Page 2 of Taken By The Bratva
After he's gone, I stand alone in the empty room, my body still humming with awareness and unfulfilled desire. I collect the last of the glasses with hands that aren't quite steady, trying to process what just happened.
I count my tips—definitely more generous than usual, and I suspect Maxim made sure the other players were feeling charitable. The money should make me happy, should remindme why I'm here, but all I can think about is the heat in his eyes and the way my name sounded on his lips.
As I lock up and head home through the Brooklyn streets, I can't shake the feeling that something fundamental shifted tonight. The game between Maxim and me has been elevated to a new level, and I'm no longer sure who's winning.
What I do know is that I'm addicted to the way he looks at me—like I'm something precious and forbidden, like he wants to unwrap me slowly and discover every secret I'm hiding beneath this professional facade.
I'm playing with fire, dancing on the edge of something that could consume us both. And God help me, I can't wait to see what happens next.
2
MAXIM
Isit in my office the morning after the poker game, staring at quarterly reports I should have reviewed hours ago, but all I can think about is the way Brooke's hip brushed against my shoulder last night. The brief contact sent electricity shooting through my entire body, and I'm still hard just thinking about it.
This is insane. I've built my reputation on focus, on the ability to read people and situations with the calculating precision that makes me invaluable to Dimitri and the family business. I can negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, can spot a lie from across a room, can maintain perfect composure under pressure that would break lesser men.
But one cocktail waitress in a fitted black dress has completely destroyed my legendary self-control.
Brooke Madison. Even her name sends heat coiling through my gut. For months, I've been finding excuses to attend poker nights I used to delegate to subordinates, telling myself it's important family bonding time with Dimitri. The truth is, I go to watch her move around that room like she owns it, all confident graceand professional competence wrapped in curves that have been haunting my dreams.
Last night was torture of the most exquisite kind. She seemed determined to test every limit of my self-control, standing closer than necessary when she served my drinks, letting her fingers linger when she collected empty glasses. When she leaned over to whisper "good luck" in my ear, her warm breath against my skin nearly made me drag her into my lap right there at the poker table.
I should have won every hand last night. The cards were in my favor, the other players were making obvious tells, and the stakes were relatively low for our usual games. Instead, I folded three winning hands because I couldn't concentrate on anything except the sway of her hips when she walked away from my chair.
My phone buzzes with a text, jarring me from thoughts that are doing nothing to help my current physical situation. It's from Dimitri:Family meeting in an hour. Don't be late.
Right. Business. The thing I'm supposed to be focused on instead of fantasizing about what Brooke would look like spread across my desk, that black dress pushed up around her waist while I worship every inch of her skin.
I run my hands through my hair and try to get my head straight. Brooke works for us, serves drinks to men who would use any connection to the Volkovs as leverage in their own games. Getting involved with her would be complicated at best, dangerous at worst. She doesn't fully understand what we are, what we do, the kind of blood that stains our hands even when we wear thousand-dollar suits.
But God, the way she looked at me last night. Like she saw past the expensive clothes and polished reputation to the man underneath. Like she wanted me as desperately as I want her.
I force myself to focus on the reports in front of me, scanning profit margins and expansion projections for our legitimate businesses. The restaurants are doing well, the shipping company is turning steady profits, and our real estate holdings continue to appreciate. On paper, we look like any other successful family business.
The reality is more complicated, and I'm one of the few people who understands both sides of our operations. It's a position that requires absolute discretion, unwavering loyalty, and the ability to make hard choices without sentiment clouding my judgment.
Sentiment like the way my chest tightens when I remember how Viktor looked at Brooke last night, his crude comments about her "assets" making me want to put my fist through his face. The way my jaw clenched when he suggested she might provide "additional entertainment" after the cards were finished. The barely controlled rage that flooded my system at the thought of anyone treating her like a commodity to be bought and used.
She's not just beautiful, though she's easily the most stunning woman who's ever walked into one of our poker games. She's intelligent—I've heard her discussing market analysis with some of our business partners, using terminology that proves she actually understands the financial world. When she talks about her MBA program, her eyes light up with genuine passion for her studies.
She's also working two jobs to pay for her education, building something entirely her own without family money orconnections to smooth the way. There's something admirable about that kind of determination, something that draws me to her beyond just physical attraction.
Though Christ, the physical attraction is enough to drive a man insane.
I close my eyes and let myself remember the way she looked last night when she leaned across the table to collect Viktor's ashtray. The dress pulled tight across her breasts, giving me a perfect view of cleavage that made my mouth water. The subtle arch of her back as she reached, the way her skirt rode up just enough to tease me with glimpses of her thighs. The soft sound she made when her hip brushed my shoulder—barely audible, but enough to send blood rushing straight to my cock.
Every night after poker games, I go home aching with need, her image burned into my mind as I take myself in hand and imagine what it would be like to have her beneath me. To hear her whisper my name in that breathy voice, to feel her nails digging into my shoulders as I make her come apart. To discover what sounds she makes when a man touches her properly, worships her the way she deserves.
My phone buzzes again—another text from Dimitri:Where are you?
Shit. I check the time and realize I'm fifteen minutes late for the family meeting. This is what Brooke Madison does to me—makes me lose track of time and priorities like some lovesick teenager instead of a grown man with serious responsibilities.
I grab my jacket and head for the elevator, trying to push thoughts of her soft curves and knowing smiles out of my head long enough to focus on whatever family business requires myattention. But as the elevator descends toward Dimitri's office, I make a decision that surprises me with its clarity.
I'm going to find a way to see her outside that poker room. Away from the predatory gazes of men who view her as entertainment, away from the professional boundaries that have kept us circling each other for months. I need to know if this attraction is mutual, if the heat I see in her eyes matches the fire that's been consuming me since the first night she walked into my brother's restaurant.
She deserves better than being objectified by criminals in expensive suits. She deserves someone who sees her mind as clearly as her beauty, who values her strength and independence as much as her stunning body.
