Held by the Bratva: an Age Gap Mafia Boss Stalker Romance

3. Brody

brODY

“Come here. I’m going to protect you,” I add when she just blinks up at me with those dark-brown eyes I’ve been dreaming of.

She doesn’t move, so I hold out my hand, gentle like she’s a scared little cat. Moya koshechka, as I always call in the privacy of my mind. My pussy cat.

Caterina reminds me of a sweet tabby. Straight chestnut hair that is usually in a swishy ponytail that begs to be wrapped around my fist. She’s lithe and soft as a house cat. But she’s wary.

“I’m Brody Marchenko. I’m your landlord. We need to get you to safety.”

“But…”

“Now, before they come back.” I make my voice deeper and firmer. I allow the inference that she mustn’t be here, and yes, that’s the case. But mainly because I don’t want her to see me disembowel anyone who dared touch her.

“Okay,” she whispers, and her arm creaks from lack of use as she takes my hand. I draw her out, but as she steps, her knees buckle and I catch her, sweeping her into my arms.

It’s instinct, but oh god she feels so good, so right, tucked next to my heart. But this isn’t the moment to relish that as I back out of the wardrobe and then stride from her apartment. In the hallway, two of my men are waiting. I give them rapid instructions in Russian to secure her home and the building. They nod and rush to obey, expressions serious.

They know that failure isn’t a good option. I’m known as Dark Angel, and while I might not go in for ostentatious wealth and power displays like Westminster or Brent, I have silent, brutal strength and over a billion in assets that make me a dangerous person to cross.

“What…?” Caterina eyes my retreating men.

“It’s okay.” I carry her to the elevator, and once inside tell her, softly, “Press the button for the top floor.”

“But you need a code for the penthouse.”

“I have it.” Given this is my building, and the penthouse is mine.

I say the code and she presses it in, hand shaky. Then the doors slide open to my personal space and a little of my tension unwinds as we enter.

Caterina is finally here, and she’s safe.

“I can walk…” she murmurs, and I ignore her, holding her closer as I stride through the gorgeously-appointed rooms that she peeks at over my shoulder. In my en suite, I spot the comfortable but too-small armchair that the interior designer put in and I never fully understood the point of before now.

I set her down reluctantly and regard her, noting the drying blood and injuries.

“We need to get you cleaned up, and seen by a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” she objects weakly.

I roll my eyes as I stand and go to the cupboards that contain all the essentials. This is not the first time someone who lives in this building is bleeding. Usually, it’s me.

“Tell me what happened,” I instruct her, and gather supplies as she haltingly tells me. With dressings and sutures and all the items needed, I kneel at her feet and listen while I clean her wounds.

The fucking Italians. As if they weren’t dead enough before. They’ve been causing trouble for me for months. A pesky fly I’ve been swatting at half-heartedly.

But this. This is different.

Touching Caterina is different.

She’s mine.

And any man who touched her is going to die.

I wash her cuts, taking care of each one and silently swearing revenge. I’d say it was paternal, since she’s so much younger than me, but my feelings for Caterina are far from fatherly. She can call me Daddy, sure, but I want her with a savage, carnal edge.

“You’re quite certain you didn’t pass out?” I ask again. Her head injury has bled a lot.

“Believe me, I was awake for all of it. I’m not likely to forget,” she says with a twist of irony, then hisses as I dab antiseptic onto her wound.

My fury that they marred my perfect girl is endless. The cut is in her hairline, and will be invisible once healed. But the bruise that’s blooming on her cheek will be sore, and the monster inside me wants to rip the person responsible limb from limb.

She sits obediently and answers my all my mundane questions as I pretend not to know that her name is Caterina Hart and she’s a university student. I know everything about her. I’ve been stalking her. Then I call the Angel mafia physician on speakerphone, and she answers all his questions, too. He suggests rest, and for her to be with someone in case she takes a turn for the worse, but otherwise gives her the all-clear.

“Do you think I should try to contact my parents?” she asks when I’m finishing the last of her dressings and she’s holding an ice pack on her cheek. “They said my mother stole from them, but I find that hard to believe. She’s so busy with her children’s charities.”

“When did you last speak with your parents?” The part about them finding out if she called them seems important.

“Last week they called and left a message. Dad said they were going on holiday, but that they’d be out of signal. They will phone me as soon as they can, and to not call, because it would cause problems. It was a bit weird to be honest, because they never go away. They’re proper homebodies.”

There’s a lull as I unwrap another dressing and I think.

“Where did he say they were going?” I ask, a theory forming in my mind.

“He said… I didn’t catch the name, actually.”

“And did he tell you to do anything else? Other than not phone them.”

“Only that I should focus on my studies and prepare for my exams…”

“And the call was from a blocked number?”

“Yes.” There’s a hint of concern in her voice now. “Do you think the same men who came for me got them?”

“Nyet. I think your parents have gone into hiding somewhere safe.”

“Oh…” I almost see the facts line up in her brain. “That makes sense. They didn’t come to get me, but I suppose they couldn’t.”

If it were my daughter, I’d have faced any threat to have her with me. “Maybe they believed that by keeping contact to the absolute minimum and not telling you anything, they reduced the risk to you.”

She smiles wanly.

I sit back and regard my work, checking for anything else I could tend to so she’s more comfortable, while determinedly avoid looking at her luscious tits.

“Thank you for looking after me.”

I give a curt nod because my throat has closed. My body obviously thinks words aren’t necessary. But Caterina has no idea how much I would take care of her, given the chance. I’m too old for her. I’m a shadow, and this girl is sunshine. We can’t fit.

“And coming to get me,” she adds then pauses.

I don’t know how to acknowledge this either, without it becoming a declaration of love and a possessive claiming. So, I don’t. I busy myself tidying up the first-aid items.

“How did you know I was in the wardrobe?” she asks suddenly.

“Because I have one too. Bloody stupid, awkward little part of this building. I knew if you were hiding in your apartment, it would be there.”

I don’t tell her I was franticly hoping she had left for work early, and as soon as Steve was in the doctor’s care and not actively dying, I went straight to find her. The bar owner hadn’t seen her, and I raced back with my heart lodged in my oesophagus.

And that was when I found her.

“What do you keep in it?” she asks innocently.

Uh… Guns. Lots of guns. But I suspect that won’t be a reassuring answer right now. After her run-in with the Italian mafia, I don’t think my being a Bratva kingpin will be to my advantage, and she mustn’t go looking for trouble in my apartment. “Girls who ask too many questions.”

“Oh!” Her face falls and I grit my teeth as though I could take it back by preventing myself from saying more.

“Joke.” I wouldn’t tie her up there. My bed would be preferable for us both. “It’s okay. You can ask. I’ll answer.”

I’m pathetic for this girl. I adore her.

There’s a beat of silence, then she asks, more tentatively, “How did you know I needed help?”

I glance over my shoulder this time. And this is easier ground, because although it was an instinct, a hunch, there was good rationale.

“Steve, the doorman. He was hurt by the men who came after you.”

“Oh no!” Horror stretches her face. “Is he okay?”

I think of the blood on the floor of the doorman’s little office when I went looking for him. “He’s in the hospital. The doctor thinks he’ll pull through.”

“Poor Steve.” Her brow pinches in apprehension. “I’m so sorry. I brought this to your door. Well, and your doorman. I should go. Not put you at risk from the mafia.”

“That’s not a concern.” I can’t keep the wry amusement from seeping through. Me. At risk from the Italian mafia.

Ha.

Bratva bosses are the most feared in London.

“But—”

“Nyet.”

She blinks.

“If you leave this building, they’ll see.” She’s not leaving my penthouse. I will protect this girl whether she likes it or not. “They’ll know you tricked them. You’ll be caught within hours.”

She digests this eminently-reasonable argument silently, lips pouting and twisting from side to side as she thinks. And I hold my breath, waiting to see what she decides.

Three years. Three fucking years I have wanted her. I didn’t believe she’d ever need me, and I was content to admire her from afar.

Until now.

I won’t do anything she doesn’t ask me for. There’ll be no pushing, or coercion on my part. If this girl only needs someone to protect her, that’ll be enough.

But I won’t let her go.

She’ll be my guest, or she’ll be my prisoner.

She’s under my protection. She’s mine.