Forced Virgin By the Dangerous Bratva (Sharov Bratva #26)

Chapter One - Elena

I step through the arched entrance behind Yusuf, my heels clicking once against marble before I remember to soften my footfalls.

The last thing I need tonight is attention. The invitation in my clutch cost more than most people earn in a year, purchased through channels my father would rather not acknowledge. Then, my father would rather not acknowledge a lot of things. Including me, half the time.

The main hall opens up before us, all soaring ceilings and gilded trim that hasn’t seen a legitimate performance in decades. Now it hosts a different kind of theater. Chandeliers cast warm light over men in tailored suits and women dripping in diamonds, their laughter echoing off frescoed walls.

I catch fragments of Russian, Arabic, Mandarin. Old European wealth mixing with new global power, everyone here because they want something they can’t buy through normal channels.

“Stay close,” Yusuf murmurs, his hand hovering near my elbow without actually touching. He’s been with my father since before I was born, loyal in the way that only comes from shared blood or shared secrets. Tonight, I need both his discretion and his presence.

A young woman alone at an event like this would be memorable. A young woman with her father’s fixer is just another spoiled heiress with too much money and too little sense.

Let them think that. It’s safer.

I move through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting champagne I won’t drink, smiling at faces I don’t recognize.

My dress is designer but understated, black silk that doesn’t cling, expensive enough to belong but not so flashy it demands conversation.

I’ve learned to make myself unremarkable when necessary.

Growing up as the bastard daughter teaches you that skill early.

The auction hall itself is smaller than I expected, intimate in a way that feels deliberate. Rows of velvet chairs face a raised platform where a woman in severe black stands beside a podium.

No auctioneer’s patter here, no theatrical gestures. Just quiet efficiency and ironclad discretion. The kind of sale where provenance questions aren’t asked and ownership transfers happen in numbered accounts.

I take a seat three rows from the back, Yusuf settling behind me like a shadow. From here, I can see most of the room without being obvious about it.

I study faces, postures, the way men lean toward each other or sit in careful isolation. Oligarchs are easy to spot—they carry wealth like armor, surrounded by younger men whose eyes never stop moving. Collectors sit alone, catalogs marked up, fingers tapping against armrests.

Then there are the others. The ones whose body language screams private security, military training, violence held on a tight leash.

Those are the ones I watch most carefully.

The first man three rows ahead sits too still, hands clasped loose but ready. Ex-military, maybe current. His suit fits well, but he wears it like a uniform.

The woman near the aisle has a bulge under her jacket that could be a phone but probably isn’t.

Two men by the exit stand rather than sit, scanning the room in coordinated sweeps.

I catalog each one, filing away positions and patterns. Information is currency in my world, and tonight I’m spending carefully while gathering as much as I can.

The auction begins with minor pieces. A cigarette case that gleams under the lights, delicate enamel work catching every eye in the room. The bidding is polite, controlled. It sells for just under four hundred thousand euros to a man in the front row who doesn’t even blink at the price.

Ming dynasty porcelain comes next. Then an illuminated manuscript that might be stolen from a monastery, might be a spectacular fake. No one here cares which. An oil painting attributed to a lesser Baroque master. A collection of antique weapons that draws interest from the military types.

I don’t bid. I barely move. My hands rest calm in my lap, my breathing even and measured. I’m here for one thing only, and everything else is just noise I have to sit through.

Lot seventeen. That’s what I’m waiting for.

The catalog description was deliberately vague: eighteenth-century emerald signet ring, European origin, gold setting, significant historical value.

No mention of the Lawrence family crest engraved on the stone’s face.

No mention of how this ring was lost three generations ago when my great-grandfather gambled away half the family’s European holdings in a single disastrous night.

No mention of how its sudden reappearance in an underground auction suggests someone has been digging through archives that should have stayed buried.

Recovering this ring isn’t about sentiment. It’s about controlling the narrative. About proving to investors that the Lawrence name still means something, that we can reclaim what was lost. About showing my father that I can do what needs doing, even when he won’t ask me directly.

About proving I belong in a family that’s never quite wanted me.

Lot fifteen passes. A set of royal correspondence that sells quickly.

Lot sixteen, an antique map of the Ottoman Empire, draws surprisingly aggressive bidding before finally hammering down at nearly two million euros.

The energy in the room shifts, sharpens.

We’re reaching the premium items now, the pieces that drew the serious players here tonight.

My pulse stays steady, but my palms are damp inside my evening gloves.

Behind me, Yusuf shifts almost imperceptibly.

He knows what’s coming. We discussed strategy in the car, ran through scenarios and ceiling prices.

He thinks I’m being reckless. Maybe I am.

But this matters in ways I can’t fully explain, even to him.

The screen behind the podium flickers to life with lot seventeen.

The ring sits on black velvet, photographed in crisp detail that shows every facet of the emerald, every scratch in the old gold.

The stone catches light like trapped fire, deep green shot through with inclusions that prove its age.

The setting is worn but elegant, the craftsmanship unmistakable even through centuries of tarnish.

There, engraved on the stone’s face, is the Lawrence family crest. A rearing lion, a crown, the Latin motto I used to trace with my finger in the family library: Fortis et Fidelis. Strong and faithful.

My throat tightens. I force the feeling down, away, into the locked box where I keep everything that makes me vulnerable.

The auctioneer’s voice cuts through my focus, crisp and professional. “Lot seventeen. Eighteenth-century emerald signet ring, gold setting, European origin. Opening bid at five hundred thousand euros.”

A paddle rises immediately in the second row. An older man with silver hair and the careful posture of someone who collects beautiful things and never asks uncomfortable questions about where they came from.

“Five hundred thousand euros,” the auctioneer confirms. “Do I hear six?”

A woman near the front raises her paddle. New money, I can tell from the way she sits, the slight eagerness in the gesture. She wants this for the status it represents, not for what it actually is.

“Six hundred thousand euros.”

The older man counters without hesitation. Seven hundred thousand. The woman pushes to eight. I watch the pattern, tracking the rhythm of their bids, the moments of hesitation that signal approaching limits.

A third bidder enters at eight hundred and fifty thousand. He’s a younger man, expensive suit, bored expression. He’s bidding because he can, because the number means nothing to him.

The woman drops out at nine hundred thousand, her paddle lowering with visible reluctance. The older collector hesitates at the younger man’s counter of one million, then shakes his head. His ceiling reached.

The room quiets. Just the younger man now, his paddle raised lazily, confidence in every line of his body.

“One million euros,” the auctioneer says. “Going once—”

I raise my paddle. “Two point five million euros.”

The words come out clear and steady, no tremor, no doubt. The number is strategic. High enough to shock, to signal that I’m not here to play games or engage in incremental increases. High enough to make anyone else think twice about whether this ring is worth the fight.

The room goes absolutely still.

Every head turns toward me. I feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing, pressing against my skin, demanding to know who I am and what gives me the audacity to throw down that kind of money. Whispers start immediately, a susurrus of speculation and calculation.

I keep my expression neutral, my posture relaxed. The paddle remains steady in my hand. I don’t look around, don’t acknowledge the stares. My gaze stays fixed on the auctioneer, waiting.

Behind me, Yusuf’s presence is a solid anchor, his hand settling on the back of my chair. Not restraining. Supporting.

The younger man who was bidding has twisted in his seat, trying to see who just blew past his offer. His expression shifts from boredom to irritation to interest. He studies me for a long moment, then turns back to the front.

His paddle stays down.

The auctioneer opens her mouth, clearly preparing to move toward the closing count, when another voice cuts through the silence.

“Three million.”

The voice is deep, measured, carrying easily across the room without being raised. There’s an accent underneath the perfect English, something Slavic that softens certain consonants and adds weight to others.

I turn toward the source, my chest tightening with something that isn’t quite fear.

He sits five rows ahead, slightly off-center.

I don’t know how I missed him before. Everything about him should have registered immediately—the way he commands space without moving, the careful positioning that gives him a clear view of the entire room, the quality of stillness that suggests coiled violence rather than relaxation.