Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker (Tarasov Bratva #23)

Chapter 1 – Aria

Lightning streaked the skies, accompanied by rolls of thunder, as I drove down the road at one in the afternoon. Dark clouds hovered above, hinting at the impending downpour. But even that wasn’t enough to keep me back in my place.

I had an appointment with one of my sources, a guy named Frank who worked at an industrial site called Meridian Solutions. I’d been trying for weeks to get him to set up a meeting with me, but he’d been busy.

Today, he finally reached out, and according to him, if I didn’t make it today, he couldn’t guarantee another meeting at the site. I’d abandoned my lunch and taken off as soon as I got the text about an hour ago.

I glanced at the digital map on my dashboard console, and the GPS said to turn right. Slowly, I did. The road was narrow and paved with concrete, with a seam running down the middle where two separate sections had settled unevenly over time.

On my right, there was a building under construction with a handful of workers getting the job done. On my left was a lonely sidewalk, almost abandoned—ghostly.

Lightning streaked the skies again, and yet another thunderclap followed.

“Hurry up! We gotta get these things inside before the rain!” someone shouted, his voice echoing down the street.

I drove to the sign at the end of the road, with the company’s name written in bold all caps. The text at the bottom of the sign read that only authorized personnel or scheduled visitors were allowed in.

Luckily, I was a scheduled visitor.

I pulled up and stopped before a red-and-white barrier arm that stretched across the entrance. Beside it, there was a security booth holding a portly man in his mid-fifties or late forties. Dressed in a gray uniform, he sat behind the small counter in that cramped space.

“Hi,” I said, wearing a courteous grin as I wound down my window.

“This is a restricted area,” he replied with a neutral expression. “If you’re not authorized personnel or a scheduled visitor, I suggest you turn back.”

Rude, I thought to myself, struggling to keep that grin on my lips.

“My name is Aria Bennett,” I said. “I have a one-thirty with Frank Donovan.” A pause. “He works here.”

The man in the booth stared at me in silence, not suspiciously but thoroughly. “Can I see an ID?” It sounded more like a command than a request.

“Sure.” I reached into my blouse, where the identification card was hanging around my neck.

He glanced at it when I showed it to him, my hand stretched out the window. “You a student?”

No, I’m a marine engineer. Of course, I’m a student. It’s a fuckin’ student ID. These were the exact words I wanted to blurt out. But in the end, I simply replied, “Yes. Journalism.”

He held my gaze for a moment before picking up the phone from his counter. “Hey, I got a Bennett here,” he said, his eyes scanning the surroundings. “Says she’s got a one-thirty with Frank Donovan.”

I broadened my smile when his gaze fell on me again.

“All right. Got it.” He hung up the phone.

I watched him reach under the counter and withdraw two items. One was a visitor’s badge, and the other was a clipboard.

He stepped out of his booth, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he made his way toward my vehicle.

“Sign here.” He handed me the clipboard with a pen.

I did as he instructed, and he handed me the badge.

The man bent over my window as if to examine the contents of my car’s cabin. After about three seconds, he asked, “What’s in the trunk?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

A pause.

“Wanna check?” I asked him. “I can pop it open right now if you want.”

He held my gaze a moment longer before straightening, hands on the buckle of his belt. “Carry on,” he said after handing me the visitor’s badge.

“Thank you.”

The red-and-white barrier arm in front of me lifted automatically, and I drove under it. The road stretched ahead, and I drove ten more minutes before spotting the administrative building ahead.

I pulled over at the parking lot, killed the engine, grabbed my bag from the front passenger seat, and stepped outside. It was drizzling by now, and I hurried toward the main entrance, my shoes clicking rapidly on the pavement.

The lobby was warm, the air scented with the faint aroma of coffee and recycled air. A tall blond with wire-rimmed glasses sat behind the curved laminate counter ahead. Her manicured fingers rattled across the keyboard, her eyes glued to the lit screen.

She looked up when she heard my footsteps. “Bennett?”

I halted before her. “Yes.”

“Take a seat.” She gestured toward the two gray chairs and a low table in the sitting area to the left.

“Thank you.” I headed over there and sank into one of the comfy chairs.

I sat there in silence, drinking in the interior design: floral arrangement, wall art, and the painting up on the ceiling.

“There you are,” a familiar voice snapped me back to the present.

It was Frank Donovan.

Short. Dirty-blond hair. Dressed in a suit.

“Hey, Frankie—I mean, Mr. Donovan.” I rose to my feet, meeting his gaze.

He halted before me with a small smile.

Frankie was an old friend of mine who always helped me get information that wasn’t exactly public. When I found out he was working at Meridian Solutions, I knew more than half of my problems with this paper were solved.

He was always ready to be my inside man whenever I needed him to be. For that, I was grateful.

“You look good in a suit,” I said to him. “You should wear it more often.”

“I’m not gonna look so good if I get caught sneaking you into our archives,” he whispered, his eyes discreetly scanning.

“Relax. This ain’t our first rodeo,” I replied with the same tone.

“Remind me again why I always risk everything just to help you.”

I beamed at him with a hand on his shoulder. “Because you’re a kind man with a big heart.”

His cheeks flushed. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Aria.”

“But at least it’ll get me into that archive, won’t it?”

He shook his head with a smile. “You’re lucky my superiors aren’t around today.”

Frankie picked up his pace, and I followed.

“Cameras. What about the cameras?” I asked softly.

“As you said, this ain’t our first rodeo,” he said without slowing. “They’re all temporarily disabled.”

We went up the stairs and through a couple of long corridors until we reached a steel blue door. He walked ahead of me and unlocked the door with his key card.

“You have ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” I raised my eyebrows. “That’s not enough. I drove two hours to get here.”

“Look, I wish I could get you more time,” he said. “But I’m already risking a lot for you as it is.” A pause. “Don’t make me regret it.” He stepped aside.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “And thank you, I appreciate it.”

“Just hurry up, okay?” He withdrew from the entrance. “I’ll be down the hall.”

I walked into the room and closed the door quietly behind me. “Okay, okay.” My eyes scanned the space; boxes were neatly arranged on tables and shelves.

I checked the files in the cabinets and those in the drawers until I found copies of some old financial records.

“This should do,” I whispered to myself, flipping through the pages.

Because there were so many files to cover in under ten minutes, I resorted to photographing the documents with my phone. I’d been right about Meridian Solutions, after all. These people were dirty, involved in all manner of corruption.

The more pages I photographed, the more evidence of money laundering and racketeering I gathered. With steady hands, I skimmed through the files as the fluorescent light hummed above.

I glanced at my watch.

Six minutes gone.

I gathered as much proof as I could under the remaining four minutes while adrenaline pumped through my blood. Somewhere deeper in the building, machinery moved, mechanical and indifferent.

My heart skipped a beat when I heard approaching footsteps down the hallway outside. Not one. Not two. Not even three. These footsteps were heavy and hurried, like soldiers marching toward danger.

With each passing second, the sounds drew closer, accompanied by occasional grunts and muffled noises. I rushed over to the door and leaned my back against the wall beside it.

“Move!” a manly voice barked in accented English.

“You can’t do this!” another voice replied. Masculine, too, but lighter, weaker, fearful. “Do you know who I am?”

“Shut your mouth!” someone else said, voice deep and terrifying.

I held my breath, eyes squeezed shut, hoping and praying they didn’t walk right into this room. Even though I didn’t have the slightest clue what the hell was going on, I knew it was trouble.

My heart hammered against my ribs, my grip tightening around my phone. Their footsteps and voices were now clearer than before, like they were just right outside the door.

Fuck.

Just when I was about to run behind a cabinet, I heard one of them say, “This way.”

They changed direction, their footsteps fading into the distance.

I let out a quiet sigh of relief, my hand reflexively darting to my heaving chest. “God, that was close,” I breathed.

Where the hell had Frankie been when these men arrived upstairs? Why didn’t he inform me? He was supposed to be waiting down the hall.

Something wasn’t right. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I could feel it in my bones that something was off.

Should I stay here for now, or make a run for the door?

I thought for a moment before deciding to text Frankie: Where are you? What’s going on out there?

I hit the send button and waited.

Nothing.

No response.

I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand, my mind reeling with a million thoughts. At this point, I couldn’t even focus on the files across the room. I just felt an aching need to get the hell out of here.

After a moment of hesitation, I finally summoned the courage to grab the door handle. Quietly, I pulled it open, keeping the soft creak to a minimum. I stuck my head out, eyes scanning the empty hallway.

“Frankie?” I called with a quiet whisper. “Frankie, you there?”

Still no response.