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

8. Caterina

CATERINA

There’s definitely something strange about the pictures Brody shows me. For the last week, when Brody arrives back after his workday, he presents photographs of a man or two who aren’t either of the ones who attacked me.

My bruises have healed. But along with my growing affection for Brody—okay, love it’s love, I’m stupidly in love—there’s also fear that I have been putting off acknowledging.

But the trepidation is there. The suspicion prickles my spine with each photograph and online search. I’ve been living this odd sort of life where Brody is just my excessively-kind and generous landlord, who hasn’t touched me since the night he kissed me and made me come, but who sets me aflame with every look.

And sometimes I catch him regarding me too. He turns when he realises, but he’s incredibly attentive. The tension between us is stretching out, an elastic band about to snap.

I’m beginning to see a twist of impatience in Brody’s expression now when he takes back his phone, as though he’s frustrated.

I don’t ask who the men are. But I am starting to wonder. I said yesterday that he can send me a photo during the day if he wants to. But he just shook his head, curtly.

Brody is gentle, respectful, generous, and if not exactly sweet, then… Not the thunderstorm I assumed he was. Obviously, he has a constant personal rain cloud above his dark hair. He still hasn’t smiled. But he appears to enjoy our evenings together, and sometimes lingers in the morning over breakfast as though leaving is a struggle.

He wouldn’t be looking for the men who hurt me, would he? He’s a landlord, not some vigilante. But why do the photographs show men with closed eyes?

It’s a crazy thought, but when Brody looks down at me and his phone is in my hand with another picture of a man, I can’t help wondering… Who’s the more dangerous predator? The men I hid from, or the man who found me?

There are other constants in the last week. Brody’s chef and housekeeper, Denis, makes the most amazing food. Turns out, revenge pizza really isn’t even his best dish. My mother is a great cook, but my god, I’ve never eaten so well as I have staying with Brody.

I think about my parents, but I don’t get in contact for fear of putting them at risk. I feel safe here, in Brody’s penthouse, in a way that’s difficult to explain.

Brody doesn’t touch me, and though I long for him, I press my lips together when I want to ask him to. He watches me closely, but he doesn’t suggest anything. We spend evenings chatting over dinner, or rather, I talk, and he listens and asks occasional questions.

The evening before my exam, I should be nervous about that test. But I’m not. My mind keeps drifting to tomorrow, and that I’ll have to leave the man I am now completely in love with.

I’m an idiot, because he’s not just a landlord, even I can tell that. I think I can, anyway.

But despite his seriousness, he’s, one, incredibly sexy. My body responds whenever he’s close, tingling and heating. And two, very sweet.

Case in point, he walks in as I’m tying myself in knots about all things exam and future, sets a gold-edged paper bag onto the table before me, and stands back, hands in pockets.

“You can have the emotional support books if you’ve bought enough clothes,” he states.

“Brody!” I laugh, but he remains stoic.

This has been an ongoing argument between us. He’s really intent on caring for me, to the point of obsession. And I want to earn his approval, so when he scowls because I haven’t replaced literally every item I own with a nicer version purchased with his credit card and delivered to the penthouse with baffling speed, I promise to do better the next day.

Except, of course, tomorrow there won’t be a next day, and I have all these feelings built up. I swore I’d be braver, bolder after what I’m now calling the wardrobe-incident. Equally, I’d rather not humiliate myself by revealing how much I want Brody, when he has been kind in a doting uncle way. I still flush with embarrassment whenever I remember how I asked him to kiss me, and everything that happened afterwards.

So… All the time? Because I relive that memory a lot.

“Can I have a look before I prove I behaved?” I ask, half serious.

He nods soberly. “As long as you’re telling me the truth.

I peek into the bag and gasp. They’re the most gorgeous leather-bound, gilt-edged editions of my favourite romance series. His gaze is heavy on me as I draw out all six volumes.

“My god,” I breathe.

“Do you like them?” He still has his hands shoved in his pockets as though he’s enduring this.

“I didn’t own any of these books in hardback.” But I’m stroking their beautiful covers like they’re my pets now. The only way he’d get them from me is by suggesting I stroke him instead. I wish he would.

“Oh well,” he says deadpan. “They’re good luck books.”

Ah. Yeah. The exam. This is our last night together. And given my plan to find my parents is as ill-formed as two-year-old sticky tack, I’m going to make it count.

“Thank you.” I tear my gaze away from the stunning books and get caught in his even more gorgeous eyes. Those colourless eyes that always seem to hide a rainbow of emotion.

“Now, your side of the bargain, moya koshechka.” Is it my imagination or is his voice huskier than usual?

When I return from my bedroom wearing the little white sundress I bought for my exam tomorrow, he’s lounged like a big black panther on the seat, a glass of whisky idly in his fingers. The drink is new, and his expression is dark. But his eyes eat me up.

He’s silent as I spout nonsense about the fabric and the cut of the dress. But that’s normal. I lapse into silence.

“And the rest?” he growls.

“That’s it.”

His mouth twists with dissatisfaction. “That’s not enough dresses.”

“It’s plenty! I… I’m leaving tomorrow, remember?” The words stick in my throat.

He narrows his eyes, apparently ignoring my statement about going. “I think you need more. And you didn’t buy another bikini.”

“What would I need with the one bikini you already bought me, never mind two?” He insisted I buy a bikini, and I don’t get it. Honestly. He seems to believe I require an excessive number of clothes and books. It’s bizarre.

“To use in the pool,” he says, as though it’s obvious.

“There’s no swimming pool in this building’s gym.” I know. I went to the gym precisely once when I first moved in, checked out all the clean and tidy facilities, did twenty minutes on the treadmill, then couldn’t walk properly for a week afterwards. Lesson learned. I’m not a gym bunny.

“I suppose you’d call it a large hot tub on the deck, not a swimming pool,” he acknowledges.

My eyes go wide. I’ve been out onto the balcony. There’s a stunning view of London, lush banana plants, comfy recliners. But no pool. “You have a hot tub?”

He inclines his head. “I’ll show you.”