Page 6 of Caught By the Bratva Boss

I stare at the one-word response and feel my whole body start to tense. There’s no way in fuck this mayor is clean, no one in politics is, and I’m going to find his fucking secret, and when I do that bastard is mine.

Too agitated to sit still, I go to my room and change into a pair of workout shorts before heading to the gym I had set up in the basement. Bypassing the treadmill and weight machines, I head straight for the punching bag that’s hanging in the corner and start punching that motherfucker. When I was younger, this is how I got started—street fights in the back alleys of Moscow. I knew I’d be stepping into the role ofpakhanone day, and even at a young age I knew I didn’t want to rule like my uncle did. If I was going to be in charge of men’s lives, then I was going to make damn good sure that I never asked them for anything I wasn’t willing to do myself.

I earned respect from my men by getting bloody right along with them, and when my uncle was killed, I took the reins, and I haven’t looked back since. I’ve made the Fedorov Bratva into one of the most powerful Bratvas in Russia, and I want that same level of success in America. I’ll be damned if a little fucker like Mayor Stephens is going to ruin this for me.

My fists hit the bag in a fast rhythm that soon has me covered in sweat. I circle the bag, punching it until my mind is comfortably numb and my muscles are well past the burning stage. By the time I toss the gloves aside, I’m soaked and feeling better than I have all day. Grabbing one of the white towels stacked in the corner, I run it over my head and chest before throwing it across my neck and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge I keep stocked down here. I notice Artyom has helped himself to all my orange-flavored sports drinks and make a mental note to put that on the grocery list that Valentina keeps upstairs.

After a long shower, I throw on a pair of jeans, not bothering with a shirt, and head back into my office to take care of a few more things. After a lengthy phone call to one of my suppliers in Moscow, I rest the back of my head against my chair and let out a sigh. Artyom texted during the call to let me know they still hadn’t found anything, and I’m more than ready to put an end to this damn day.

I’m about to get up and do just that when my computer gives a ding and a warning pops up. Leaning closer, my body instantly alert, I pull up my home security system and see that it’s shut down. A few quick commands and my backup system is up and running. I flip through the various camera feeds, my breath catching when I see someone slip through the patio doors. Rage instantly floods through me, and my first instinct is to go down there and shoot whatever motherfucker thought he could break into my home, but I don’t. Instead, I watch the intruder and notice the slight build and fluidity to their movements. I suck in a quick breath, suddenly more curious than infuriated.

It’s a goddamn woman.

I watch her skirt around my dining room table on her way to the stairs. Flicking off my office light and quietly shutting and locking the door, I walk back to my desk and switch camera views so I can see her creep up the stairs. She keeps a gloved hand on the railing and slowly makes her way to the top before eyeing the hallway in front of her. Intrigued, I watch as she checks out one of the guest rooms and then a hall bathroom before stepping in front of my office door. She hesitates for a moment, but then reaches out to try the doorknob. I hear it jiggle from just a few feet away as she tries to open it before finally giving up and heading further down.

When she finds my bedroom, she steps in, turning her head to give the room a visual sweep. Grabbing my phone, I pull up the camera feed and silently leave my office, heading straight for my room. Not wanting her to know I’m here yet, I stay in the hall and watch as she walks to my bed and runs her hand over the dark grey blanket. She lets her fingers dance over the top, slowly walking the few steps to my pillow, and then I watch as she picks it up and gives it a sniff.

Who the fuck is this crazy chick?

When she steps into my walk-in closet and starts to run her hand over the tray of expensive watches before opening the wooden box I keep on the shelf next to it, I know I’ve seen enough. I shut and lock my bedroom door behind me and walk over to my closet.

“See anything you like?”

I almost laugh at the shocked yell she gives, but then she turns around and I see who’s just broken into my house.

Chapter3

Charlotte

“Holy shit!” I gasp, feeling momentarily lightheaded from the massive rush of adrenaline that’s just hit me. My fingers tighten around the insanely gorgeous diamond necklace I’m clutching like the guilty thief I am.

Mikhail Fedorov leans against the doorway in nothing but a pair of jeans, and I know I should be paying more attention to his pissed-off face, but I can’t seem to drag my eyes from his chiseled, tattooed chest. My research, which only resulted in the scantest of information, gave me his name, but that’s about it. I couldn’t even find an address, and without my tracker, I never would’ve found this place.

I knew I shouldn’t have risked this! It was stupid, but I’d been watching the house, and I thought for sure he was gone. I’d just wanted to come in and have a look around. Yeah, maybe I was going to take a small souvenir, but that was it, just something small that he’d never miss, like one of his many watches that cost as much as a damn car, but then I’d seen the wooden box, my itchy fingers just couldn’t resist. I wasn’t going to take the necklace, though. I don’t take things that will be missed, and something this expensive and in its own special box would definitely be missed. I carefully place the necklace back in its velvet box and shut the lid, tucking it back where it was on the shelf. I give it a soft pat in ano harm, no foulkind of way that I hope makes it clear I won’t be trying to take it with me.

When I’m able to, I raise my eyes to his, meeting his dark, angry gaze, refusing to bow my head again. If my ass is getting hauled off to prison, then I’m going there with some dignity, damn it. He lifts a brow at me, giving me much the same look that he did at the restaurant, and as much as I try to stop it, I feel my face heating up.

Using the muscled arm that’s leaning against the door frame, he pushes himself off and takes a slow step towards me. My right foot immediately steps back. We continue the rhythm, one step forward, one step back, until I’m pressed flush against the back wall of his enormous closet that’s the size of my bedroom, and he’s looming in front of me. Placing a hand above my head to rest on the wall, he leans closer, making me suck in a quick breath at the sight of him. His eyes are even more beautiful this close up, so dark they almost look black, making it impossible for me to look away.

God, this guy is intense. He just stares down at me with that same damn unreadable expression on his face. I have the ridiculous urge to reach out and run my fingers over his thickly stubbled cheeks, but I have enough brain cells working to resist that crazy idea.

When he continues to just stare down at me silently, I finally buckle under the silence, and say, “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have broken in, I know that now, but I didn’t take anything. I wasn’t going to steal the necklace. I just wanted to look at it, so if you could just let me go, then we can both forget this ever happened.”

He ignores everything I’ve just said and asks, “What’s your name?”

“Maddie,” the name rolling off my tongue in a quick lie.

His mouth tightens into an even harder line. “So you’re a thief and a liar.”

“I’m not lying,” I stutter because how the fuck can he possibly know that?

Bringing his other hand up, he pulls back the hood on my sweatshirt and dances his fingers along my neck in the barest of touches that leaves my heart racing and my skin pebbled in goosebumps.

“Let’s try this again,” he says in his calm, deep voice. “What’s your name?”

I think about lying again, but something in his dark eyes tells me that wouldn’t be in my best interest, so I hold his gaze and say, “Charlotte.”

“Have an ID on you, Charlie?” he asks, immediately taking it upon himself to use the nickname that everyone uses. “A driver’s license?”

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