Bratva King’s Obsession

Chapter 1

DROGO

I'm fifteen minutes late, soaked through, and all I can think is: where the fuck is she?

If Alena doesn't show, this pitch dies. Half these investors walk, and I'm left with sketches of a haunted house no one believes in—and the sinking feeling that Klaus is already watching.

The rain isn't really rain—more like the sky spitting on you, invisible drops soaking through before you notice.

My eyes scan the street. Old habit. Crowds make me twitchy—too many faces, too many angles. A black sedan idling across the road catches my attention. Wrong plates. Tourist rental.

A guy in a gray coat two storefronts down, pretending to look at his phone. Wrong shoes for a tail. Too clean.

Not one of theirs.

Not yet.

Five years I've been watching. Five years since I learned my father's name. Klaus Müller—German-born, Russian-trained, forty years deep in the Bratva. The kind of man who makes people disappear.

Every crowd since then, I'm scanning. Waiting for the day he decides I'm worth collecting.

The sedan's still there. Engine running.

My pulse kicks.

Success makes you visible. Visibility makes you a target. And when your father runs an empire built on other people's misfortunes, every contract you sign is just another breadcrumb leading straight back to you.

Still, I take every project like a hungry puppy preparing to starve again. Old habits. Even with millions in the bank and a penthouse in Kensington, I still check my accounts twice a day. Still keep cash taped behind the bathroom mirror.

Men like Klaus Müller don't have sons by accident—they have leverage.

"Oh my God, it's you!"

A woman's voice cuts through the drizzle. I tense, scan her face—mid-twenties, tourist clothes, phone already out. Not a threat. Just a fan.

"Oh my God, it's me!" I shoot back, forcing my shoulders to drop.

"Can we get a picture?"

"Sure." I fix my Armani suit and pose. My eyes flick past her shoulder—scanning, always scanning. The gray coat guy's moved. Good. The sedan's still idling. Bad.

"We saw you on the telly yesterday."

Right. The interview hyping the park.

"My friend in Amsterdam thinks you're very hot. She's got a poster of you next to the loo."

The loo. Great. I force the smile wider.

The sedan pulls forward. Just a few feet.

My pulse kicks harder.

"Thanks," I say, already stepping back. "I'm late—"

Then the air shifts—warmer and colder at once. The street noise fades. Time slows, like the world knows she's here.

Her car pulls up. She steps out, flipping her hair back the moment the driver opens her door. Of course, the theatrics. Rooms, streets—everything freezes when she appears.

And then, just like that, there she is.

Alena.

Long dark hair nearly touching her thighs. Skin so pale you can see the veins beneath. Eyes that cut through you like an X-ray. She isn't just a woman—she's something else. A creature you'd expect to find in the heart of a dark forest, waiting to drag you to your death.

And you would always go.

She steps out, and something primal in me recognizes the danger: this woman could ruin me.

And I'd thank her for it.

The most magnetic, beautiful woman ever born. At least, to me.

That creature is my best friend. My only family. The one person I can cry in her arms with, be a child with, surrender everything to. Seventeen years of friendship made that possible.

The sedan pulls away.

I don't relax. Not yet.

"Oh my God!" one of the women in front of me screams. "Alena Lupus!"

They rush her like she's prey. My chest tightens.

The famous horror writer. Films made from her books. Rumors everywhere: "She sees ghosts." "She talks to the other side." "She dreams the stories she writes, but they're real."

I never knew how the rumors started, but they're true.

She was found abandoned as a baby in a Transylvanian forest. She grew up in orphanages across Romania—a ghost without a past. Maybe that's why we clicked: two orphans carving out space in a world that didn't want us.

To everyone else, she's a riddle wrapped in black—an impossible face, catlike eyes that never give anything away.

To me? She's a treasure. She's air.

No one knows how many nights I've held her close as she cried, terrified by a dream. The scratches that appear on her skin after missing a book deadline. All of that would break tabloids, but for now, it only breaks me.

I can't protect Alena from all that, and it makes me feel small. I'd die for her without a second thought if it meant she'd find peace.

But right now? Right now I need to protect her from getting mobbed by fans. And from the possibility that somewhere in this crowd, someone's watching me. Someone sent by Klaus to remind me that he knows exactly where I am.

Who I love.

What I'd burn the world to protect.

"You're late," I say, pushing through the small crowd toward her.

She looks at me with that Balkan stare that says, don't start.

"And you're standing in the rain choosing to pick a fight. What matters more—your speech or this argument?"

I glare at her, fury and something softer underneath.

"You look like shit, by the way." She slips off her gloves as we step inside.

She rises on her toes. I bend down. She gives me a kiss on the cheek—standard procedure, but I can't keep my eyes from closing. Her lips are cold from the rain, or maybe just cold. They taste faintly of smoke and something darker.

Her scent hits me. Smoke, cold rain, that thing only I know is there.

I hate how it still lives under my skin.

Heat floods my chest, drops lower. My cock stirs, and I shift my weight.

Her eyes catch the movement. They drop for just a second.

A small smirk plays at her lips before she turns toward the door.

She knows exactly what she does to me.

Always has.

"After you, my lady," I say, faking a smile I know will annoy her.

"Fuck off, Drogo," she responds, bumping her hip to my thigh.

That little bump sends a jolt straight through me—same as it has for seventeen fucking years. The contact burns through my trousers. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to drag her against me right here, claim her mouth in front of everyone, and let the world burn.

My hand finds the small of her back as we step inside—possessive, familiar. She doesn't pull away.

People swarm her. She curves her mouth into that signature expression—both there and not, a perfect shield.

She greets them, moves forward, until a man tries to grab her for a photo. His hands reach for her waist, and I'm already moving—one step closer, eyes locked on him with a look that's gotten men to back down in underground fights.

He freezes mid-reach.

I don't say a word. Don't have to. Just holding his gaze until his hands drop and he steps back, stammering.

"S-sorry, I just—"

"She doesn't like to be touched," I say quietly, voice flat. "Without permission."

He nods, pale, and backs away.

Alena doesn't acknowledge what just happened. Doesn't need to. This dance is seventeen years old—me clearing space, her pretending she doesn't need it but relaxing into the safety anyway.

Her hand brushes mine as we walk deeper into the building.

Just for a second.

Just enough.

· · ·

The conference room is all glass and steel—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Only twelve showed. The ones who matter.

I recognize most of them. Sir Graham Whitfield, old money and older opinions. Yuki Tanaka from a Japanese conglomerate. Dmitri Volkov—and yes, the irony of a Russian investor isn't lost on me.

Dmitri's watching me. Has been since I walked in. Not the polite interest of a potential investor—something sharper. More personal.

My jaw tightens.

Could be nothing.

Could be everything.

Alena settles into the chair beside mine, crossing her legs in that deliberate way that makes every man in the room forget why they came. She knows it. Uses it like a weapon.

I pull up the first slide—concept art for the park. Gothic spires rising from mist. Structures that seem to breathe.

"What you're looking at isn't just a theme park," I start. "It's a pilgrimage site for horror enthusiasts. A destination experience that will redefine immersive entertainment."

Sir Graham leans back. "We've seen immersive before, Mr. Solberg. What makes this different?"

I glance at Alena. She's already watching me, that almost-smile playing at her lips.

She stands, and the room shifts. I swear the temperature drops.

"Because this park won't just scare you," Alena says, her voice carrying that slight accent that makes everything sound like a secret. "It will know you."

Dmitri raises an eyebrow. "Know us?"

"The experience will be adaptive. Personalized." She clicks to the next slide. "Your heart rate spikes when you see clowns? The park notices. Claustrophobia makes you sweat? We'll find the perfect corridor to exploit it."

"Invasive," Yuki says.

"Brilliant," Dmitri cuts in. His eyes hold mine a second too long. "Consent-based, I assume?"

"Obviously," I say. "Guests opt in. They want to be scared. We're just making sure we do it right."

Alena moves around the table, a predator circling prey. "The park will also feature narrative threads—ongoing stories that guests can follow across multiple visits. My stories will be the foundation."

Sir Graham's skepticism hasn't budged. "And the ROI?"

I pull up the financials. "￡200 million for phase one. Projecting 2.5 million visitors in year one, scaling to 5 million by year three. At ￡150 per guest average spend, we're looking at ￡750 million in revenue by year three."

"The IP alone is worth the investment," I continue. "Ten of Alena's bestselling properties. Exclusive licensing. This isn't just brick and mortar. It's a franchise."

Alena returns to her seat. Under the table, her leg presses against mine.

Not an accident.

Never an accident with her.

The questions come fast. Logistics. Timeline. Risk. Alena jumps in when they ask about creative control, and every time she leans forward, her leg presses harder against mine.

I'm half-hard by the time Sir Graham asks about safety protocols.

"Fear is personal," Alena says. "What terrifies one person bores another. That's why customization is key."

By the time we wrap, I can see it in their faces. They're hooked.

Sir Graham stands first, extending his hand. "Pending due diligence, you can count me in for ￡20 million."

The rest follow. Commitments. Interest.

Dmitri pulls me aside as the others file out. "Impressive work, Mr. Solberg." His accent is thicker up close. Moscow, not London.

My pulse kicks.

"We should discuss additional opportunities. Perhaps over dinner?"

"My schedule's pretty tight."

"I insist." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I knew your work before today. Remarkable portfolio for someone so... young. With such an interesting background."

He pauses. Let’s it hang.

He knows.

"I'll have my assistant reach out," I say, keeping my voice level.

He nods, slips a card into my hand. His fingers are cold. "Please do. I think we have much to discuss."

He leaves, and I'm standing there feeling like I just shook hands with a ghost.

When the room finally clears, it's just me and Alena.

She exhales, slumping back. "I hate that."

"You were perfect."

"I felt like a circus animal." She shifts, reaching back. "Fuck, I think my bra is sitting wrong."

I lean in. "Yeah, you haven't hooked it properly. One sec."

She turns slightly, giving me access. I slip my hand under the back of her dress, fingers finding the clasp. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft. I linger, thumb grazing the dip of her spine.

Her breath hitches.

Mine catches.

One wrong move and I'd have her bent over this table.

I fix the hook, force myself to pull away.

My cock throbs.

"Thanks!" She smiles at me—genuine, not the polished version she gives everyone else.

That smile does things to me it shouldn't.

We stand. My hand finds the small of her back as we head for the door—possessive, familiar.

"Drinks tonight?" I ask, casual as I can manage. Like my pulse isn't hammering.

She pauses. "No. I have a date."

The words land like a fist to the gut.

I keep my face neutral. "Yeah? Anyone I know?"

"A chef." She doesn't look at me, focused on her phone. "I met him at that book signing last week."

A chef. Fucking perfect. Some handsy bastard who'll cook for her, touch her while she slides food past those lips.

Touch her hands.

Maybe more.

"Good for you," I say, and I almost believe I mean it.

"I'll call you if my night opens up."

Translation: I'll call you if I don't fuck him.

"Don't worry about it," I say, pulling out my phone like I've got somewhere to be. "I'll fill my night."

She knows exactly what that means. I've got a list of women. Finding company is easier than breathing.

But what she doesn't know? For the past six months I've been searching for the one woman who'll finally kill this thing I feel for her.

Someone who'll make me stop scanning crowds for her face. Stop holding my breath when she walks into a room.

I've tried. Blonde, brunette, redhead. Brilliant women. Beautiful women.

But none of them are her.

And the worst part? I'm too fucking terrified to do anything about it.

Because if I tell Alena how I feel and she doesn't feel the same? I lose her. Seventeen years of friendship, gone. The only family I've got, burned to ash because I couldn't keep my mouth shut.

So, I fuck strangers and pretend it helps.

It doesn't.

She steps close, rises on her toes. I bend down automatically—muscle memory from a thousand goodbyes.

Her lips brush my cheek, cold and soft. "Behave yourself tonight."

"Never do," I murmur.

She pulls back, and there's something in her eyes I can't read. Something that looks almost like regret.

Then she's gone, her heels clicking against marble, that impossible hair swaying with each step.

I watch until she disappears through the doors.

My phone buzzes.

Probably one of the investors.

I glance at the screen.

An unknown number.

A photo: me and Alena in the rain, close enough to see her smile. The angle is from across the street. Whoever took it was right fucking there.

No caption.

My blood turns to ice.

Then a second message appears:

She's beautiful. Your father sends his regards.

I stare at the screen, heart hammering against my ribs.

They know.

They've always known.

And now they're making sure I know they know.

I grab my coat and head for the door.

No one touches what's mine.