Page 1 of Taken By The Bratva
1
BROOKLYN
Ibalance the crystal tumbler of aged whiskey and the humidor of Cuban cigars on my silver tray, weaving between the poker players with practiced grace. The back room of Dimitri's upscale restaurant feels like a gentleman's club from another era—all dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and the kind of money that doesn't need to announce itself. At twenty-six, I should probably be questioning why these Thursday night games pay triple what any legitimate waitressing job offers, but my MBA program isn't going to fund itself.
The whispered conversations I pretend not to hear—words like "territory" and "collections" and "handling problems"—should probably worry me more than they do. But the tips from these men could cover my rent for two months, and I've gotten very good at selective hearing.
Tonight feels different, though. Electric. Charged with something I can't quite name.
I approach the far side of the table where Maxim Volkov sits, and my pulse does that stupid little skip it's been doing for months now. Dimitri's younger brother handles the family'slegitimate businesses—or so I tell myself—and he's everything his older brother isn't. Where Dimitri is all sharp edges and barely controlled violence, Maxim is smooth sophistication and devastating charm.
He's also been losing every hand for the past hour, which is completely unlike him.
"Your usual?" I ask, leaning slightly closer than necessary to collect his empty glass. The movement brings me into his personal space, close enough to catch the scent of his expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely masculine that makes my stomach flutter.
His dark eyes lift to meet mine, and the heat I see there nearly makes me drop the tray. "Please," he says, his voice rougher than usual, and I swear I feel it like a physical caress along my skin.
When our fingers brush as I take his glass, electricity shoots up my arm. The contact lasts maybe two seconds, but it's enough to make my nipples tighten beneath my fitted black dress. From the way his pupils dilate, I'm not the only one affected.
"Maxim's been distracted all night," Viktor, one of the other players, comments with a crude laugh. "Can't imagine why." His eyes rake over my body in a way that makes my skin crawl, but I keep my professional smile fixed in place.
I catch the way Maxim's jaw tightens, how his knuckles whiten as he grips his remaining cards. There's something dangerous flickering in his expression, a glimpse of the violence that runs in his family's blood. Instead of frightening me, it sends heat spiraling through my core.
"Fresh drinks all around?" I ask the table, proud of how steady my voice sounds when every nerve ending is on fire from that brief contact with Maxim.
As I move around the table, I'm hyperaware of his gaze following me. When I bend to collect empty glasses, I let my hip brush against his shoulder—barely a touch, but enough to make his breath catch audibly. When I lean across to reach Viktor's ashtray, I make sure Maxim gets a perfect view of my cleavage, rewarded by the soft curse he mutters under his breath.
I'm playing with fire, and I know it. This is dangerous territory—flirting with the brother of one of the most powerful men in Brooklyn, teasing someone who could probably buy and sell me without thinking twice about it. But God help me, I can't stop myself.
The sexual tension between us has been building for months, ever since I started working these games. It started with lingering looks and accidental touches, but tonight it feels like we're both teetering on the edge of something that could change everything.
When I return with fresh drinks, I deliberately let my fingers trail across the back of Maxim's hand as I set down his whiskey. His sharp intake of breath makes me bold, and I lean down to whisper in his ear, "Good luck with the next hand."
My breath against his skin makes him shiver, and when I straighten up, his eyes are nearly black with want. The other players are too focused on their cards to notice the charged moment between us, but I feel like everyone in the room must be able to see the electricity crackling in the air.
"Fold," Maxim says abruptly, throwing down what I can see is actually a winning hand. The other players exchange glances—this is the third good hand he's folded tonight.
"You sure about that, Maxim?" Dimitri's voice carries a note of concern for his younger brother. "That was a strong hand."
"I'm sure," Maxim replies, but his eyes never leave mine. There's promise in his gaze, dark and heated and full of intentions that make my core clench with anticipation.
As the night winds down and the players begin to leave, counting their winnings and discussing business I pretend not to understand, I find myself moving slower than usual. Normally I'd be eager to clean up and get home to study, but tonight I'm reluctant for this charged atmosphere to end.
Maxim is the last to leave, lingering as I stack chips and collect the empty glasses scattered around the table. When the final player disappears through the door, leaving us alone in the dimly lit room, the silence stretches between us like a taut wire.
"Long night?" he asks, his voice low and intimate in the sudden quiet, the words resonating in the empty space between us, carrying a weight beyond their simple meaning.
"The longest," I reply, turning to face him fully, feeling the brush of the casino's recycled air against my skin. We're standing closer than we should be, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, close enough that I can detect the faint scent of his expensive cologne mingled with whiskey.
"You know what you're doing to me," he says, and it's not a question but an admission, a confession wrapped in accusation. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there with an intensitythat makes my lips tingle and burn under his scrutiny, as though his eyes alone could taste me.
"I have some idea," I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs so violently I wonder if he can hear it in the silence of the room. The chips click softly as my hand trembles against the table. "The question is: what are you going to do about it?"
For a moment, I think he's going to close the distance between us, to finally give in to whatever this is that's been building between us. The air feels charged with possibility, heavy with months of suppressed desire.
Instead, he steps back, putting safe distance between us, though his eyes never leave mine. The floorboards creak slightly beneath his polished shoes as he retreats, his shoulders tense beneath his expensive suit jacket. The air between us still crackles with unresolved tension.
"Have a good night, Brooke," he says quietly, and there's something in his voice—regret, maybe, or promise—that sends shivers down my spine. His words hang in the stale casino air, weighted with unspoken intentions and careful restraint. The way he pronounces my name feels almost like a caress, lingering on the single syllable as if savoring it.
