Forced & Obsessed By the Bratva King (Nazarov Bratva #1)

Chapter One

Elena

Cold, sharp air hits me the moment I step out of the shack and onto the marina dock.

Wind rushes off the black water in violent gusts, slipping through the loose curls of my hair and sending strands whipping across my face.

I shove them back impatiently, rearranging the beige scrunchie holding my ponytail together, but the breeze keeps finding me, its icy fingers ruining my efforts.

I press the phone between the edge of my shoulder and my cheek, slipping the tablet between my clenched thighs with gritted teeth. “How does someone know they’ve passed on to the other side?”

“Uh…you mean, how does a person know they’ve died?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think...um, I’m not sure they know? Isn’t that the point? It comes unexpectedly, most times. And although some people say they expect the unexpected, I don’t think they expect to die. Does that make sense?”

I tuck in the last strand of stray hair, slip out the tablet, and grab my phone. “Uh-huh. It makes sense.”

“Lee, is there a reason you’re asking me that right now?”

Another gust of wind hits me, forcing my ponytail to lash out in different angles, from my face to the back of my neck.

The oversized color-blocked knitted sweater hanging off my shoulders usually provides enough warmth, but the cold wind cuts straight through it. It bites at my thighs, which are bare beneath my khaki shorts, creeps down my legs, and settles deep into my bones. Inside my sneakers, my toes feel numb.

I narrow my eyes as I tighten my grip on my phone. “What’s the time?”

“Half past eleven?”

“Huh, interesting.” I scoff, feeling the corners of my eyes tighten even more.

“In less than twenty-four hours, I’m going to strangle you the moment I set eyes on you.

It’ll be very slow and deliberate, and I have a feeling you’ll know the exact second you cross to the other side. I’ll make sure you do.”

Over the phone, I hear a deep, rich chuckle rumble at the back of his throat. He quickly covers it with a cough.

“Lee, I’m sorry. Please—”

“Don’t ‘Lee’ me, Henry. You’re abusing our friendship,” I snap, then wave the tablet at an innocent seagull at the distance.

“I’m not supposed to be working until eight tomorrow morning, and you know that.

I should be under the covers right now, all wrapped up and cozy, dreaming about trips I may never take to Singapore, or... or Russia!”

“I could swear that before now, you’ve never mentioned traveling. Much less to Moscow.”

“Henry!”

“Fine.” He blows out a deep breath. “I am terribly sorry for causing such an inconvenience, but Margaret from the office called. It’s an urgent inspection, Lee. You know I wouldn’t have disturbed your daydreaming time if I could make it to the docks.”

“And this apology might have been fine, if I didn’t know you’re with Stephanie right now, doing only God knows what. That’s your poor excuse for an emergency.”

“No, you got it all wrong,” he fires back, but I hear his suppressed chortle. “I’m with my mother.”

“Honestly, I can tell why you don’t know the difference. You always date women who look creepily similar to your mom.”

“Elena!” He gasps. “That’s...rude.”

“It’s true, though.” Nonchalantly, I shrug, then roll my eyes as I mutter under my breath: “With all that makeup she always wears, your mother actually looks way younger than her. I say that from a place of love.”

“I’ll pretend like I didn’t hear that. But I am sincerely sorry for putting you through this. The inspection should be a quick in and out. We just want to make sure there aren’t any of those silly frat brats sneaking around with liquor and ladies.”

I huff. “And if I find some, I’d do what? Chase them away with a slipper?”

“You could do that. Or maybe just walk away and let them have some fun.”

“Yeah, after all you’ve put me through, I’m definitely chasing them away with a slipper,” I grumble, and he laughs.

“Don’t hurt yourself in the process,” he says, and I can almost see the soft smile on his face when he adds, “Text me when you’re back home, okay?”

“I won’t.” I whack at a moth with the tablet, then stifle a frustrated groan. “She’s going to break your heart, Henry, I’m telling you.”

“She might, but nothing hurts when you expect the unexpected. Thanks for the heads-up anyway. You’re the best.”

“I’d say you’re the worst, but you already know that. So dream of me shivering on the docks!”

His laughter resonates as the call disconnects and I slip my phone into the wide pockets on my sweater.

One glance at the black sea has my adrenaline spiking as the weight of reality sinks in. Unease wraps its unwelcome claws around me.

Somewhere nearby, metal chains clink softly against moored yachts, and the ocean carries that salty, storm-heavy scent that always seems stronger at night. The marina lights reflect across the dark water in broken streaks of gold.

“Seriously, I’m going to kill him,” I murmur under my breath, then fold my arms across my chest and keep walking, forcing myself not to focus on the cold or the eerie emptiness surrounding me.

I should be used to nights like these, with the swallowing darkness and uncomfortable quiet. But before tonight, I hardly ever got urgent inspection requests, and when I did, it was never a one-man job. A team of three to five is always deployed to handle stuff like this.

Tonight’s the first time I’m having to fly solo.

And, as much as I would rather not be doing this, I remind myself that I’m here for work, not to stand around shivering like an idiot. “A quick in and out,” I mutter under my breath for confidence.

But as another brutal gust tears through the dock, lifting my hair and stinging my skin, I can’t stop the chill that crawls down my spine.

The deeper I move into the marina, the more wrong everything feels. The night feels different, heavy with uncertainty. Aside from the sound of gentle waves crashing in the sea and the occasional squawks from pesky seagulls flying in the distance, the docks maintain an unnatural quiet.

To be honest, Miami never really sleeps, especially not around the water. Even at nighttime, the docks should still be alive, with the whispers of lovers hidden by the shadows, wandering tourists chatting under the moonlight, or...something. Anything that hints the existence of other people.

On plenty of other nights, we’ve heard heavy bass music drifting from somebody’s yacht party, drunken laughter echoing across the slips, crew members yelling over the sound of generators and clinking glasses.

But tonight, there’s nothing at all—no music, laughter, or even the slightest sign of chaos. Just the hollow groan of wood beneath my sneakers and the endless slap of dark water against the docks.

Without meaning to, I slow my pace, tightening my grip around the tablet tucked against my chest. The yachts around me glow dimly beneath the scattered dock lights as another cold gust tears through my hair.

I glance over my shoulder instinctively, and my stomach twists at the creepy stretch of still shadows behind me.

“Great job, Henry,” I grumble under my breath.

I stop beneath one of the lampposts and wake the tablet screen again. The glow washes pale blue light across my face as I pull up the inspection details for the second time tonight.

Mona C-12.

I lift my eyes toward the numbers posted along the dock and begin counting carefully as I walk farther down the narrow pathway.

C-13.

C-14.

C-15.

Every step makes me more uneasy about being out here alone this late. I try to steady myself, to get my bravado back. I normally don’t scare this easily. After landing this job, I went through storms—literally—sketchy harbors, and enough arrogant yacht owners to kill my nerves permanently.

But I can’t ignore the nagging voice at the back of my head that’s whispering turn back, Elena, over and over.

The wind dies suddenly, leaving behind an uncomfortable stillness that raises goosebumps along my arms. And that’s when I spot it.

C-17.

The massive black luxury yacht sits at the end of the dock.

It towers over the others like a monument swallowed by the night. Most of its exterior lights are off, leaving only a faint glow near the upper deck, a subtle indicator that the engines are warm. But I notice an instant red flag: its crew is absent.

A yacht like that is never left unattended unless there’s a problem.

Mona.

The name gleams in silver lettering across the hull.

I stare at it for a second too long. Apprehension curls tighter in my chest when I spot sudden movement and hear a thud echoing from somewhere behind the yacht.

My pulse races and my gaze narrows instinctively.

I squint, silently observing as more than a dozen men troop in and out of the yacht with military efficiency, not the relaxed ease of party staff. They work swiftly, each of them operating with enough coordination to pass as skilled soldiers from the Pentagon.

Swallowing my anxiety, I take a small step forward, crouching slightly near the dock’s railing.

The tablet trembles faintly in my hand as I peer toward the narrow gap between C-17 and the neighboring vessel.

I’m close enough to see clearer outlines of the moving figures. They dress alike in black clothes, like ninjas on a secret mission, their faces shielded with black masks and their attention attuned to the task at hand.

Five of the men stand near the lower deck entrance, moving in perfect sync.

Two of them drag a large black case across the dock while another two keep watch over the marina entrance. The fifth one snaps something irritated under his breath before yanking open the yacht’s storage hatch.

Grunting, I push myself slowly onto the tips of my toes, straining to catch a glimpse at the objects they toss across into each other’s arms, until the case shifts under the flash of marina lights.

I freeze, falling back on the heels of my sneakers at the sight of brick-shaped packages being transferred quickly between the boats.

My stomach tightens, twisting in uncomfortable knots that make it difficult to breathe.