Claimed Bratva Virgin (Yezhov Bratva #4)

Chapter 2 – Leonora

“Car’s Outside” by James Arthur was my best song yet. I had it playing in my ears right now, and it worked its magic again. It was my go-to, the melody I relied on whenever something big was stirring inside me, whenever nerves threatened to take over. And just like every other time, it worked.

I refused to look when I passed by the grandstands and instead tried to regulate my breath.

With sharp focus, I hastened my steps to the paddock. I was already two minutes late. Any more than that off the clock, and Gavin could literally yell my ear off for slacking.

More than hundreds— thousands —of people were gathered, waving everything they could while cheering us on: shirts, pictures, flags, and cardboard. They turned up in various colors, and their energy was electric, charging the atmosphere with a harmonious excitement of spirited chants. Feedback from the commentators resonated from the speakers planted in every corner, formally preparing the audience for the big start. Their chants rose, swirling like wildfire.

Smiling, I finally succumbed to the thrilling temptation to look around. It was kind of like a personal habit I’d formed over the years: Try not to look, and then look. And the view never failed to amaze me. I could never get used to it.

It was about seventy-five degrees out, with clear blue skies and wispy clouds, and the gentle ocean breeze complimented the honey-hued warmth of the California sun. Deeply, I inhaled the Pacific air, filling my lungs with the invigorating freshness of eucalyptus and palm trees swaying gently alongside the track. In the mix, I caught the aroma of seafood, avocado, and citrus wafting from food stalls, but those were going to have to wait until after I claimed my prize.

I got to the crowded shade in time to catch my car backing away from my baby. The 3.8L twin-turbocharged flat-six engine produced seven hundred horsepower at seven thousand revolutions per minute and seven hundred and fifty Newton-meters of torque.

For a second, I paused to adore her. The GT2 Porsche 991, sitting pretty under the shade, did not even need the sun to shine; her sleek red and black track-designed coat carried all the glow she needed.

“Leo.”

Clad in a sleek red and black team jacket, with sweat-dampened salt and pepper hair framing his face, Gavin patted her hood and tossed me the keys. The silver bunch jingled in my palms as I caught them with ease.

He was very unimpressed. “Race is starting in ten minutes.”

The noise around us grew louder, and most of the racers in the shed were already testing their engines. Giving my best remorseful smile, I walked around him to the driver’s door. “I know, I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Gavin narrowed his eyes at me, adjusting one headphone cup pushed back over his ear. “The only way you’re apologizing is by kicking some ass and getting that goddamn money, so listen up, kid. We needed to adjust the torque settings for maximum traction,” he shouted over the roar of engines, his headphones slipping slightly down his ear. “You have to ease off the throttle a bit, or you’ll overheat.”

“Thought you worked that off?”

His gray eyes squinted against the sun, and he looked like he’d aged five years older in seconds. “I didn’t say don’t use it, just don’t put excess pressure. Now, pay attention—this setup change will give you an edge, and the tweak will give you insane speed. It’s pure magic.”

After spending an extra minute guiding me through the last-minute adjustments amidst the frenzied atmosphere, Gavin fixed me up with an earpiece, handed me my helmet, and gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder before diverting his focus to something else outside the shed. “ Hai tutte le carte in regola per riuscirci!” You have all the cards to succeed.

And he walked away.

Static whined from the speakers, and the commentators’ voices came back on the speakers. All racers present were to proceed to the staging area. The race was commencing in six minutes. I started for the door, gripping the handle, but my reflection made me pause.

I stared back at myself, taking in everything, from my snug black leggings and cropped team red-and-black leather jacket to the fierce determination in my hazel-green eyes. I stole a deep breath because I desperately needed it and combed my fingers through my short bob.

In the twenty-three years of my life, I always put family first. Always. My destiny was premeditated, even before I was born, and I’d never tried to fight or question it. Protecting my father’s legacy and preparing myself for the big shoes I would feel as the daughter of the Italian Don was the primary focus—my priority. I’d done it all, the necessary training, the meetings, the preliminary inductions into the mafia, and I let nothing stand in my way.

But after family, racing came next. It wasn’t just a passion; it was oxygen. The countless hours of tireless training, sweat-drenched sessions, and sacrifices—every moment had led to this big one. The Long Beach Grand Prix.

One hundred thousand dollars— 100,000 freaking dollars!— hung precariously in the balance. I could get that money from my father in less than ten minutes, but then it wouldn’t be earned. It wouldn’t be considered mine.

“Already practicing how you’re going to cry after I beat you?”

I turned away from my car with a grimace at the driver in a green-and-black leather jacket. He was young and had racing experience, like me. Typical cliché, this one. Tall and brooding with a lean athletic build, he had intense grey eyes that were the shade of brewing storms, dark, tousled taper fade hair, structured cheekbones, a defined jawline, full lips, and a foreign symbol inked on the left side of his neck.

Other girls here would die for him. Some of them were already falling at the grandstands, hysterically shrieking his name and crying to get his attention.

But I wasn’t other girls and never would be.

This intruder was, in fact, someone I’d been at loggerheads with from time immemorial—my arch-nemesis and rival, for two major reasons:

One, we’d been opponents on the tracks for a few years, and he made it clear that he wasn’t going to stop trying to outshine me. Granted, he had decent skills, but that was as far as it went. Decent, but not good enough to beat me.

Two, Ivan Yezhov was proudly Russian, and it didn’t stop there. Maybe, if he was a decent Russian fighting to survive like any other ordinary human being, I might have considered going easy on him a few times, but…no.

This particular Russian hailed from a long line of filthy bastards who believed they were better than everyone else. People who had no conscience, got their hands dirty, and trampled on others like they were meaningless trash—the Bratva.

I wasn’t a saint; neither was my father nor our ancestors. We understood what this line of business demanded. But there were some people you could tolerate and others you just couldn’t. The Bratva was on the latter list.

Ivan and I never held a reasonable conversation for more than three minutes, so his ignorance was clear; he didn’t care much about knowing me beyond my name and who my father was. But I knew him and had gathered enough about his family to understand why Papa wanted them eliminated and wiped off the face of planet Earth.

Fun fact: They sickened me—all of them.

My grimace turned to a full-blown smile when I entered the car and strapped myself into the cockpit. He followed me, lowering his head to glare at me through the window as I fixed on my helmet.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

This pestering technique of his was very intentional, trying to spite me, to rile me up, with that smug look and spark in his eyes, and it wasn’t working. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of watching me unravel.

“What?” I blinked, flashing a smile as innocently as it could get. “What was that? I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you over the noise of my victory. But don’t worry, okay? I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to sign an autograph.”

If his ego was bruised, it didn’t show. Then, again, the Yezhovs had a thing for striking back despite how low they fell to the ground.

“Nice to see you already pumped up.” Eyes glinting wickedly, he stroked his chin. “What’s that thing they say about overconfident brats? Oh, that’s right; they always fucking lose in the end.”

The smile on my face wobbled, and I frowned it off.

“I’ve got a better one: Race starts in three minutes, loser. Why don’t you worry about moving your garbage can over there instead of polluting my air with your bad energy? Yeah, that’s right; fuck off.”

Scoffing, he backed away, and I pumped the car out of the shed and toward the staging area.

“ Ce la puoi fare! ” You can do it. Gavin’s voice came through the earpiece. “No distractions.”

He must have picked up on the brief banter between the Russian and me, but Gavin understood me well enough to know nothing could faze me at this point when I could almost taste the victory at the end of the finish line.

“ D’accordo.” Agreed.

Leaning back on the seat, I shut my eyes for a second and tightened my grip on the steering wheel until I was sure my knuckles had turned white. Beside me, other racers were already gearing up. Engines roared to life around me, and I felt my heart pounding in my chest, every beat stronger than the one before.

Ivan’s blue Ferrari Enzo pulled up beside me. I felt the heat of his stare prickle at the side of my face but didn’t turn. What I needed now was focus.

Focus.

Nothing short of that.

The countdown officially started with the lights hanging overhead. As the digital numbers went down from three to one, I counted alongside them under my breath.

Tre.

I was going to win this.

Due.

I was going to win this.

Uno….

Game time.

The loud buzzer cut through the chants in the air, spreading tension from the drivers to the grandstands—everyone could feel it.

“ Partenza !” Gavin charged over the earpiece.

As the numbers turned green, I slammed the accelerator, and my baby surged forward like a wild animal unleashed. The prize. The harsh sound of tires screeching or rubber burning didn’t matter. The wind whipped, and I felt the heat in my helmet. The world beside me and behind faded to a blur. I kept my eyes on the goal—the finish line.

Heat haze shimmered. The sun beat down, and the track gleamed like molten gold, the surface reflecting the vibrant colors of the cars.

A quick glimpse, and I caught the speedometer needle dancing toward triple digits, and my stomach dropped with each sharp turn. I felt weightless, free, alive.

Narrowing my focus to the road ahead, my mind raced faster than the few cars ahead of me. I calculated, swerved the wheel, instinctively adjusted my line, braked, and then accelerated. From the window, I heard the audience go wild.

But it shrank. The noise and chants from the stands, the roar of engines beside mine—everything minimized to a singular, thrilling purpose: crossing the line first.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rival Ferrari bump into mine. Ivan was attempting a daring overtaking maneuver. My heart rate spiked.

I’m going to win this.

I gripped the wheel tighter and shot a brief glare at him through the window before focusing on the track’s curvature.

Then, I floored it.

My tires bit into the asphalt. Ivan’s Ferrari’s nose edged closer, its exhaust growing louder, our cars mere inches apart. The rush of adrenaline was intoxicating as we hurtled toward the turn’s apex. I silenced the harsh pounds of my heart in my ears like drums and countered his move, subtly adjusting my steering.

Gavin was yelling something aggressively in rapid Italian over the earpiece, but I couldn’t hear him. Not when I was sucked into a hole of emotions and memories, seeing nothing but all the times I’d broken my back to put the best into this sport: my stubbornness, as Papa would call it. My pain, my tears, my beginner’s stage victories—all of it.

My ears were ringing, and my hands were shaking on the wheel.

If Ivan Yezhov or any other person thought themselves capable enough to snatch this moment away from me, they most certainly had another thing coming.

I held firm, my rear end rotating subtly in response to the throttle, and his car fell behind.

With his hot breath on my bumper, I didn’t bother turning back. After the race, I’d rub his shit on his face.

The loud cheers from the spectators, the sound of screeching tires, and cars racing into each other fueled me and pumped the exhilaration flowing to the depths of my soul.

I got this.

The finish line was dead ahead, its bright colors like a beacon, and I was so close, close enough to taste the sweetness of victory.

With a final, desperate burst of speed, in a quick flash of colors and blurs—

Time slowed down.

My heart raced against my chest with the speed of quicksilver.

And I heard the crowd go wilder than the crackle of thunder and whooshing winds in a fucking storm.

“Oh, my! The crowd is on its feet! Un-be-lievable! “

“ Leonora Colombo has successfully put her feet through the door of history! She has taken the top spot on the podium!”

“What a drive! What a finish! Car number 12, driven by Leonora Colombo, is your winner today of the Long Beach Prix! Woohoo!”

I’d done it.

I’d crossed the line. The checkered flag waved above me, and the feeling….

The feeling was indescribable.

I kicked the door open, with a grin so wide it could hurt my cheeks, when I stepped out of the car and into the charged atmosphere.

“ Leo! Leo! Leo! ”

The chants were heavy, the voices loud. I looked around and spread my arms under the rapid bursts of tiny confetti. I couldn’t believe it. Only moments ago, winning had been the goal. Now, it was a real achievement. I stood at the center of these people’s admiration. I’d inspired someone out there to dare to dream big and got my name carved on the stone of car racing champions.

“I’ve never been prouder! You just keep surpassing the limits.”

I pressed the earpiece deeper to block out the noise in the background. I’d worked with Gavin long enough to see the smug smile on his face from over the phone.

“Grazie per aver fatto parte di questo.” Thanks for being a part of this.

“Good job, kid! Now, go get your prize. You earned it.”

The prize. 100,000 dollars.

Marching up to the podium, I couldn’t have been prouder of how far I’d come and how much farther I was ready to go.

The officials stood beside me, forming a semicircle, as they handed me the big paper check. I smiled big for the camera, and one thought echoed in the back of my mind.

This was just the beginning.

****

“ Don’t you want me like I want you, baby? Don’t you need me like I need you now? Sleep tomorrow, but tonight, go crazy. All you gotta do is just meet me at the….”

I whipped my hair in the opposite direction of the wind, though it didn’t go very far because of the length, lifting my tulip glass to the starry night sky with one hand while dragging down the zip on my jacket with the other as I joined the others to scream the chorus at the top of my lungs.

Cool beach air ambushed us, brushing my bare stomach when I released the zipper on my jacket. It felt liberating. The energy was high tonight; mine was higher.

I was bound in the time capsule of this moment, just existing in this space, with a charged, euphoric atmosphere and cool sand beneath my feet. It spurred a trip down memory lane.

At the age of eight, I discovered my love for cars. When I was fifteen, I practically forced Papa to teach me how to drive. I could have learned easily before I was thirteen, but Papa wanted me to focus on proper formal education and, behind closed doors, black market lessons.

There was a distinct thrill that came with being seated behind the wheel, strapped in and ready. No worries or concerns or thoughts about anything or anyone else. The reality of who I was and the life I had been born into faded to a noiseless background when the wind blew through my hair and my foot pressed down on the accelerator. The rush of adrenaline and liberation was intoxicating, and I’d grown into this fierce young woman with an intense desire to take over the world with speed.

With one hand, I clutched my boots against my thighs and tilted my head back. The taste of champagne was as sweet as the taste of triumph. And it tasted even better after every full glass. I was on my third now and had a feeling I wasn’t slowing down tonight.

Still mouthing the infectious “Apt ” lyrics, I looked around over the huge swarm of people here, scattered across the beach: the giggly girls clad in bikinis, testing the dark waves that lapped over the shore with male companions, and others mingling over barbecue and wine.

It was bonfire night, and at the corners, lit torches lined up at the entrance. At the center, a group of dancers displayed their professional exotic talent . But beyond these, knowing that they gathered here to celebrate me, to celebrate our big win, made the scenery even more surreal.

My head was still on the forty-five-degree rotation when my eyes caught something. Someone, rather.

From the group of racers surrounding me, one of the men stared at me.

Our eyes met, and he didn’t even flinch; he just smiled and tipped his blue solo cup toward me.

Sandy blond hair, long, athletically carved legs, and a soft jawline. He wasn’t close enough to tell the color of his eyes, but I had no doubt that they were pretty.

The stranger was cute, in a rich boy-playboy way. But a man like him wasn’t cut from the same cloth as me.

If he got any closer, I could bet he had clean, trimmed fingernails, good designer shoes, and straight white teeth that, without a doubt, had never been knocked out before.

It was simple. Pretty Boy over there was a descendant of a soft and easy heritage, while people like me, who had illegal early childhood training in getting clear headshots, were not advised to mingle.

The reason was simple: Where I came from, Pretty Boy and his likes almost never survived.

Before he started trudging through the sand toward me, I turned away—

And accidentally bumped into someone else.

A girl, this time around.

We stood close enough to one of the lit torches for me to see her properly, and it was her eyes I saw first: crystal green, the color of priceless emeralds. Then, I noticed her raven black waist-length hair, as dark as night. Her skin was pale, a stark contrast beside the flickering orange burn of flames. She looked simple and ready to enjoy the night in a cropped brown halter top on a vibrant pair of dad shorts and cross-woven beach sandals. When she moved the red solo cup in her hands, I caught the cursive style intricately inked across the insides of her wrist but couldn’t make out the words.

And when she smiled at me, from ear to ear, she reminded me of me.

That dangerous and audacious spark in her eyes, the subtle darkness that swirled behind them, her aura that screamed everything a middle finger in the air would—I saw all of it. Felt all of it.

She took a step back, scanned me from head to toe, and went back again to my face.

“What do you know? A year later, we meet again, and I’m in the queue for your autograph.”

“I don’t see any queue behind you, or in front.”

A brief pause.

Then, we both busted out laughing.

Giselle Rae. We’d met at an auction a year ago, and the connection between us was instant. She shared mutual feelings toward the auction. We both thought it was boring and overhyped. Then, a conversation about a random topic started, and before long, I started talking about cars.

I didn’t see her anywhere else again after that night, but Giselle was one person I’d encountered that I was sure I would never forget.

“When I spotted you from the stand, I couldn’t believe it. Girl, you were on fire. God, I wish I was as cool as you.”

“Seems like you’re even cooler.”

She snorted. “Yeah, sure. Next thing, you’ll say I’m Charlize Theron.” Her lips curled to the side in a lopsided grin when she took her cup to her mouth. “All that talk about cars and making a name in racing. You finally made it, huh?”

I shifted my weight from one bare foot to the other, letting the weight of her words sink in. It’s what I’d been doing for the past half an hour—musing on how fast my dreams were coming true. The sudden tilt of her brow and knowing glint in her eyes made her know she was right.

I know she’s right .

I finally made it.

I took a sip from my glass. The champagne in it was almost gone. Time had been far spent. “I guess you could say that. I’m still making it, though. For me, today was just a start.”

Her chuckle was a horse, a deep rumble from her throat, and a hearty “Congratulations, Leo” flowed from her lips.

“I’m actually happy for you—and me, of course, because I get to benefit. It’ll probably be less than twenty-four hours of fame. We should take a picture, so I’ll post on Snapchat that I have a friend who’s one hundred thousand dollars richer. The world needs to know.”

I laughed as loud as the champagne in my mouth would let me, and she moved to stand beside me with her smartphone raised for a friend selfie. The front camera focused on our faces, and I was barely halfway through a comment about the possibility of her post putting a moving target on her back when someone else appeared in our shot.

“You got lucky today, Colombo.”

Giselle stepped aside as I turned to face him, my archnemesis with thick Russian blood running true in his veins.

“Look who came back for an autograph.” I raised an apologetic hand in the air. “Sorry, but this chick beside me was the last one on the line. I’m bumped out, and I should be getting my beauty sleep in, uh, five minutes? Sorry, but we have to wrap this up.” I offered a smile. “The life of champions, am I right?”

“You think this is funny?”

The burning anger and darkness in Ivan’s eyes made me know how upset my victory made him. It was the type of darkness that took a gun to a man’s head to draw blood without remorse. I didn’t only recognize it; being a Colombo ensured I possessed it. That, and the zero tolerance to put up with jealous sons of bitches like this one.

If the baby wanted me to put him in his place, I would be more than glad to.

“The only thing funny here is what you said a minute ago. I pretended not to hear your trash talk, but since you want to go there, it’ll be my pleasure to address it. Did you say lucky?” I looked away, at nothing in particular, with a scoff and back at him. “Sorry that I have to be the one to break this to you, chipmunk, but what you witnessed today had not a fucking thing to do with luck. I outdrove you, Ivan Yezhov. Allow it to sink in.”

“Outdrove me?”

“What, you need hearing aids now?”

The turbulence in his eyes only grew shades darker, cloudier, until his rage and embarrassment were all over the place. He took a step forward and edged closer. Good thing I had a decent height; I didn’t have to tilt my head back too much to hold his gaze. His rigid six-foot frame had nothing over me.

The volume of the music dropped a few notches, and hot gossip-hungry stares surrounded us. Some even had their phones raised, and the breeze chose that moment to play with his hair. Talk about some tense scene from a novel.

Me? I didn’t give a fuck.

“Says the pampered princess riding on her daddy’s coattails.” His taunting smile was immediate, and I suddenly craved the urge to wipe it off with a fist. “The only thing you are is privileged, Leonora. Nothing more.”

BULL-SHIT.

That was exactly what that was. Trash talk, and nothing more. Only Ivan got off on talking trash to me.

Like the Russian Bratva, the Italian mafia did things to a person that ordinary ears were prohibited from hearing. Things that were not allowed to see the light of day. And I was a product of some of those things.

It was true that Papa knew how to get his feet through multiple doors, however, and whenever he wanted. Enzo Colombo was not a man most people said no to. He didn’t allow it. Privileges came with the name, especially being the only daughter and heir apparent to take over his seat of power in the mafia. There was an edge; success and immeasurable wealth were already fixed for me and my brother even before our births.

We could literally have anything we wanted: a luxurious lifestyle, resources, connections—heck, even a degree from Harvard or wherever. Nothing was beyond our reach.

But racing? I’d broken my back for that one. I put in the necessary hours. I pushed hard during training. I spent so much time shuffling from Gavin’s private garage to the practice tracks and back—over and over again.

And on repeat.

Ivan’s ego was hurt and brutally punctured, so that snarky remark was nothing more than a feeble attempt to get back at me. Well, that was what I kept trying to tell myself while glaring at him. But I remembered the feeling that enveloped me when I crossed that finish line, the feeling of accomplishment when I held that check on the podium, and the weight seated on my chest, suffocating all rational thoughts until one voice screamed louder in my head:

I fucking deserved it .

My hand moved before my mouth did, and a resounding “Oh, shit!” reechoed from the spectators encircling us. Beside me, Giselle gasped. Some female admirers of his cooed, and a few of the guys laughed.

My glass was empty, the champagne gone and now seeping into Ivan’s hair, forming small rivulets down the length of his neck, past the collar of his jacket.

I’d embarrassed him, humiliated him. And if given another chance, I’d do much worse.

“You just can’t stomach the reality that you lost to a woman. Why don’t you go back to the junior’s league? Seems like you still have a lot to learn.”

With his jaw clenched and curled fingers digging into his palms, Ivan eliminated the last bit of space between us and dropped his head low enough for me to catch the threat in his glare. Our proximity was so small that I could smell it, a choking rage wafting up my nose and into my lungs like smoky heat from a furnace.

“You’re going to pay for this.”

“Yeah, sure. Definitely.” Smirking, I stepped back. “Or did you forget I can afford to pay for that and probably your entire existence? At least I have a daddy with coattails to ride on. Yours held no major position of power, leaving you weak and powerless. But, unlike you, I’m not petty. I’ll consider forgiving you because you’re pissed, and I know you’re projecting.”

I turned away from him and everyone else, gritting my teeth into my gum hard enough to cause a headache. I still felt him watching, glaring knives behind my head. I raised my hand and flipped him off.

“Go home, Ivan.”