Claimed Bratva Virgin (Yezhov Bratva #4)

Chapter 6 – Leonora

Now that Rafayel was gone, I released the most satisfying scream of frustration I’d ever mustered. After my confession, it should have been satisfying watching him seethe and stomp off with red ears and a clamped jaw. And it was a miracle when steam didn’t blow out his ears.

We both knew I wasn’t bluffing. I’d not only planted the seed in Papa’s mind about upsetting the Russians, but I also went ahead and mapped out the entire frigging blueprints—every single significant detail, down to the men who’d bust into the secret location to force Jabril into switching sides after he saw incriminating photos of him in several hotel rooms with different women. The death of the Russian soldier was the one thing we hadn’t accounted for.

But it had happened, and there was nothing to do about it except move on and keep our eyes on the goal.

Jabril possessed wealth and sat in the seat of power in one of the world’s largest and top corporate ventures. His net worth cost more than cash cows. But he was a bloody unfaithful pig and didn’t want the world, including his wife and children, to know how big of a scumbag he truly was. He knew, as well as we did, that such scandal would cause a serious crash and burn of everything he’d spent years of investments on.

We had him hooked and left him no option but to accept our proposal. It was a good ploy. A solid one. Jabril couldn’t say no. And while we wondered how the Russians hadn’t gotten their hands on that information, I chalked it up to them never having a reason to conduct a deeper background investigation on their star partner.

That was until now, probably.

Now, they were getting him back effortlessly, or rather, more clearly, Rafayel was getting him back without a sweat.

My hours of research and due diligence before executing a perfectly crafted plan to steal the multi-million-dollar client from under their noses were about to be brought to naught because the sly, conniving asshole knew how to deal his cards like a pro.

I screamed again, this time with less concern for whose ears I upset outside those doors. They could all grumble from discomfort, for all I cared.

Anger burned in my core, and I acknowledged the tension rolling off my shoulders when I relaxed.

Raw anguish and maddening anger echoed off the walls and filled the silence in the empty room.

God, how did I let myself get blindsided?

How and why did I not see this coming somehow?

It didn’t matter. I’d learned my lesson, even if I’d had to learn it the hard way. This situation that occurred with Ivan marked the last time I was ever underestimating anyone ever again, even if they looked like they couldn’t hurt a frigging fly.

Heaving, I glared at the ropes keeping me fastened to the chair like they were another source of my problem. Somehow, I had to admit, they were. I couldn’t entirely take the blame for being unable to escape sooner when the ropes felt as thick as boulders.

Giving up, I threw my head back, redirecting my pent-up annoyance at the white bulb above my head. Watching a moth dance around the flickering light caused a resurfacing of the moment Rafayel stood in this room, almost between my legs.

If I set my ego aside and inhaled long enough, traces of his distinct cologne lingered in the air, leaving a scent that was extremely far from rats and weasels. The cocky bastard. I had to admit, the Russian was too bloody beautiful and intelligent for his own good. It made being pissed at him a challenge.

Damn him!

Damn all of him!

Starting from those arctic eyes of his, that dark landscape that sucked you in, held you bound, and rummaged through the depths of your soul until it left you bare and empty. His sleek brown hair, Armani suits, and bloody expensive Richard Mille watches painted the charade of a calm and collected affluent gentleman, which he was absolutely not. Well, not the wealthy part. That part, he was—very filthy rich.

I knew better than anyone else the monster that lurked behind his rational and sensible get-up. When I looked past the hard jawline and enticing lips and, yes…that frigging diagonal scar running across his left eyebrow that caused my fingers to twitch, I remembered the man I almost ran over two years ago.

I remembered the crazed look in his eyes as he stood in the middle of the road, poised with one hand tucked into his pocket and the other aiming a gun straight at my car.

I remembered the man who pulled the trigger without hesitation, having every intention of finishing us off that night.

So, tonight, when he came close enough to see the worry in my eyes, filling my senses with his heavy, manly scent as he peered deep into my soul while caressing my scalp with calloused fingers, I forced myself to ignore the burning sensation that rippled on my skin and rose to my cheeks—an effect of being close to him.

And when he pulled back with a handful of my hair, a warning gift to Papa, reality came into focus, reminding me once again that his appearance was certainly an icon of deceptiveness.

I wanted to knee him in the nuts and whack my head forward to knock him senseless. Sure, he definitely had his charm working for him with other women, and that wasn’t taking a wild guess. In this life, men like him had women crawling on their knees between their legs without even lifting a finger. The hussies would clamor for his attention, beg for his touch, smile when he treated them like shit, and crown their inanity with a Thank You if he had to cut off part of their hair.

But not me. I wasn’t a part of that crowd of admirers and never would be. Given a chance, I knew I’d show him just how appreciative I was of his grand gesture of keeping me locked in here.

Again, I vented my anger on the thick ropes, grunting hard as I tried to lift myself off the chair. The stupid things wouldn’t budge. God! If I could just….

If I could just what? Lift myself and hopefully smash an iron chair against the wall, then I’d set myself free?

Pfft.

Sure.

Super brilliant, Leo.

That had to be the stupidest plan I had ever come up with in my life.

With nothing else to do but hope Papa was able to locate me before he received Rafayel’s present, I slewed a string of curses at every creature that could hear me within and outside those walls before biting back hot, stinging tears as I shut my eyes.

****

I didn’t know how long I was out, but a rattle of keys and the sound of the door unclicking jolted me awake from a very uncomfortable sleep. Napping with your head hanging off one side of an iron chair was the worst way to take a rest.

I flexed my shoulders and rolled my neck when heavy footsteps approached. At first, I thought it was the crazy Russian with a cynical smile and shiny businessman shoes. Maybe he’d forgotten to make my life more miserable with taunting remarks. But when this stranger in a black leather jacket and pants stepped under the light, I frowned deeper at the unfamiliar grin on his face.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, champion of the Long Beach Grand Prix. You look a lot smaller in person, though.”

And the other one said I was on the news. There was no doubt that Ivan blabbed about our encounter with the entire Russian Mafia.

“We haven’t met.”

He dropped to his haunches, pointing upward at me with a silver blade similar to Rafayel’s, while he grabbed one of the ropes in the bounded bunch. Somehow, his black eyes appeared darker under the light.

“We’re meeting now. That should count.”

I eyed him and his combat boots suspiciously, narrowing my gaze at the knife in his hand. “And you are?”

I was expecting something dramatic like, “ The man sent to kill you ,” but a cryptic scoff came before he grunted his name when he slid the blade under the rope and started cutting through.

“Tikhon.”

Tikhon. Big guy, broad chest and shoulders, with an easy laugh and murderous eyes, who somehow wasn’t sent to kill me in cold blood but, rather, set me free from Rafayel’s hold. There had to be an explanation.

He was too comfortable in his own skin, doing what he was doing, to be an inside man for Papa. He was handsome and appeared normal and level-headed. The only indicator that this man was Russian was his thick accent and striking hard features. The air around him was unexpectedly light and not as enigmatic as his leader’s. He seemed like a fair fighter and honest man, the type who would deal you only what you deserved.

But it didn’t end there.

As he grabbed another rope to slice, I saw the tattoos inked across prominent scars on his fingers and wrist, Russian alphabets that I couldn’t make sense of. He was no doubt a gallant soldier. And if my guess was right, judging by the keys he held to this room, I’d say he was next in command after Rafayel. Only the most trusted had keys to the rooms were prisoners were kept

And that meant this big guy wasn’t an ordinary person like his guise made him out to be. I knew from experience that anyone who worked with the head of an outfit was required to be equally as smart, heartless, and ruthless as they were.

One slip up with this man, and that knife would find solace in my throat.

But it wasn’t going to keep me from asking. “I don’t want to presume you’re here for an autograph.”

“Wouldn’t that spike up your ego?” He laughed at his own joke and started ripping the shredded ropes with his bare hands. “You’d leave here with your head bigger than it already is.”

“But not more inflated than yours.”

He chuckled and muttered something under his breath in a rushed string of Russian. It was basic enough for me to catch on, but he didn’t need to know that.

“ No wonder he didn’t let Ivan kill you.”

According to the big guy, Rafayel wanted me around for sport. He enjoyed riling me up and watching me feel frustrated at my helplessness. How did that make me feel?

Like I should knee the smirking man in the nuts, too.

Frigging Russians.

Listening to Tikhon speak to himself made me remember another thing I wished I didn’t. Rafayel’s compliment, when he called me beautiful. He probably didn’t know that I understood him. His face gave nothing away, not before dropping the bomb or afterward.

I wasn’t sure if he’d said it for the mere sport of evoking a reaction from me or if he’d said it because he really meant it. With the man, you could never tell.

I caught myself before I envisioned his eyes again or the warmth of his body when he came close to me.

What the hell?

Why did it even matter what his motives were?

This man was snapping my ropes with his bare hands, obviously setting me free, and that was more important than musing over something undeniably stupid and impossible.

“Am I being led somewhere else?”

Rafayel did say he was going to send someone down to make me more comfortable, but I was being insulting when I started the rats and weasels taunt, and I could have sworn he was throwing his sarcasm right back with sickening content.

Tikhon stepped back, giving me some space to stretch my legs out. I stretched my hands above my head, feeling the air brush my bare stomach. Being a captive in a Russian underground prison didn’t come with privileges attached, like having a bath or breakfast in bed. That left me in the same clothes I’d used to race on the track. And I was certain I had the odor of a skunk by now.

Tikhon regarded me with a hint of amusement, his eyes not once straying away from my face. Strange that he appeared to have his shit together.

He bobbed his head toward the door. “Not being led somewhere. You’re free to go. Your father did as he was told.”

Shit.

We’d lost Jabril.

“How long?”

Tikhon knew what I was asking. How long did it take to break my papa? How long did it take before he made the decision to give up his pride?

I knew the answer before the big guy responded.

“One hour after he received the package, though it left us three hours ago.”

I couldn’t say I was completely sad. For a girl like me, having the reassurance of Papa’s love was worth more than a multimillion-dollar client. Enzo Colombo didn’t have a lot of love to give, but he made exceptions where Matteo and I were concerned.

What pissed me off was Rafayel’s triumph, knowing he was getting off on his victory. He’d predicted right: Send hair samples to the doting father, and he’d do whatever it took to let his little girl go.

Without a word, I let Tikhon lead the way.

Rafayel might have won today, but his luck was going to run out soon enough.

****

The iron gates automatically rolled back, and my Audi climbed up the winding gravel driveway while the Mediterranean house came up into view. As always, the exterior was brightly lit, making the vibrant bougainvillea by the wall appear like an artificial attachment.

A glimpse of the sturdy structure and flowing fountain at the center brought back the nostalgia, jogging memories of my younger days when Matteo and I would ride our bikes down the driveway and up again without a care in the world. When life was simple, and we had no knowledge of the illegal activities our father conducted behind closed doors.

At that time, it was just us, existing in a beautiful world with child-like hearts and na?ve expectations of a future that could’ve as well been castles built in the air.

I killed the engine, and the stiletto heels of my knee-high cuffed boots dug through the stony ground as I walked up to the entrance.

A few of Papa’s men were already waiting for me.

“ Benvenuta.” They acknowledged with curt nods, and I did a doubletake.

Most of them were unfamiliar and much younger. And I caught a pair of eyes wandering down the length of my body, lingering on the skintight burgundy jumpsuit and down the curve of my ass.

I raised a brow. “Eyes up here, fesso. ” Silly.

He uncomfortably looked away, and the one beside him with green eyes and unruly hair snickered at his embarrassment.

Attractive young men with fresh haircuts, crisp white button-ups, and inexperienced eyes. New recruits, I supposed. If they were waiting outside, it meant Papa wanted them to get acquainted.

Three weeks ago, after the Russians graciously released me, I’d gone back to my apartment to cool off and snuck time in with Gavin for more practice.

Maybe it was the shitty experience with Ivan and his household, but I had never felt more exhilarated and focused on the track. With more practice racing under my belt than ever before, I dedicated those weeks to honing my skills and, with Gavin’s encouragement, built a higher level of confidence that allowed me to push myself to new limits. Every lap, every turn, and every straightaway had felt more intuitive, more precise.

I pushed hard, relearned and mastered the subtleties of braking, acceleration, and cornering, and my instincts had become razor-sharp. There was something about the rush of adrenaline that was addictive, and every time I strapped in my seat belt, it felt like I was in my element, completely at one with the track.

The fun lasted until it didn’t, and I had to emerge from the four walls of my apartment to ride to the tunes of reality. Papa hadn’t set eyes on me for weeks, and one missed call and three vague messages from him said my presence in the house was due.

I mustered a small smile at the men and pushed the door open, almost bumping into Marco waiting in the foyer. Marco was Papa’s second—the only one who could attempt to speak when my father ordered everyone to be silent.

He'd been by Papa’s side for as long as I could remember—fought by his side, endured the rocky waves that hit hard every once in a while.

Marco was insanely skilled and a trained boxer, too. I’d watched him knock out three men in a ring in less than ten minutes. He was brawn and brains, and it was one reason Papa liked having him around.

To top it off, if loyalty was a person, it was Marco.

Dark eyes regarded me, with a frown etched on his face and his bushy eyebrows drawn when he folded his arms across his chest.

“Leo.”

I had to crane my head backward to meet his gaze.

Marco was tall, with broad shoulders and chestnut brown hair that would have run down the length of his back for ages if he hadn’t chopped off a bulk of the silky mane about a year ago.

“Marco.”

He cursed between his teeth and rubbed the Saint Claire of Assisi tattoo on his neck. I’d known Marco for nothing short of a decade but still had no clue what that tattoo meant to him or why he always reached for it when he was stressed.

“ Tuo padre è malato.”

Your father is sick.

Unlike Tikhon, Marco made small talk, smiled less, and went straight to business without any intention of wasting time. But now, I wished he’d beat around the bush a little before dealing the blow.

The weight of his words caused a wedge between my chest, and somehow, the air suddenly pricked like needles as it flowed in and out of my lungs.

“And Matteo? Does he know?”

Marco shook his head. And I wasn’t going to tell my brother, not until anything was confirmed.

I gave nothing away, but Marco knew me well enough to know the turmoil crashing in my head like a rollercoaster ride breaking down, with all the pieces falling out and the riders shrieking hysterically.

This should’ve flown above the radar. It shouldn’t have been a big deal.

But it was, and seeing Marco’s usual composure slowly faltering proved the same thought.

“How long?” I seemed to be asking that a lot lately.

Marco’s lips tightened. “Before your competition, which, by the way…congratulations.”

“ Grazie. How bad is it?”

Marco dragged a hand down his face. “Santiago says it could get worse.”

In simple English, it meant our family doctor was preparing us for the prospect of Papa’s illness getting worse. But I needed Marco to be clear. He didn’t mince words. If he was doing so now….

“Don’t fucking baby me right now, Marco.”

“Alright. The Don’s dying.”

That roller coaster spinning in my head turned into a nightmarish chaos.

Enzo Colombo was as strong as an ox, probably the strongest man I knew on the planet. He didn’t get sick. In his own words, getting sick was for weaklings, and Papa didn’t have time to accommodate anyone or anything that would drag his feet for more than seventy-two hours. So, this was bad. Terribly bad.

Before my competition…. How the hell had he been able to keep it from me that long?

Or maybe I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I’d had my head wrapped around the race, the track, and the Russian’s bullshit for so long that I couldn’t think of anything else.

“He’s upstairs. You should go see him.”

Marco didn’t have to tell me twice. I was in Papa’s room before he could blink. The room was just as organized as I remembered, but it had more smells of antiseptic and antibiotics than I was used to. More than I’d like to grow accustomed to.

“ Principessa.”

Papa’s stubborn smile met me across the room, and he opened his arms when I perched at the edge of the bed. I fell into his arms, breathing in his familiar pinewood scent while he kissed my hair. Sue me, I was a daddy’s girl.

“ Principessa.” He stroked my chin when I pulled back to stare at him. The wrinkles around his brown eyes were deeper, and his once jet-black hair was now a field of more silver strands than black.

He looked older, fragile, and less intimidating than I’d known him to be.

Tears burned behind my eyes. The powerful Enzo Colombo, the tough one, the ruthless one who knew fifty different ways to cut a man’s blood supply with his bare hands, was now bedridden.

“Leonora!” His hiss was a warning, and the glare directed at me was a reminder that he didn’t tolerate weakness.

“I’m not crying,” I reassured him with a smile.

He didn’t look like he believed it, but the crinkles around his eyes softened, and he took my hand in his. “I heard you burned rubber into their asses and had Ivan Yezhov bitching about it.”

His way of telling me he was proud of my win.

I nodded, and he choked up on a fit of deep-throated coughs.

Watching him rumble, grunt, and grasp on heaves of air was frightening, but I maintained my cool, patiently waiting for him to relax.

“That’s my girl.”

When he patted the back of my hand and averted his gaze, I knew that something was wrong. It wasn’t the sickness; it was something else. Something that had his eyes shifting with worry and his smile wobbling after every ten seconds.

“Papa.”

“ Principessa.”

“What’s wrong?”

He started to deny it, but I gave him a look he would have given me to warn me about lying to him. He’d trained me well and hard enough to let me know when I was on to something. And now, I was.

Swearing under his breath, he diverted his attention to the ceiling but kept his hands on mine. “Nothing gets past you, my girl. I like that. Sharp, as always. Don’t stop; stay on your toes at all times. Keep your focus. Eyes and ears open.”

He was breathing heavily, taking in oxygen one breath at a time. He was stalling, and the more he did, the more I knew I wasn’t going to like what he was going to say.

“Papa….”

“Leo.” His calling me by my name meant this was fucking serious. Like hell-about-to rain-down-on-us serious. I eliminated the possibility that this discussion was about losing Jabril. He didn’t give two fucks about the man if he easily let him go.

So, I waited as silently as I could as he coughed his heart out before continuing.

“The Rossis are on our tail again.”

Awesome. Just what we needed—those frigging rebels trying to overthrow Papa. Luca Rossi and his stupid minions.

They’d been at it for a while, planting seeds and making marks to try and cause an in-house division between the Italians. More than once, we put them down and always beat the shit out of them. To us, they weren’t big enough to pose a problem. At least, that was what we thought until their resistance added more members and waxed stronger.

“You’re saying we can’t just shake them off our tails then.”

His jaw flexed, and an emotion I’d never seen in my father’s eyes flickered briefly. Pain. Was it pain from the sickness or something else?

Did I really want to know?

Stubborn me, I did.

“I’m saying we’re crumbling, Leo.”

We’re crumbling.

Crumbling how?

Surely, he didn’t mean—

“Papa, you’re not saying—”

He didn’t let me finish. When he looked at me, his eyes spoke louder volumes than his words. I didn’t want to believe it, but Papa didn’t joke about these things. He didn’t joke about a life he’d thrown his entire being into, a life he’d tirelessly labored to build for years.

“ It is what it is, my girl ,” he said in Italian. His fingers twitched, and I knew the state of things had got to him. How bad it was, I didn’t know.

“Our powers are waning. We’re growing weak. Our people are talking.”

Growing weak? Us?

“Then let them fucking talk because it’s not true!”

“Leo.”

It was the last warning he was going to give to get my shit together and screw my head on my neck properly. What Papa needed now was a solution, something logical that would get us out of whatever ditch we’d somehow stumbled into.

But the look Papa pinned me with gave me the feeling a plan was already underway, cooked and ready to be served. And that gut feeling that never failed me told me I wasn’t going to like this plan of his.

“Papa, what we need now is for you to recover quickly, get back in that office, and run those shithead Rossis into the dirt where they belong.”

Papa’s voice was firm, and briefly, that no-nonsense aura was back. He might have been fragile in appearance but still agile at heart. “What we need now is an alliance—”

It was coming, that part I was sure I didn’t want to fucking hear.

“We need the Russians.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! No, Papa. Fuck, NO!” I was on my feet, pacing the room faster than Usain fucking Bolt. “We are not groveling before those bloody Russian bastards. We can handle this. We can—”

“Leonora Colombo, you will watch your tone....” When he broke into a deadly round of spitting coughs, the ache in my chest intensified, and I slowed down my pace, going to his side again.

“Papa, please, reconsider….”

He shook his head, sucking in a deep breath to steady himself. “You’re smarter than this, principessa. There’s no hiding it; you know they’re the strongest syndicate besides us. An alliance with them guarantees that the Rossis won’t stand a chance. We need them, Leo. And I fucking need you. Get your head in the game. We are not, and I repeat…we are not going down like cowards.”

That was it.

No more counters, no other proposals to consider another way out.

Papa needed me, and in this world, his wish was final.