Owned Curves By the Violent Bratva (Sharov Bratva #22)

Chapter One - Clara

My fingers hover above the keyboard long after I hit publish. The cursor blinks at me like it’s waiting to see if I regret it, but my chest feels weightless, almost buzzing. I read the headline again, steadying myself.

Bratva Ties in City Hall—The Names No One Touches.

Beneath it, my name in bold. My name. I breathe out, slow and careful, the way I do before a big exam or a difficult interview. Except this feels bigger.

I lean back in my chair, absorbing the newsroom noise around me. Phones ring. Printers hum. Students argue over edits. Everything goes on like normal while my whole world shifts two inches to the left.

I should feel proud. I do, mostly. I spent months on this investigation, chasing down documents, begging anonymous sources to talk, matching patterns no one wanted to see. I went through three drafts and two panic attacks. I checked my facts until my eyes ached.

Still, when I wrote the line naming Lukyan Sharov—the rumored Bratva head, the man everyone references in lowered voices—I hesitated. For hours.

My professor warned me. “These aren’t playground bullies, Clara. Powerful people don’t like having their secrets printed.”

I printed them anyway.

Movement catches my eye. The notification count jumps from thirty-eight to forty-nine. Comments pour in faster than I can read them.

Finally, someone with guts.

Holy shit, this is huge.

She really wrote his name??

Brave or stupid, I can’t decide.

Warmth spreads in my chest. Someone shares it on Twitter. Then a local political blogger reposts it. My phone vibrates nonstop against the desk.

I try to play it cool, acting like this is just another day in the student newsroom, but my hands itch with the need to refresh the page again and again. Every new comment feels like a spark landing on dry kindling.

Across the room, Eden swivels in her chair. “Clara, you’re trending.”

My stomach flips. “Trending how?”

She scoots over, holding her phone out. “Look.”

My article header fills the screen. Under it is a string of reposts from students, reporters, and random strangers cheering me on. Someone from a major outlet comments, Sharp reporting from a rising journalist.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s ridiculous.”

Eden grins. “This is insane. You’re basically famous now.”

“I’m not famous. I’m… lucky the servers haven’t crashed.”

“Lucky?” She snorts. “Doesn’t even begin to describe it. You just exposed half the city’s corruption network. I would die for this kind of visibility.”

I force a smile, but there’s pressure behind my ribs. Visibility sounds exciting until you realize how many kinds of people might be looking.

I shake it off and close my laptop. If I stay glued to the screen any longer, I’ll spiral. I grab my bag, slip out of the newsroom, and step into the hallway.

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Students walk past, oblivious to the way my pulse hammers in my throat. I replay my professor’s warning in my head. His tone wasn’t stern; it was frightened. I told myself he was being dramatic, but the echo lingers.

In the quad, cold air rushes against my face. I breathe it in like it can ground me. Golden leaves trail down from the trees. People laugh near the benches. Nothing feels dangerous. Nothing looks out of place.

I should feel safe.

Something quiet curls in my stomach.

A small part of me whispers that naming Sharov was more than bold—it was reckless. I know so little about him, only whispers and implications. A ghost with a face no one prints. A man no journalist touches.

Until I did.

My phone vibrates again. Fifty unread notifications. I answer a few texts, thankful for the noise. Thankful for normal distractions.

Then a message pops into the group chat:

Clara, someone said a reporter downtown is asking for your contact. A real one. This is huge.

My feet move on their own, drawn toward the subway, toward the rest of my life. I should be ecstatic. I should be planning next steps. I should be celebrating over cheap wine tonight.

Instead, I keep glancing over my shoulder.

By the time I reach the station, another comment rolls in.

You really named him? Respect.

Someone else replies underneath:

She has no idea what she’s done.

The warmth in my chest cools fast. I grip my phone tighter and head down the stairs, pushing through the turnstiles. People crowd the platform, chatting about midterms or weekend parties. Someone plays guitar near the far wall. The ordinary noise settles my nerves a little.

Maybe I’m imagining the tension. Maybe it’s just adrenaline making everything sharp.

The train screeches in, and I find a seat near the back. I scan the car automatically. A woman with a briefcase. A group of teenagers. A man in a brown coat scrolling through emails.

No one looks like they’re watching me.

Still, the unease doesn’t fade. It sits low in my stomach, small but persistent, as if some part of me knows something the rest refuses to admit.

When I get off at my stop, evening settles over the neighborhood. Streetlights flicker on in a dim glow. A cool breeze cuts through my coat, and I wrap my scarf tighter as I cross the street.

My building stands quiet and familiar. A comfort. A refuge.

I’m halfway down the street when my phone buzzes again. More messages. More mentions. Someone posts a thread analyzing the long-term political implications of my investigation. They tag me several times.

Another warm rush hits me, pride mixed with disbelief. This is exactly what I wanted—impact, momentum, a voice in a world that never listens to students.

Then I see a comment that sticks with me longer than the rest.

This girl is fearless. Or she doesn’t understand who she named.

A shiver runs along my arms.

My phone is warm in my hand from constant use. The article is still everywhere. People keep tagging me, arguing in the comments, dissecting every paragraph.

I should feel exhilarated. Instead, my shoulders keep tensing as if I am waiting for something to happen.

The usual buzz of traffic feels thinner. Fewer cars. Fewer voices. The sound of my heels on the concrete is sharp and steady. It makes me aware of every step, of every small echo bouncing off the narrow buildings on my block.

Halfway down the street, I slow down.

Someone is watching me.

The thought drops into my mind without warning. I look over my shoulder. A man smokes near the corner store, attention on his phone. A couple argues softly outside a shop. No one stares at me.

I tell myself I am being dramatic. I walk faster anyway.

When I turn onto my block, I stop for a moment. A black car sits at the curb near my building, engine running. The headlights are off, but a low hum rises from it. The windows are tinted deep. I cannot see the driver.

The car is too sleek for this street. It has clean lines and a shine that does not match the chipped paint on the nearby doors. The plate is local. That does not make it less strange.

I stand there for three long seconds. The back of my neck prickles. I cannot shake the feeling that someone inside the car is looking at me. Not casual interest. Me, specifically.

I tell myself a dozen explanations in quick succession. Rideshare. Someone waiting on food delivery. A neighbor with a new car. None of them feel quite right. I do not want to stay outside long enough to figure it out.

I cross the sidewalk with brisk steps, pull the front door open, and head straight for the stairs. My pulse beats in my ears. I resist the urge to look back through the glass. I do not want to confirm anything. I need to be inside.

Each flight of stairs feels steeper. The air smells faintly of dust and detergent.

My keys are in my hand before I even reach my floor.

I unlock my door, slip inside, and shut it with more force than necessary.

The lock slides into place. I engage the deadbolt and the chain, then stand there for a moment with my palm flat against the wood.

The apartment is quiet. My small kitchen, my couch, my unmade bed in the corner. Everything looks ordinary. My heartbeat takes its time slowing.

I tell myself to relax. If someone wanted to do more than watch, they had time downstairs. The thought is not comforting.

I drop my bag on the chair, kick off my shoes, and move on autopilot. I put water on for tea. I change into sweatpants and a soft T-shirt. I light a candle near the window, the familiar sweet scent filling the room.

I sit on the bed and pull my laptop onto my knees. The article’s stats have climbed again. More shares. More comments. A few small outlets have written short pieces about it already. My inbox has three requests for interviews. One comes from a name I recognize from television.

I scroll and scroll, trying to focus on the words on the screen instead of the strange heaviness in my chest.

In the middle of praise and outrage, someone comments, She is brave. Underneath, another user replies, Or dumb. People like Sharov do not forget.

I lock my jaw and keep reading. I want to care only about the story, about the impact, about the piece of corruption I dragged into the light. I do not want to think about men in dark cars outside my building.

When I finally put my laptop aside, my eyes ache. I lie down and draw the blanket over my shoulders. The room glows in the low light of the candle and the streetlamp. I stare at the ceiling and listen to the faint noises outside, waiting for something specific that never comes.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. My eyes close. Sleep pulls me under in fits.

I dream of my doorway.

I’m in bed, but I cannot move. Someone stands in the open doorway of my bedroom. The hall light behind him is too strong, and his face is nothing but shadow. Only his eyes show through, a bright, pale blue that cuts through the dark. They do not soften. They do not narrow. They stay fixed on me.

I try to speak, but my throat feels locked. My chest aches with the effort to breathe. His hand is on the doorframe. He does not step closer. He does not leave either. He simply waits, as if this has always been his place.

When I finally jerk awake, my heart pounds. Sweat sticks to the back of my neck. The candle has gone out. The room is gray with early light. For a moment, the dream clings to me so tightly that I check the doorway.

No one stands there.

I exhale and wipe my palms on the blanket. My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I blink at the screen.

One missed call from the university office. One voicemail. One email from my professor with the subject line: We need to talk. Immediately.

My stomach tightens. I swing my legs out of bed and listen to the voicemail. The administrative assistant’s voice sounds polite and strained. They want me in the department office as soon as possible.

I dress quickly, my thoughts churning. I knew this was coming. I did not expect it to feel like being summoned to a courtroom.

Campus looks different in the morning light. More people. More noise. Yet the unease from last night seems to overlay everything. I head straight to the journalism building, my bag bouncing against my hip.

My professor waits for me in his office, door already open. His hair is messier than usual. He does not bother with small talk.

“Sit down,” he says.

I sit.

He closes the door and leans against his desk instead of taking his chair. His eyes search my face, like he’s checking for cracks.

“You saw my email,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You saw the circulation figures.”

“Yes.”

“You need to retract the article.”

The words land with a weight I feel in my spine. “I can’t do that.”

“You can, and you should.” His tone is sharper than yesterday. “You have no idea who you have angered, Clara. This is not about a low-level councilman. This is Sharov. This is people who make problems disappear.”

The room feels smaller. I grip the strap of my bag. “Every fact is solid. The sources stand. We double checked the records together.”

“I know the work is clean. That is not the point.” He runs a hand through his hair. “There is more at play here than journalistic ethics. There is your life.”

He does not say it lightly. That scares me more than any online comment.

“I can’t take it down,” I say, each word careful. “If I retract now, it tells everyone that he can control the press by existing. That we only tell the truth when it’s convenient. That’s not why I’m here.”

His shoulders sag. “You’re twenty-one. You’re not supposed to be on his radar.”

“Then he should not be in bed with our elected officials.”

He grimaces. “You sound very noble, until someone follows you home.”

My pulse stutters. The image of the black car flashes in my mind. I don’t mention it. I don’t want to see his expression if I confirm his fears.

“Keep your phone on,” he says. “Stay in groups when you can. Don’t walk alone late at night. If anything feels off, you call campus security or the police. Immediately.”

“I’ll be careful,” I say. It feels like a promise I cannot fully control.

As I leave his office and step back into the hallway, I notice it again.

A man stands near the end of the corridor. Dark jacket. No backpack. He pretends to study a bulletin board, but his posture is wrong. He is too still. When I glance his way, his gaze flicks toward me and then away.

In the lobby downstairs, another man sits on a chair near the entrance. He has a newspaper open, but he hasn’t turned a page since I walked in. His eyes lift for a second as I pass.

Outside the building, a third man leans near the gate, phone in his hand. The screen is black.

Students flood around them, laughing and shouting. The men are spaced far enough apart that none of them look connected. That makes it worse.

My skin crawls.

This could be coincidence. I tell myself that more times than I can count as I cross the quad. Maybe a conference is in the building. Maybe I’ve become paranoid overnight.

When I get home that evening, I triple-check the locks. Sleep comes in broken pieces again.

The faceless man is in my doorway. The same height. The same blue eyes. They anchor me to the bed.

When I wake, my throat is dry. Light seeps around the curtains. My phone screen glows with one new notification.

Unknown number.

You should have stayed silent.