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

13. Caterina

CATERINA

He puts me down into the back seat of a car and slides in beside me, cool as you like.

Everything I thought I knew about Brody has been turned upside down today. I don’t know what to think.

Sliding his phone from his pocket wordlessly, Brody hands it to me.

On the screen are two men side by side. Eyes closed. My body knows what this is before my brain does, and I’m shaking. I try to form words, but I can’t. I just nod.

The men who came after me, who would have done terrible things to me, are dead.

Brody clasps my cheek, tips my face up, and frowns.

I didn’t stop this, and I probably could have. I could have told Brody no more. I let this happen, and all I can think is how scared I was when they invaded my home and threatened my family. Does it make me an evil person that I’m not sad they’re dead?

I’m overwhelmed with emotions I can’t name.

How does it reflect on me that when Brody said the others deserved it too, and I shouldn’t mourn the men whose closed eyes I’ve seen, that I believe him?

I want to trust him.

I don’t want to leave. But he has to want me.

“Oh Caterina.” He sighs and plucks the phone from my hands and tosses it away, before gathering me into his arms. “Don’t cry.”

I didn’t realise I was, but I give in to it, pressing my face into the warm, deliciously-scented ocean-and-steel softness of his grey shirt. The emotions of today—and since the day I discovered I was a mafia target—are too big.

Relief. So much relief I’m almost drowning in it. It’s only letting it go that I recognise how tense I’ve been. Everything from the attack in my apartment and the fact the men were still out there, uncertainty about my parents, worry about my last exam, and the halting dance of attraction and suspicion with Brody has been weighing on my mind. Now the men are dead, the London “Maths Club” gave me a Business Studies examination much tougher, but funnier and more engaging, than the essay questions I was expecting, and something has changed between Brody and me.

Too tired to argue, I accept his guidance. He lifts me out of the car with his hands under my knees and at my back, carrying me. So long as I can keep my face glued to his chest, I don’t care. Maybe I’m beyond pride now, because I don’t question that there’s a helicopter, and he gently but firmly straps me in and puts ear defenders on me, my legs still over his thighs and my shoulders nestled close.

Somehow, I must sleep, or rest, or something, because when I next open my eyes, it’s quiet and I’m surrounded by Brody’s solid, comforting presence.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing a wisp of hair from my cheek and looking down at me with a soft smile.

“Hey.” I totally broke down there. Ack, I’m embarrassed and try to sit up. Brody’s grip on me tightens for a moment, as though to stop me, then immediately loosens.

“Where are we?” We’re on the ground, on a large, neat, green lawn. That’s why it’s quiet. Brody lifts off my ear protection and his, and I manage the adult feat of unbuckling myself and standing up. Well done, me.

“You seemed to need to be out of the penthouse in London, so we’re at my home in Yorkshire.” He lifts me out of the helicopter, nods to the pilot who apparently had been waiting for me to wake, because once we’re clear, he takes off, leaving Brody and me together holding hands as we walk across the manicured lawn towards a huge manor house.

“This is yours?” I ask in disbelief. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but while my parents aren’t poor, they are nowhere near the “kind of place people visit for picnics and tours” level.

He nods.

It’s a castle. It’s amazing. The creamy yellow stone is aged and worn, there is a plant climbing all over one half, the pink flowers like cupcake sprinkles. Over the porch entrance there’s a riot of peachy roses. It’s unspeakably lovely.

And maybe it’s his intention, but I’m utterly distracted. Was I annoyed with him? Was I upset? Maybe. I can’t remember what about. Who cares when my heart lifts as he leads me through the gardens towards the house.

“It looks very grand and old.” And I feel both charmed and rather out of place.

“Twelfth century, I believe, though no one really knows.” It’s only then that I notice he hasn’t let go of my hand. His long fingers are laced with my smaller ones. He’s so tall my forearm is parallel to the ground. “There are historic parts of the house, especially the cellars.”

“Has it been in your family all that time?”

“Nyet.” His mouth twists as he glances across at me. “My family comes from Russian peasant stock. Nothing grand about the Marchenkos, but we know how to make revenge pizza, and it’s almost dinner time. Denis has been hard at work in the kitchen today.”

And suddenly, I know where this is going. More evasion. No answers, no clear understanding of how he feels or what he wants. If I allow him, before I know it, he’ll have an eminently-sensible reason I should stay here for my safety or comfort, and I’ll be as confused as before.

I adore this man, but I deserve more.

I halt, as we reach the edge of the formal flower beds that surround the house, digging my heels in when he tugs my arm.

“Moya koshechka?”

“Why have you brought me here?”

“You said you wanted to leave London,” he replies calmly. “I thought a change of scenery would be helpful.”

“No.”

He raises his eyebrows. “No?”

“That’s nonsense.” I take a deep breath. “You’ve asked me what I want, and given me gifts?—”

“Those were—” he rumbles.

“Brody.” Impatience licks at me as surely as the afternoon sun. I don’t allow myself to second-guess this. He enjoyed it last night in the pool, I know he did. But for some reason, he won’t do anything about it. “What do you want with me?”

He stares down at me silently, mouth in a flat line.

“You said I couldn’t leave. Does that mean that you want me? Because you’ve had plenty of opportunities, but you haven’t touched me.”

He straightens to his full, imposing height and his jaw clenches.

“Tell me, or I’ll escape.” I throw out the threat desperately.

“I’ll find you,” he replies.

“I’ll escape again.”

“Wherever you run to, Caterina.” He draws my hand inexorably towards him. His voice is husky. “I will find you and bring you home.”

Ohh. Oh my god. It takes all my effort to not melt. The idea of him coming for me, wherever I am? Scorching.

And I smile. Because it’s not a confession of love, but it might as well be. Still, I need more. “I’ll run at every opportunity. You’ll be forever dragging me home.”

His silver eyes gleam in the afternoon sunlight. “That’s not such a terrible game.”

My heart thuds. But in a good way. With excitement, like I’m glad to be alive. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats cautiously, sober again. He’s sceptical. Wary. My grumpy Bratva kingpin is worried I’ll reject him, I realise. In some ways, he’s as scared as I was when he pulled me out of that wardrobe. And as lonely.

“Chase me.” I’m throwing in all my pride here. Maybe it was the bruised and battered girl who he didn’t fancy, but I’m healed now, and I have to try. “I’m going to run. If I can get away, you’ll tell me what you want.” I leave the implication hanging. I’ll come back.

“My little cat,” he says, voice soft and smoky, a smile curling over his lips. “If you win, I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell you my every sordid desire. I’ll tell you things that will make you blush like fire.”

I’m already nodding. “Yes. And then I can choose, and you’ll let me go if I wish.”

“But if I catch you, I’m going to do whatever I want, for as long as I want. I get to keep you.” His voice has lowered further. It’s pure sex.

My nipples think so too. And my pussy. They both zing.

“You need proof of how much I crave you, moya koshechka? You need to be hunted and captured?” A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth.

The sound that comes from my throat is one of agreement, but it’s of a small, soft prey animal. My breath is all shallow and my heart is racing already. Yes, yes.

What will he do when he catches me? If I win, he’ll tell me his desires, and my mind fills with delicious, filthy words that he could pour into my ears. Things I could respond “yes” or “no” to. Gifts to unwrap.

But if he wins… He won’t tell. He’ll show.

He’ll claim whatever he wants. Since I’ve been his captive all he’s ever done is what I asked. The reversal makes me quiver with anticipation.

I won’t get a choice.

“Come.” He turns us away from the house and leads me through the garden. The sun is lowering, gilding every surface with pink gold and casting shadows so dark you could fall into them.

It takes me a moment to see where we’re going, then my heart ticks faster as we emerge from the long borders of flowers to the entrance of a maze.

“I will give you thirty seconds’ head start,” he says. “Make it to the centre before I catch you, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“But you know the maze, and I don’t,” I protest. It’s not fair in the slightest.

“I don’t intend to lose, little cat.” His eyes go like steel. “Run.”