Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss (Nazarov Bratva #2)

PROLOGUE

Igor

Bass pulses through the ceiling speakers like a wave, pulling everyone into a dim haze.

Strobe lights flash, slicing through a mist of neon. A loud blend of electronic dance and hip-hop fills the air as bodies gyrate, moving against each other in sync.

There’s scattered laughter from different angles, the clinking of filled glasses, and excited shouts for more drinks from some of the guests.

I rest my arms against the cool steel railing and lean forward, watching the sea of spinning movement from the glass balcony at the private area, and my gaze drifts across the crowd until it finds my brother standing like a carved pillar near the regular entrance below.

Even from up here, he commands space.

The contrast between us hits me like it always does.

Growing up, people often said we looked alike. That might have been true years ago, when we were still boys running through the same dirty streets. But we couldn’t be any more different now.

I run a hand through my pure brown hair. His, though the same deep brown at first glance, carries stark gray streaks at the roots.

He’s significantly taller, his frame towering over most of the other men in the room, with paler skin that never seems to take the Miami sun and muscles carved from countless brutal hours in the gym.

Where my eyes are brown, his are ice blue, cold and piercing, capable of freezing a man in place before the strike comes.

We’re like fire and ice.

I’m the fire—the heat that builds, the blaze that consumes obstacles and lights up the night with ambition.

And he’s the ice—calmer, composed, almost unnervingly still most of the time.

He can stand in the midst of havoc and never raise his voice.

But when provoked…that’s when the ice cracks and the monster is unleashed.

I watch him now as he scans the room with those arctic eyes, one hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a lieutenant.

He catches my gaze from below and gives me the faintest nod of acknowledgment before returning his attention to the man standing beside him.

Satisfaction settles in my chest. I lift the glass to my lips, fingers curling around it as vodka burns deliciously down my throat.

It’s Velour’s grand opening night, and so far, every detail of the event has unfolded just as I planned. Which is good. Very good.

Almost nothing excites me more than the execution of a good business move, when everything flows seamlessly, uninterrupted, with all the pieces coming together and alive. When that happens, I can feel the reins of control in my grasp, nothing moving until I raise a finger.

At the ground floor, there’s brisk movement from the entrance as brawny bodyguards, all dressed in plain black suits, file in with some of the most powerful men in Miami tightly secured between them.

The men make their way up the crowded glass staircase to the upper level and the VIP lounge that’s only a few meters away from where I’m standing.

Over there, gold lights gleam over polished marble as they settle on black tuxedos.

The new arrivals wave attendants over, and minutes later, there are at least six ice buckets encasing the most expensive wines from the cellar moving toward them.

In that section, I have cunning politicians, ruthless businessmen, and notorious cartel partners, all raising their glasses in the air, toasting to more success—success that’s being paid for by their fear and loyalty to me.

Tonight isn’t merely a celebration. It’s a declaration carved into the night itself—a bold statement that my empire is no longer discussed in whispers. It’s displayed, radiant and merciless, for every soul in Miami to witness.

I swirl the vodka in my glass and let a slow smile curve my lips.

One year ago, a measly attempt was made to break me.

A minor inconvenience was disguised as betrayal, knives sharpened in the dark by someone I underestimated.

But here I am. I rose from those ashes like a phoenix, a storm reborn with greater intensity and resilience.

Tonight, every pulsing light, perfect dancer, and armed man moving silently at my command proves that I’m untouchable.

Pride burns hot in my chest.

From the moment I seized control of Miami’s nightlife, I knew my destiny. Growth was inevitable. I was no longer content to rule from the margins, so I forged an operation of discipline and fierceness that rivals the great cartels of Latin America in influence and reach.

Where the others saw chaos, I imposed order. Where others showed weakness, I exercised strategic power.

Around me, the elite of two worlds mingle under my roof: politicians with hungry eyes, celebrities chasing danger, captains of industry pretending they aren’t already bought and paid for. And in the private area, beyond the frosted glass, my most important guests wait.

These are the men who control the arteries of the underground trade, from Mexican routes to American distribution. And tonight is critical, with the appointment set to seal our international shipment alliance.

All it takes is one handshake, one final toast, one signature in blood if necessary, to bind us in a contractual brotherhood for years to come.

There’ll be no more fragmented territories or unnecessary competition. With that seal, Miami’s entire nightlife, every port and highway of the trade, will submit only to me.

Someone moves to stand by my side, a sudden breeze of cologne and wine suffocating the air. I cock my head to the side to see a half-frown plastered on my brother’s lips.

“A few seconds ago, you were downstairs. Is there a problem?”

Ruslan shrugs, then adjusts the collar of his black dress shirt. “Not yet. Everything’s under control and going according to plan.”

I lean against the smoked-glass railing of the mezzanine, my eyes narrowing as I throw a quick glance to the private area behind me.

Sprawled across a pile of deep crimson cushions like he owns the place, is Joaquin.

He’s broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, his dark hair slicked back with a touch of silver at the temples. A neatly trimmed beard frames a mouth that smiles too easily for a man who’s ordered entire villages burned to the ground. His skin is sun-bronzed from the harsh Mexican sun.

Tonight, he’s dressed for business, in a black silk shirt unbuttoned low enough to reveal the gold chains around his neck and the edge of a tattooed crucifix on his chest. A large emerald ring glints on his finger as he lazily strokes the bare thigh of the half-naked stripper curled against him.

The girl is all soft curves and shimmering skin, wearing nothing but a tiny jeweled thong and strands of crystals that catch the low red lighting.

She drapes herself over his leg, her cheek resting on his thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns near his knee.

Joaquin beams down at her—a slow, wolfish smile full of dark appreciation. His hand slides possessively along her spine, and she arches into his touch with rehearsed hunger.

Around him, four of his soldiers sit like statues—hard, weathered men with flat, unreadable eyes and the kind of stillness that comes from years of surviving the clash of blood and bones.

One has a fresh scar slicing through his eyebrow and a gold tooth that flashes when he mutters something low to the man beside him. I recognize that one—Emiliano Sorreno, Joaquin’s lieutenant.

Another wears a pistol in a shoulder holster beneath his open leather jacket. They lounge on the surrounding low couches, but their postures remain alert.

Bottles of my finest tequila and whiskey sit half-empty on the low table between them, along with lines of pristine white powder they haven’t touched yet out of respect for the negotiation…or perhaps just discipline.

Either way, they intently watch everything: the girls, the doors, their boss, and occasionally the stations where my own men stand guard.

Joaquin laughs softly at something the girl in his lap whispers. He takes a slow drag from a cigar and blows a cloud of smoke that curls around them.

I take my arms off the railings and straighten to face my brother. “And the Mexicans?”

“So far, so good,” he sighs. Then his jaw ticks and taut muscles flex beneath his shirt. “I’ve tied up all loose ends and cleared up all ambiguous details. Trust me, they know what they’re in for. Joaquin understands this, and he knows who’s in charge now.”

“Sounds easy, until you remember Joaquin trusts no one,” I murmur, still slightly pissed off that it took this long to put a seal on our agreement with the Mexicans.

He doesn’t say a word, but a ghostly smile flickers across his lips before it disappears.

“What?”

Ruslan arches a brow suggestively. “You’ve not exactly given him a choice. Look at him. He’s here in Velour, eye-fucking Lucy like a starved animal. Plus, the shipment is safe and secure. He’s got no reason to cause trouble or pull out.”

“That’s a good way to—”

The rest of my words die in my throat as my gaze drops to the busy bar on the ground floor.

As bustling as it is, it’s not the brightly lit bar that catches my attention. Rather, it’s the woman standing behind it in a black tube top and black jeans, moving with efficiency as she adds ice to a customer’s glass and pours a drink.

Ruslan notices the dent in my composure and frowns. “Something wrong?”

“Yes, Ruslan.” I narrow my gaze, jaw clenching. “It’s all fucking shades of wrong.”

She shouldn’t be here.

She shouldn’t be anywhere near me or my business after the shit she pulled a year ago.

My confidence fractures the instant I notice her. Irritation sparks hot in my chest and quickly twists into something darker.

Almost on cue, like she senses me watching her, our eyes meet briefly across the distance, and she doesn’t look frightened or apologetic. She looks composed…almost unimpressed.

And that unsettles me more than hatred ever could.

A vicious flicker of rage ignites in my veins, spreading like wildfire. My jaw tightens, fingers curling into fists at my sides as the urge to storm down there surges through me.

But before I can react, a man steps up behind me and clasps my shoulders with big, calloused hands. His grip is firm and his smile congratulatory. “You’ve got me in the bag, Igor.”

I suck in a slow breath, forcing the mask of control back into place even as the rage continues to simmer beneath my skin.

I manage a placid smile, ignoring the stench of tobacco and tequila that oozes off him. “Joaquin. I trust you’re enjoying the night? You have everything at your disposal.”

“Sí. You are a good host, Igor. I never thought I’d see a night like this.” He points at himself, then to me. “Villalobos and Nazarov, bound together by manipulation and forced loyalty.”

Ruslan clears his throat beside me and my brows furrow.

But Joaquin merely barks a guttural laugh, his eyes shining with mirth and burning with ambition.

“You need to relax, Nazarov. Try some tequila. Or better yet…” He leans in, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper. “Those knots in your shoulders could use some loosening. We could share Lucy. I don’t mind.”

I flash a tight smile, patting him on his chest as he tilts backward. “Lucy’s yours tonight, Joaquin. I’m good.”

“Then celebrate, leader,” he bellows. “This is not a fucking funeral! Tonight seals more than a partnership,” the cartel leader says, his voice low with satisfaction. “It’s a bond that holds promises for the future.”

I nod in agreement, right before music cuts off.

And my gut instantly tells me something’s fucking wrong.

It’s not a glitch or a technical failure.

The music is brutally cut mid-beat, leaving the bass still vibrating in the walls like a dying heartbeat, and for half a second, the grand opening of Velour hangs in stunned silence.

Then the screams start, ripping through the crowd with mass hysteria.

People race toward the exits in a panicked wave.

The lights keep flashing, painting the pandemonium in sick, disorienting bursts of red and blue. But these aren’t club lights anymore.

Ruslan curses under his breath, a hot mix of English and Russian. “Fuck. Igor, it’s the police. What the hell? How did they—”

My brothers voice fades into white noise at the back of my mind as I watch the men in uniform storm in from every entrance, cutting through the crowd like wolves in a henhouse.

Shouts of “Down! Get down!” echo off the walls.

Somewhere downstairs, glass shatters. A woman in heels stumbles and falls, and the air turns thick with fear.

I stay rooted in place on the upper level, too enraged to move while the storm rages below.

My mind is already racing because I fucking know this isn’t random. The police aren’t fumbling through a routine raid.

They move with purpose and direction, straight toward the hidden storage room behind the regular section, placed in that location because I knew for a fact that not one living soul would look there.

My stomach drops.

Only four people know that location: me, Sergei, Joaquin, and his second-in-command, Emiliano.

Not even Ruslan knows.

I feel the shift in the private area before I see it. Joaquin’s hand falls from my shoulder.

When I glance at him and Emiliano, who’s now on his feet with one hand hovering over the holster on his belt, their eyes are locked on me.

There’s a lethal accusation burning in the suspended silence between us.

Someone’s accusing someone of betrayal, and I sure as hell know I trusted no one enough to spill information of where I stored the Mexicans’ marijuana.

My gaze snaps back to the bar, and I find her standing there.

She hasn’t run. Her expression is placid, free from panic or stress. She’s standing perfectly still behind the counter, eyes lifted toward me through the ongoing drama, watching. Just watching.

That’s when the memory slams into me with force, harsh enough to seize the breath from my lungs.

One year ago…

The same calm expression. The same unnerving silence. The last time she looked at me like that, she handed me straight to the authorities and walked away without a backward glance.

Who’s to say she’s not responsible for this raid, too?

Rage replaces reason in a single, blinding rush, and the world around me narrows to her face.

I turn to Ruslan with determination hardening like steel in my chest.

“See the bartender over there? Brown hair, black outfit?” He nods, and I grit my teeth. “Bring her to me. I want her alive.”