Page 1 of Claimed By the Masked BRATVA
Sebastian
The Vasilievs know how to put on a show.
Maksim has transformed an entire floor of the Cosmos Hotel into something that straddles the line between opulence and sin, and the city’s most dangerous men have shown up to indulge themselves. The chandeliers drip with gold, the marble floors gleam black as oil, and champagne fountains bubble endlessly as though excess itself is the theme of the evening. The masks are ridiculous, plated in silver, crusted with diamonds, sculpted into snarling beasts. Everyone here wants to be seen, even when they’re pretending to be anonymous.
I wear plain black leather. Unremarkable. Forgettable. Because true power doesn’t announce itself with sparkle or shine. It doesn’t need to.
My presence is enough.
I move through the ballroom the way a knife moves through flesh. Deliberate, efficient, and unstoppable. Men nod when I pass. Women angle their bodies in subtle invitations, lips parting behind silk and crystal as if they might tempt me closer. No one mistakes me for anything but what I am: a predator.
They whisper my name like it’s a curse and a promise all at once. Sebastian Petrov. The man who owns their secrets. The man who has turned their vices into an empire.
Six clubs on the East Coast, each one a fortress of luxury and shadows. I sell more than alcohol and entertainment. I sell freedom. In my establishments, a judge can spend the night with a boy half his age, a senator can indulge his humiliation kink, a billionaire can buy a dancer to call him worthless, and none of it ever leaves the walls. Discretion is my currency, and it buys me more influence than any politician ever dreamed of.
It should be enough. It is enough…for most men.
But lately, I’ve felt the gnawing emptiness that comes when you’ve had too much of the same indulgence. Every woman who’s thrown herself at me in the last twenty years has been a copy of the one before her. Polished. Performed. Beautiful, yes, but as hollow as the glasses littering the tables tonight. They come to me with their rehearsed sighs and their perfect angles, and they think I don’t notice that every moan is manufactured. They think I don’t see the calculation behind their eyes.
I see everything. And I’m so fucking tired of it.
“Sebastian.”
I turn to find Viktor Kozlov at my shoulder, mask gleaming silver, smile as thin as a blade. My cousin. My ally. My rival. Fifteen years of doing business together, and I still wouldn’t trust him alone in a room with a locked safe. He talks about territory, about a shipment delayed at the docks, about men who need reminding who they serve. I let him talk, giving him just enough attention to stroke his ego, but my eyes sweep the room for something, anything, that might distract me from the suffocating sameness of it all.
His wife floats past in a gown of emerald silk that clings to her every curve. Beautiful woman. Pity she tied herself to Viktor. I let my gaze linger just long enough to remind him that I could take her if I wanted to. Then I look away. His voice sharpens, but I’m already bored.
“Excuse me,” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. He bristles but doesn’t stop me. No one does.
Near the fountain, a blonde waits exactly where I knew she would. The dress is scarlet, cut to showcase the work of a skilled surgeon. She leans in, perfume sweet enough to choke, and lays her hand on my chest like she’s claiming me.
“You look lonely,” she purrs.
I take in the glossy lips, the manufactured curves, the hunger behind her mask. I know her type. They orbit power like moths around flame, desperate to catch the heat even if it burns them alive.
“My father—” she begins.
“I know who your father is,” I interrupt, letting my voice go flat. Dmitri Abeleva. Shipping magnate. Corrupt to the bone. He’s been trying to wedge his daughter into my bed for years. She’s already fucked her way through half the heirs in this ballroom. She thinks I’ll be another rung on her ladder.
“I also know what you want,” I add. “My name in your phone. A seat at my table. An upgrade from daddy’s money to real power.”
Her eyes widen, the practiced innocence faltering.
“The answer is no.”
I walk away without another word, leaving her smile to collapse behind me.
Once, I might have enjoyed her for a night. Once, I might have found entertainment in watching her arch her back and pretend I was the best she’d ever had. But I’ve seen it all too many times. Every variation of desire, every calculated seduction, every fake gasp. None of it fills the void.
Maria Santos finds me near the windows. I respect her more than most. She built her empire from nothing, and her escort service turns away men who can’t afford to bleed for it.
“You look restless,” she says, tilting her head.
“Maybe I am.”
Her laugh is genuine, a rarity here. “It’s dangerous to be hungry in this world, Sebastian.”
She’s called away by a senator who will end the night with her girls instead of his wife, and I’m left staring out at the city lights.
