Page 1 of Innocently Captured By the Bratva

Chapter 1 - Quinn

I use the corner barstool I’m perched on as my vantage point, subtly surveying the room for one particular person—a client I’venevermet before.

In my line of work, discretion is essential. Naturally, he never submitted his photo, nor did I request one. My clients are wealthy, influential men who prioritize privacy above all else. All I have to go on is a vague description of his height and features.

The mental image of my new client appears in my mind: tall, with dark cropped hair, in his mid-thirties, and likely exudes the kind of confidence that comes from either having too much money or too little sense.

Seeing that no one fits the criteria for my client, I turn back to my wine and take a small sip. The polished mahogany bar is cool under my fingers—tap, tap, tap. The restlessness gnaws at me. I flick my wrist up, my eyes darting to the slim gold watch encircling it. It’s 8:38 p.m. We were supposed to meet by 8:30.

The kind of men I deal with areonlyever late if something catastrophic happens, like the sky falling on their heads. They value their time and reputation far too much to commit such a faux pas. Could my client be here already, and I simply can’t find him, or have I made a mistake on my calendar?

I pull out my phone to take a quick look at my schedule, which doesn’t seem to have any empty spots on it. Each hour is color-coded, with every moment demanding attention. Running Quinntessentially Yours, a high-end dating agency for the city's lonely elite, feels like organizing a school play where every kid wants to be the star. My schedule is constantly jam-packed, witheach appointment planned weeks in advance, leaving no room for error—or, for that matter, a personal life.

My business consumes so much of my time that my own romantic pursuits are scheduled somewhere between ‘unlikely’ and ‘what's that?’ on my calendar. My love life is a theoretical concept, always just out of reach, like the last olive at the bottom of the jar—you know it's there,but man, do you have to work for it.

It’s not that I couldn’t find a man to fall in love with. Heck, I get asked out on dates plenty. But when I take a man up on his offer for dinner and try to schedule it two months down the line, it usually ends before it even begins. I don’t blame them.

And the fact that my parents keep asking whether I’ve metthe onemakes me half consider hiring someone to bring along to our next Christmas dinner. But then again, knowing how invested my family is in my well-being, they’d just keep asking me about him, and I’d have to come up with yet another excuse for why we didn’t work out. It’s better to stay honest and single. It’s less complicated that way.

I scan the sea of bodies once again when my gaze catches on him. There he is, standing by the window, overlooking the stunning New York skyline, his profile matching the snapshot I've formed in my mind.

Dark, short hair—check. Towering height—check. An Armani suit that he probably dropped ten grand on, if not more. And that posture? It screams self-importance. If he were a peacock, he’d have his tail fanned right out.

Looks like the hunt for Mr. Right Now just got interesting.

I push back the bar stool, the metal legs scraping against the fine marble. Rising to my full height, I smooth down my navy suit jacket—a no-nonsense choice for a business meeting.

I make my way to him, and when I approach, he turns. My breath catches sharply in my throat, just the slightest hitch that I pray he didn’t notice. The description I had was accurate, but words fail to do justice to the kind of man who can stop a room in its tracks. He has a face that makes you look, then look again—chiseled, sharp angles softened by full lips and framed by a jaw that could have been carved from granite. His eyes, a deep, piercing blue, meet mine, and I feel a jolt of electricity, unwelcome and inconvenient.

A man this gorgeous shouldn't just be strolling around in public without a warning label.

Why doesheneed help finding a woman? Suddenly, I remember where I am, who he is, and why I’m here. He’s my client, and I shouldn’t be ogling him like this.

It takes effort to put on a confident smile when I’m still reeling from how devastatingly handsome he is. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long?” I ask, extending my hand. My voice comes out husky and a little nervous. I chide myself internally for it.

He looks me over, his gaze appreciative, which only serves to infuriate me slightly. When his eyes finally meet mine again, a smirk plays at the corners of his lips. “And you are...?” he drawls in a charming accent.

“Quinn Desmond,” I say. “I run Quintessentially Yours, and I’m here to help you find the right woman.” I keep my hand extended, waiting for him to take it. When he does, his handshake is firm, warm, and far too brief.

He gives a small chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, Quinn Desmond…” He drawls out my name like it’s something he enjoys. “I’m afraid there’s been a little mix-up. I don’t need any help finding the right woman. In fact, I don’t need help gettinganywoman, and I feel mild pity for men who require services like yours.”

My jaw clenches at his arrogance. I want to smack that smirk right off his face. I step forward and stare up at him, my voice dropping like it does when I’m angry. “Oh, really? So you’re one of those men who think the world revolves around them, and every woman should just fall at their feet?” I tilt my head, my hair sliding over one shoulder. “I wonder—how’s that working out for you?”

“I think it’s working just fine.” He shrugs, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his tailored shirt. “But I appreciate the concern,” he grins without holding back.

“Concern?” I laugh, the sound sharp. “You’re not even on my radar, Mr.—”

“You can call me Mark,” he says, flashing a smile that’s so damn full of teeth and charm it makes me want to knock it right off him.

“Well, Mark,” I retort, my tone laced with sarcasm, “I’m sure your self-sufficiency is quite a burden to bear. And while we’re at it, my clients are not to be pitied. They’re far too successful to waste their time filtering through multiple women in search of the right one. It’s my job to help them save time, since they have so little of it.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement, his eyes sparkling as though he finds this whole endeavor of riling me up to be somethingfun. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve got fire. I like that.”

My blood boils at the pet name, but my traitorous heart, which is utterly out of my control, flutters in my chest. I cross my arms defensively over my chest.

“Well, this has been... enlightening,” I say, my voice sharp enough to cut through any man’s smile,but not his. “But I don’t appreciate being toyed with or underestimated,” I add coolly.

“Hey, you’re the one who walked up to me,” he adds with an audacious wink. I grit my teeth at his inability to be flustered by anything. A man like him can go through life without batting an eyelash. By now, I’ve figured that the longer I stay, the more this argument will escalate, and there’s no point in trying to convince him of anything other than what he believes to be true.

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