth in the most gruesome ways ever.

We'd struck a few business deals in the past, and even for me, this man was creepy. Rumor had it that he was into some satanic shit and that most of his victims were sacrificed for wealth and power.

The man was feared by many, including a few of my men, who had steeled themselves the moment they heard his voice.

Fear was a concept that I was unfamiliar with. It was an emotion, a construct to keep people enslaved to someone with a higher power. Miguel might spread fear like wildfire wherever he went, but so did I, and I didn't have to make a pact with the devil to earn it. To many, Iwasthe devil himself, and Miguel was just a man, regardless of what others might think.

“How long has it been, two years?” He shook my hand, his grip firm.

“Perhaps,” I replied, looking right into his dark eyes, my expression stoic.

He squinted ever so slightly, his smirk retained. “Most people don't look me in the eye that long,” he said, his voice laced with astonishment.

“I'm not most people. You should know that by now,” I replied, my tone calm and collected.

Miguel paused for a moment, maintaining my gaze, and amusement danced in his eyes. “Which master do you serve?”

With a blank expression, I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “What am I supposed to say? Azrael?”

He chuckled, burying a hand in the pocket of his white pants, his white blazer and facial hair complementing his overall look. This was a stark contrast to the beliefs he was believed to practice, and I appreciated the irony. For a man in his sixties, Miguel sure seemed twenty years younger.

“You have no fear, Tarasov,” he said, admiration creeping into his tone. “I like that.” He patted my shoulder and walked away to mingle with the others.

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