Page 2 of Bratva's Innocent Obsession
The lights rise to reveal half a dozen girls on the stage. They’re all on the floor, their heads bowed, and wearing the cliché of a ballerina outfit, like a white sticky-out skirt and swimsuit. They all have their hair scraped into a severe style.
A spotlight pops on, encircling the middle blonde girl, and they all begin to move. Slow and willowy, and different from the modern style we’ve watched so far.
My gaze snags on a girl near the back. Something about this girl grips my throat as she dances. The focus of the dance is on the central girl, but this brunette…
My blood pumps, and the rest of the world falls away.
I’m compelled. She moves differently, and despite the group dynamics, I can’t take my gaze from her.
I wanted to feel alive, and as it turns out, watching a girl perform ballet, while sitting beside a corpse and exchanging small talk with the head of the Volk Bratva does that.
Then she looks up, and shock ricochets through me as I realise two things.
One, this girl is going to be my obsession on a level I’ve never had before for any woman. Not even back when I was a teenager. There’s a sense of recognition, strong as though a current swirls us in the same direction.
Something about her is magic.
And two, she’s Taylor Love. The girl I’m here to extract as a favour to the London Mafia Syndicate.
I felt nothing when examining photos of her from years ago. I felt neutral when I memorised the features of her sisters. But in real life, slight and fragile and stronger in motion than she looks caught in stasis in a photo, she’s amazing.
“ … And there’s that too.”
I realise with a start that Aleksandr said something to me, but I was so focused on this girl that I didn’t hear.
Fuck. The sort of mistake that could be fatal.
“Lucrative?” I tear my gaze from the girl on the stage. I need to keep my attention on remaining alive and rescuing Taylor, not mooning over her.
“The blonde in the centre,” Aleksandr confides, “has made a lot of men very happy.”
Stones land in my stomach as I follow his gesture.
It’s exactly as I anticipated. Despite the outfits and elegant performance, this is a high-class brothel.
“I’m interested in the blonde,” I say, a bit louder than necessary. If they hear me, and I think they do, the dancers don’t react. “Looks like she’d take it well. What do you want for her?”
“Yevgeny, what’s her nightly rate?” Aleksandr says without turning.
A man steps from the shadows. He has a thin face and a cunning look like a fox. His hair is slicked back. I don’t recognise him from my years with Volk. He’s wearing a suit with a fussy waistcoat. “Highly skilled, Michelle. In demand.” Yevgeny names a figure most people reserve for the annual salary they wish they had.
I nod.
I can’t stop staring at Taylor.
This is deeply inconvenient.
My cock keeps rising, despite my attempt to think of other things or look at the other ballerinas. Not her.
This is supposed to be a high-adrenaline mission that is risky in Moscow, not a problem when I get back to London. Because the kingpins of Greenwich and Beckenham were very clear. If I fuck around with their sister-in-law, it won’t matter if I’m the one who brought her home. They’ll string me up.
The fact that Taylor has probably been through worse than my perverted mind could inflict is beside the point. It’s some sort of London Mafia Syndicate bro code.
“How much for the brunette at the back?” I ask, and hopefully I sound unconcerned, as if I were choosing dinner. “The one with the little pout.”
I gesture at the girl, who I’m sure is Taylor Love. She’s glowering at me. Subtly. Out of the corner of her eye as she dances, but it’s a brand on my skin.
“Ahhh. Taylor.”
