Page 24 of British Bratva: A Russian Mafia Romance

I let out a stunted laugh.

She wasn’t wrong.

There were rumors of his involvement with a Moscow-based crime syndicate, although no allegations had formally been made and there was no evidence to support the claims. Readers were warned he had dangerous associates, that he was a very serious man.

I felt a thrill go through me when I read that. I knew exactly what they meant by that.

There was no doubt in my mind he was just as dangerous as his associates, maybe even more so.

He was no businessman, playing bodyguard to rich celebrities. He was the kind of man who knew how to live in the shadows and show just enough of himself to be able to move seamlessly through the glitzy world when he needed to. He could get close to anybody he wanted in a legitimate manner, or walk up behind them in the street, slide a knife between their ribs and disappear like smoke.

In the ring, I’d felt the power of him, admired the flash of his predatory nature, and seen the numbed over coldness in his eyes that told me he was capable of anything.

He was exactly what they thought he was – between the lines it was painted as clear as day – he had to be mafia. Russian Mafia. Nothing else made sense.

And seeing it in black and white, up on the screen, I was even more drawn in by the idea of him than before.

Maxim Toropov ran the kind of security that vanished problems entirely. Permanently. And he wanted to help me. Or maybe he just wanted me.

I barely managed to catch my breath.

“How did you meet this guy?” Cassie straightened up, frowning at the screen and I could tell from the way she tilted her chin and folded her arms across her chest that she thought I should steer well clear.

It was too late for that, and I was a moth to the flame.

“He was visiting someone in my street.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. It just wasn’t exactly the truth. Unless you counted carrying out surveillance as visiting. Which most people didn’t.

Cassie let out a short, unimpressed sound.

“You be careful. A guy like him has got to have ulterior motives. He probably thinks you know what your step dad’s up to.”

I felt my smile dull just a little bit. That was my worry too. He did this for a living. It wasn’t like it was totally out of the realms of possibility that he was flattering me with a bit of attention to get me to do what he wanted. Still, the thought irritated me. Even more so because Cassie was saying it. Didn’t she think that he could just like me?

“I don’t think so. Anyway, I don’t know anything about any of that.”

“You be careful. Don’t get yourself mixed up in something you can’t handle.”

I leaned back in the computer chair, looking up at her. “When have I ever done that? You worry too much, Cassie. I’m going to be fine. And look at him.”

I clicked over to one of the pictures that some journalist had clearly taken with a long-range zoom lens. He was on the deck of a super yacht apparently owned by some Russian oligarch whose name I couldn’t begin to pronounce, and he was tanned and shirtless and perfect, right down to the small patches of scarring along his right side that couldn’t be anything other than bullet wounds and shrapnel remnants, and the clearly inked wings that spread across his chest, just under his collar bone. “I deserve to have a little bit of fun.”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “You watch yourself, Elizabeth, or you might trip over that lolling tongue of yours. Back to work in ten minutes. The bar’s getting too busy for me to be paying you to stalk your gentlemen friends.”

“Love you too Cassie.”

“You better.”

*****

I wandered home from work in a daze, still feeling Maxim’s lips on mine. His large, gentle hands drawing me in against his muscled body, letting me feel the power of him.

A few days ago everything I wanted had been clear, and then this big, beautiful Russian walked into my life and started turning everything on its head.

My body was buzzing with need for him. Everything turned to him. I couldn’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder, wondering whether he was watching me, whether he was following me. Whether he’d be at the window across the road when I got home.

I wanted him more than I knew was sane, and it was the only thing driving me to stick around. He hadn’t asked, and I loved him for that, but I could see the writing on the wall – he needed me to help him get what Sutherland had. I shouldn’t have cared. I should have gone home and packed my bag and gone to Cassie’s for a few days.

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