Captured and Bred By the Bratva (Bred By The BRATVA #11)

Chapter 1

ROSIE

Just after midnight, The Tin Tankard’s coffee machine gives a death rattle and dies on me.

Because, of course, it does.

I’ve had a hellish week, so why wouldn’t the one appliance helping me through the Thursday night shift decide it’s had enough of this life? I can’t even be too mad at the machine, because I relate.

“Come on,” I mutter, slapping the side of the machine like that will resurrect it.

The orange power light flickers once and then goes dark for good.

Exhaling a long sigh and pour myself a Pepsi instead.

It’s mostly diet, but I need a squirt of regular for the taste and for the sugar.

The cold beverage doesn’t have as good a jolt as coffee, so I need to keep moving to not fall asleep standing up.

I spray and wipe the bar top repeatedly, pretending that cleaning sticky surfaces is a temporary way of making my living.

Pretending that one day I’ll have an actual career, not just an hourly job that pays so little I depend on tips to pay my bills.

I look around to see if any of the lingering patrons need anything, but the place is in that lull that happens right before the last call.

The music is low because nobody wants to put money in the jukebox, and they’re too tired, or too buzzed, to dance.

The Tin Tankard tries hard to make its patrons believe it’s a classic British pub. The lighting is intentionally dim, but instead of providing a warm amber glow, the LEDs turn skin tones ashen, making everyone look old and tired.

The floors are “distressed wood,” which would be charming if they weren’t so symmetrical. Every plank seems to have the exact same scuff marks, and when you walk on them, there’s no authentic creak, just a hollow, laminate thud.

The centerpiece is the mounted stag’s head above the fake fireplace that’s never been lit. The antlers are slightly uneven, one side just a little too long, giving the taxidermy a subtly off-kilter look, like the large deer is judging the place for not quite pulling it off.

Despite this depressing décor, people still show up every night the Tankard is open, and there are always a few lingering customers who won’t leave until they’re kicked out at closing time.

Tonight’s candidates include a couple making out aggressively in a corner booth, and three guys in flannel arguing about basketball like they’re on ESPN.

It’s too early to count my tips, but my brain automatically does the math of what I need to pay this month.

Rent. Electric. And of course, Dad.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket again. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

It’s always Dad.

I finish wiping down the bar before I check. There’s a dried ring of something sticky I have to scrub at and the muscles in my forearm burn. When it’s finally gone, I toss the rag in the laundry bin, wash my hands, and only then pull my phone out.

Three missed calls and five texts.

Dad: Rosie, call me.

Dad: Just a minor problem, nothing you need to worry about.

Dad: Where are you?

Dad: I need to talk to you tonight.

Dad: Rosie, ANSWER.

My stomach tightens into a knot as I picture his face, flushed and shiny, the way it gets when he’s been drinking and trying too hard to sound sober.

And then I picture the stack of unopened envelopes that live on his coffee table, the ones covered in stamped red letters.

And finally, I picture the last time he said “small problem” and how it turned into me emptying my savings account so he could keep his apartment and pay his power bill.

I lock the screen without replying.

If it were an emergency, he’d call the police. Or an ambulance. He calls me when he wants money.

“Everything okay?” Louise, one of the servers working tonight, leans over from the other side of the bar. She’s a couple of years older than my twenty-two, and tonight she wears her glossy dark hair up in a messy bun. Her smudged eyeliner frames intelligent brown eyes.

“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Just my dad.”

She rolls her eyes in sympathy. “Still playing the ‘poor me’ violin?”

“Something like that.” Louise knows some of the issues I have with Dad. I had to tell people at work something that explains why he calls and texts me so often.

She pats my arm. “It was busy tonight, so we probably did okay in tips.”

The Tin Tankard runs a hybrid tip pool system.

As the bartender, I get a percentage of the servers’ tips, but keep my own.

All of us give a small percentage to the bussers and food runners.

“Yeah, not too bad, tonight,” I agree with Louise.

I don’t tell her that “not too bad” won’t cover the college deposit I dream about.

Just like I don’t share that there’s a college website bookmarked on my phone, and I look at it on my fifteen -minute breaks like it’s porn.

I want to tell her I got an acceptance email three months ago. I would be a part--time student, attending law school pre-requisite classes in the mornings so I can still work at the Tankard.

But I never clicked the big blue button that said to confirm enrollment.

It’s hard to confirm anything when you’re one emergency away from choosing between groceries and rent.

“Last call in ten,” Louise says, pushing away from the bar. “I’ll take the floor, you can start running the drawer.”

“Got it.”

She weaves between the tables, balancing the battered plastic tray on her palm, calling out “Last call!” in a voice that’s way too chipper for how I feel. A few people wave her off. One guy slurs something about another round of shots. She laughs it off and promises him water.

Before I get to the till drawer, the door opens.

Three men walk in, and the change in the room is instant. It’s like someone hit mute on the entire bar.

Conversation drops an octave. Heads turn. Even the couple making out pauses long enough to glance over.

The men are wearing expensive dark coats. Their shoes are shiny and their haircuts too stylish for this neighborhood. But despite the professional appearance, there’s an edge to the men that has nothing to do with fashion.

I don’t know their names, but I know what they are.

Bratva. The Russian mob.

Two of the men I recognize. They’ve come in a handful of times over the last year to meet with Pete, the Tankard’s owner. At every occasion, they ordered drinks, but never get drunk. They don’t shout at the TV, like most of the other patrons.

They just sit and talk quietly with each other while waiting for Pete, creating a field of tension around their table that makes everyone take the long way to the bathroom so they don’t have to walk past them.

I grab another rag and start wiping the bar again.

I know not to stare at the men with the hard eyes and the expensive watches.

Not to eavesdrop. Not to ask questions. But I rarely have to worry about interacting with them.

Usually, they just find a table and order from the server until Pete joins them.

But tonight, one of them stares right at me, and I can’t look away.

He’s tall with broad shoulders filling out the black coat, the collar turned up against the evening chill. His dark hair, cut close at the sides and a little longer on top, is combed back, exposing a face that is all sharp lines and angles, and his square jaw is shadowed with late--night stubble.

But it’s his eyes that make me catch my breath.

They’re pale gray and cold, watching me like I’m not just a girl in a cheap black tank top and jeans, but something he’s placed under a microscope. A chill races down my spine, a weird mixture of apprehension and anticipation that makes me swallow hard.

I tell myself not to react. Don’t stiffen. Don’t look away too fast.

Giving my hands something to do, I grab a clean glass I don’t need. They sit down at the far end of the bar, near the wall, where they can see the entire room.

Of course, they do.

Louise clocks them and gives me a look. Not scared, exactly, but alert.

“I’ll take the regulars,” she says under her breath. “You handle the VIPs?”

My laugh is thin. “Lucky me.”

I walk over, smoothing my ponytail with one hand like that’s going to fix anything. I feel that stranger’s gaze tracking every step.

“Evening,” I say, voice steady. “What can I get you?” Pete’s not here tonight, but I keep that to myself. In case he’s missing a meeting with them, I don’t want to be the messenger reporting his calendar screwup.

The two men I recognize both order whiskey, neat. Their accents are more British than Russian. I can’t focus on that discrepancy because the man with the pale gray eyes hasn’t looked away from me once. He’s a little younger than the others, but still ten or fifteen years my senior.

“What about you?” I ask him.

He studies me for a beat longer than is comfortable.

Then, finally, he speaks. “Vodka,” he says in a deep voice, with a Russian accent that sounds like gravel and smoke.

“Whatever you have that doesn’t taste like paint thinner.

” There’s the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like he’s making a joke and daring me to respond.

I lift my chin. “So, not the house brand.”

One of his companions huffs a quiet laugh, and the younger man’s almost -smile twitches a little wider. “Surprise me, krasotka,” he says.

I don’t know the word, but the way he says it makes my skin sizzle, like a current’s running along my nerve endings. I turn away before he can see the flush rising up my neck.

Behind the bar, I pour the good stuff. Not top -shelf, because nobody around here has that kind of money, so we don’t stock it.

Instead of sliding them down the bar like I would do to any of the regulars, I carry the drinks back. With the three pairs of eyes watching me closely, my hands shake a little, and I have to be careful not to spill.

I set the glasses down one by one. When I get to Gray-eyes, our fingers brush on the rim of the glass.

It’s nothing. Skin on skin for half a second. Heat shoots up my arm anyway.

“Thank you, Rosie,” he says.

My name on his lips makes me freeze. “I didn’t—” I stop, blink. “How do you know my name?”

His gaze flicks to my chest. I follow it and see my name tag. Rosie in fading black marker, pinned crookedly to my tank top.

Right. Obviously.

I feel stupid for asking and even stupider for the way my pulse is racing and my face flush.

“I wasn’t sure it is your real name,” he says, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. For just a fraction of a second, they’re warm and filled with humor. But then that coldness seeps back in. “You should not leave give it out so freely. Someone might use it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say dryly.

He holds my gaze for another second, as if he’s deciding something. Then he nods toward the other end of the bar and the room in general. “You are busy,” he says. “We won’t keep you.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” I reply, defaulting to auto-pilot politeness, and move away before my shaking legs give out.

The rest of the hour passes in a blur.

I cash out the guys in flannel, and then cut off the drunk couple from more shots. Clean, stack, wipe, repeat. I’m aware of the Bratva men at the end of the bar the whole time. They’re like a constant black shadow, hovering in the corner of my eye.

They nurse their drinks, converse in low-voiced Russian, and watch the room. Or rather, two of them watch the room. The younger one watches me.

They’re still there when the last of the regulars finally stumble out the front door into the night. Louise flips the sign on the door to “closed” and joins me at the bar. “Long one,” she says.

I blow a stray hair out of my face. “Yeah.”

“You should get some sleep. You look beat.” She shoots the men at the end of the bar an uneasy look.

“I’ll stay until they leave,” I say under my breath, and the smile she sends me is both tired and grateful.

I glance at the clock. It’s later than I thought. Which means the busses now run on off-peak service, and my choices are to wait in the cold for forty minutes or walk home alone in the dark.

Great.

Finally, the Bratva men finish their drinks. The two whisky-drinkers nod at Louise and me as they head toward the door, where they wait.

The guy with the gray eyes remains seated, fingers wrapped around his empty glass.

As I reach for it, he speaks again.

“It is late. How are you getting home?” he asks.

I straighten, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. “That’s a weird question.” I want to tell him it’s none of his business, but I’m not brave enough for that.

He tilts his head, considering me. “Neighborhood is not safe.”

“I manage.”

“You should not have to ‘manage,’” he says. “You should be driven.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Sure. I’ll just call my chauffeur.”

Something flashes in his eyes. Something like irritation. Or maybe concern. It’s gone before I get a grip on the emotion. “I will take you home,” he says.

My heart jumps. “No, thanks.”

“That was not a suggestion.”

I curl my fingers into my palms so he doesn’t see them shake. “This is my job,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “You’re a customer. You don’t get to decide what I do when I’m off the clock.”

For a second, I think he’s going to push. Instead, he exhales, slow, like he’s reining himself in. “As you wish,” he says finally. “But be careful, Rosie Morgan.”

The way he says my full name makes it sound like more than a warning. Like a promise.

A small shiver runs down my spine. My name tag does not include my last name.

He stands, slides a folded bill under his empty glass, and then joins the others. They leave in a quiet sweep of dark coats and leather shoes, the cold seeping in through the door before it swings shut.

The room feels lighter the second they’re gone. Like we’ve been holding our breath and can finally exhale.

Louise whistles softly when she sees the bill. “He left you a hundred.”

I stare at the money, then at the door, where the last traces of his presence feel like they’re still clinging to the air.

“Guess he liked the vodka,” I say, even though we both know that’s not what this is about.

My phone buzzes in my pocket again. Dad.

I look at the hundred. I look at the texts.

I think about the college website open in a browser tab on my phone, about the life I want and the life I have.

Sighing, I go to the front door and lock it.

Louise and I finish closing and then head home in opposite directions.

As I walk through the quiet, dark streets, the hood of my raincoat covering my head, I dream of a future where I’ll be more than just a bartender with too many bills and one selfish father.

And I try to not think about the stranger with the pale eyes who knows my last name, or what that means.