Forced Hostage of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #17)

Chapter One - Vivienne

The courtroom smells like old wood, and faintly of mold. I smooth my palms down the sides of my slacks, then step forward with a confidence I don’t feel.

Confidence is performance, nothing more, and I’ve practiced this role enough to make it second nature.

My heels strike against the floor as I cross toward the defense table, posture straight, expression cool.

Every eye in the room is on me, waiting to see how a girl this young is going to keep a man like Sergei Markov from rotting in a federal prison for the rest of his life.

I don’t let them see me falter.

Sergei sits stiff beside me, thick wrists pressed flat against the table, his tattoos peeking out from under the cuffs of his shirt. He hasn’t said a word to me all morning, only stared at the jury with that faintly menacing grin.

The weight of the Bratva presses on my shoulders, though they wouldn’t say the word out loud in here. Not in this hallowed space where the law supposedly reigns supreme.

The prosecutor drones on about weapons shipments and international contacts. About the danger Sergei represents. He paints him as a monster, and by extension, me as foolish or corrupt for defending him. I watch the jury carefully.

One of them, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Another taps her pen against her notepad. Cracks in their certainty. I know exactly where to strike.

When it’s my turn, I rise slowly, deliberately, holding the silence for just a beat too long.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I begin, letting my voice carry clear and steady, “we are not here to pass judgment on rumor, or whispers of organized crime, or the colorful imagination of law enforcement. We are here for evidence. Evidence, in this case, is sorely lacking.”

I take them through each point, carefully dismantling the state’s witnesses.

A supposed informant who couldn’t keep his dates straight.

A chain of custody that broke somewhere between an evidence locker and the prosecutor’s office.

Phone records that don’t align with the timeline they’re presenting.

Piece by piece, I strip their case down until all that remains is smoke. By the time I circle back to Sergei, I’m not defending him. I’m accusing the state of trying to convict him with sloppiness and prejudice.

My closing statement is short, sharp, and cutting. “If the government can’t respect its own rules, how can we expect them to respect your verdict? Don’t let misconduct become conviction.”

The words hang heavy. I see the jurors exchange glances. Doubt spreads like wildfire.

When the verdict comes back—Not Guilty—the room fractures. Relief from Sergei’s corner. Rage from the prosecution. Murmurs ripple through the gallery. I keep my face composed, expression politely neutral, but inside, my pulse pounds. Another step closer. Another crack in the empire’s walls.

Outside, the courthouse air is cooler, laced with exhaust fumes and the buzz of voices.

Cameras flash, reporters shout questions I don’t answer.

Sergei disappears into a waiting car with his entourage, but I linger on the steps, savoring the victory.

That’s when I feel it—a gaze, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the crowd.

I turn my head and see him.

Alexei Sharov.

He’s taller than I expected, broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was sewn to his skin.

His presence is deliberate, heavy, like gravity itself bends toward him.

Storm-gray eyes lock on to mine from across the chaos.

He doesn’t move at first, just watches. Assessing.

My stomach twists before I force it still, fixing my face into the same mask I wore inside.

He approaches without hurry, without hesitation. The crowd parts around him. When he finally stops in front of me, his cologne drifts between us—clean smoke and leather.

“You argued well,” he says, his voice low, accented, smooth like glass over a blade. “Not many can take apart a case like that. Impressive.”

I incline my head slightly, just enough to acknowledge. “Thank you, Mr. Sharov.”

His lips curve into the faintest smirk, but his eyes stay cold. “We’ll have more work, if you’re interested. Cases that require… finesse. Discretion.”

There it is. The door opening. Exactly what I wanted.

“I’ll consider it,” I say evenly. “I expect full autonomy over how I handle my cases. No interference.”

He studies me for a long moment, long enough that my pulse threatens to betray me. Then he nods once. “Of course. I’ll be in touch.”

He turns away as smoothly as he came, slipping into a waiting black SUV that swallows him whole. The engine purrs, and then he’s gone, leaving me on the courthouse steps with my heart pounding and my nails digging crescents into my palms.

I walk away, slow and measured, until I’m clear of the press, the onlookers, the Bratva shadows. Only when I close my apartment door behind me do I let myself exhale.

The silence here is thick, but it’s mine.

I move straight to the desk in the corner, push aside neat stacks of textbooks and legal briefs, and pull out the leather-bound file I keep hidden in the bottom drawer.

I flip it open, and there he is—Alexei Sharov—his photo circled in red ink.

My pen hovers before I jot down notes from today.

His appearance, his words, the way he watched me like he already knew I was playing a part.

The file is thick. Pages of articles, surveillance photos, connections mapped in careful lines across paper. Names, dates, locations. His family. His history. Everything I’ve scraped together over years of obsession. My father’s death still bleeds through every page.

I see him again, in flashes. The night he died. The way the police wrote it off as suicide. The funeral where no one asked the right questions. The FBI contact who finally whispered the truth into my ear: it wasn’t suicide at all. It was murder. Ordered by the Sharov family. By Alexei himself.

I slam the folder shut before the anger swallows me.

This wasn’t just a legal win. This was entry.

A first step.

I tell myself again what I’ve whispered every night since I chose this path: I’ll gut their empire from the inside. Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left but ash.

Alexei Sharov, he’ll burn first.

The message comes just as I’m about to put the folder away. My phone lights up with a single vibration, the glow sharp in the dimness.

You’re in. Be careful. He’s not stupid.

The words cut like a blade, clean and cold. I stare at them for only a heartbeat before my thumb moves on instinct, holding down until the bubble vanishes, then clearing the conversation entirely. Not even a trace. Not even in deleted files.

I press the phone to my chest, and let the silence stretch.

The contact is careful—never the same number twice, always just enough to let me know they’re still there, still watching my back.

Or maybe just watching. Paranoia creeps in, curling around my ribs.

I can’t afford to trust anyone, not really.

I wrap myself in a towel and pace the length of my apartment. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, a constant reminder that even at night New York doesn’t sleep. I feel the shadows thicker than usual, heavy enough that I catch myself checking the locks twice, then three times.

You’re in.

The words ring again in my head, less a reassurance than a sentence. Yes, I’m in. In their good graces. In their line of sight. In their world, where a misstep means more than failure—it means a bullet.

I sit at the desk, drag the Sharov file closer.

Alexei’s photo glares up at me, that cold gray stare captured even in pixels.

My pen scratches across the paper as I add today’s details, but I pause before finishing.

The memory of him outside the courthouse won’t leave me alone—the deliberate way he studied me, as though he already suspected something beneath the surface.

Not stupid.

No, he isn’t. That’s what makes this harder. Most men like him revel in brutality, fists first, questions never. He’s different. He watches. He waits. He lets the silence tell him more than words. That kind of man is harder to fool, harder to predict.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, staring at his name circled in red ink.

Alexei Sharov.

The man behind my father’s murder.

At least, that’s what the Bureau contact told me two years ago.

A whisper dropped in the corner of a bar, his eyes darting over his shoulder as though the words themselves might cost him his badge.

I remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday: the sour tang of beer in the air, the way my hands trembled around my glass.

“It was the Bratva. Ordered from the top. Alexei Sharov signed off.”

I’d known then what I had to do. My father’s face had haunted me for years, the way he looked before he left the house that last night: proud, stubborn, promising me he’d be home for dinner.

He never came back. The official record said suicide, case closed.

But I knew better. My father wasn’t a man who bowed out without a fight.

He’d been silenced, and the Sharov name was the anchor tied around his corpse.

I touch the photograph now, running my fingertip across Alexei’s jawline.

The image is flat, but the memory of his presence earlier burns hot in my chest. I’d expected cruelty carved into every line of his face, expected menace dripping from his every word.

Instead, there was calculation. Control.

He looked at me as if I were a puzzle he intended to solve, not a lawyer who happened to win a case.

I hate that part of me noticed more. The breadth of his shoulders under that tailored suit. The way his voice lingered, low and deliberate. The faint smirk that almost passed for charm. My stomach twists, revolted at myself. He’s not a man to admire, not one to want. He’s a target. A monster.

Yet I can still feel the way his gaze pinned me. Like a hand closing around my throat without ever touching me.

I shake the thought away violently, flipping through the rest of my notes.

Contacts. Business fronts. Associates. Every scrap of information is a step toward tearing his empire apart.

It’s never enough. He keeps his past locked tight, his present cleaner than most men in his position.

Even when I think I’ve caught a thread, it unravels in my fingers before I can pull it free.

I rub my temples, fatigue pressing behind my eyes. My father’s voice echoes in my head—sharp, commanding, full of conviction. “Justice is the only thing worth bleeding for, Vivi. If you’re not willing to fight for it, you don’t deserve it.”

Justice. Revenge. I don’t know the difference anymore.

I close the file and shove it aside, standing abruptly.

My apartment feels too small, too fragile to hold everything burning inside me.

I pace again, dragging my hands through my damp hair, the towel loosening around me.

The city outside glows in fractured light, horns blaring faintly below.

Somewhere out there, Alexei is sitting in a black SUV, or in a dimly lit room full of wolves, plotting his next move.

Here I am, pretending to be one of them, pretending to serve their interests while plotting to slit their throats from the inside.

You’re in.

The words haunt me as I pour myself a glass of wine, hands trembling just enough to make the liquid ripple. I down half of it in one swallow, the burn not strong enough to settle the storm in my chest.

I’m in, yes. How long until he sees me? How long until he senses the rot in the loyalty I’m selling?

I curl up on the couch, clutching the glass, staring at nothing. The apartment is quiet, but my thoughts are deafening. Every time I close my eyes, I see Alexei’s face, hear his voice, remember the way he said, “We’ll have more work, if you’re interested.”

Like it was a choice.

Like he already knew I’d say yes.

I press the rim of the glass against my lips and whisper into the emptiness, “I’ll burn you to the ground.”

The vow steadies me. It’s the same vow I made at my father’s grave, the same vow that has driven every choice since. No matter what mask I wear, no matter what roles I play, the end is always the same. Alexei Sharov will pay.

I finish the wine and set the glass aside, forcing myself up.

My reflection stares back at me from the window: hair a mess, eyes darker than I remember them ever being.

I don’t look like the girl I once was, the daughter of a prosecutor who believed in law and order. I look like someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.