Gilded in Obsession (Bratva Bloodlines #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Calina

Laughter spills out of me as Milana and I stumble through the club doors into the cool night air. The bass still throbs behind us, and I so badly want to go back in there and continue dancing but unfortunately, we have to leave.

I hook my arm through my sister’s. She stumbles a little in her heels as we make our way toward the valet stand.

Darn, it’s still so early. A long queue of people snakes down the sidewalk, dressed to kill, all of them eager to get inside.

I wish we could stay longer. But we really, really can’t. Milana leans into me, giggling. “Are you drunk?”

I grin. “No. I only had one drink a while ago. I’m fine.”

“Or should we just call a cab?” she teases.

“I can drive,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Unlike you.”

Milana chuckles, the sound light and carefree. “I’m not drunk. I only had two drinks.”

I look at her and something warm settles in my chest. It’s rare to see Milana like this.

Loose. Happy. Laughing without any care in the world.

Out of the two of us, she’s always been the more reserved one, the quiet observer who keeps her guard up, even at home.

Tonight, for a few precious hours, she got to be twenty-three instead of a Morozov princess.

The valet finally pulls up with our car, the black Porsche 911 Carrera that Artyom gave me for my twenty-sixth birthday. I tip the valet quickly, snatch the keys, and slide into the driver’s seat. My sister drops into the passenger side, still smiling.

“I wish we didn’t have to go home,” she says wistfully as she buckles her seatbelt.

“Me too.” I start the engine and pull away from the curb. “But we have to get back before Artyom comes home and realizes we’re gone.”

Milana groans. “He’d be so pissed if he found out we snuck out.”

“That’s why he’s not going to find out,” I reply, keeping my voice light even as nerves twist in my stomach. Our brother’s control has only gotten tighter since everything that happened with our father. He means well, but sometimes it feels like we’re suffocating.

Milana leans her head back against the seat, staring at the passing lights. “It was fun though… dancing, being free for once.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “I know. I enjoyed every second of it.” It was her first time ever stepping foot inside a club without a million guards, and God, it was great.

Milana turns to me, cheeks still flushed. “Do you think we can do this again?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “We’ll just have to find another night when we can sneak out without Artyom finding out.”

She looks out the window for a moment, the city lights sliding across her face. Then her voice gets quieter. “We’ll really be in trouble if he finds out.”

I slow to a stop at a red light and turn to look at her. The carefree glow from the club is already fading, replaced by that familiar worried crease between her brows. I reach across the console and brush my hand over hers.

“Hey. Don’t worry. If he does find out, I’ll handle him.”

Milana’s lips twitch. “Imagine what he’ll say if he does.” She sits up straighter and drops her voice into a perfect imitation of Artyom’s cold, commanding tone. “I can’t believe you two, sneaking out like criminals. You will remain in this house until you are thirty.”

I burst out laughing. She keeps going, mimicking his stiff posture and icy glare, and soon we’re both cracking up, the sound filling the car until tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

For a short while, we feel like ordinary girls. Not Morozov daughters. Not sisters trapped inside a dangerous family name. Just two girls who snuck out for one night away from our brother’s iron control.

Artyom has always been protective of us. He rarely lets us out of his sight, and when he does, his men are never far behind. But ever since he became Pakhan, it’s gotten worse. He watches us too closely now, treating us like we cannot make a decision without his permission.

Not that I can blame him entirely. The past months have been brutal, between our father’s death, the attempts on Artyom’s wife Kira, and Irina, the wife of our other brother, Mikhail. I understand why he’s so concerned about keeping us safe.

Still… I wish he would let off sometimes. Stop treating us like fragile children.

We’ve been sheltered our entire lives. That’s why, at twenty-six, I still had to sneak out to go to a nightclub. The light turns green. I press the accelerator, still smiling.

“Should we tell Kira about this?” Milana asks, still grinning.

I shake my head immediately. “No way. She might tell Artyom.”

Milana snorts. “You’re right. That woman cannot keep a secret from our brother to save her life.”

We both burst into laughter again. I have never seen my eldest brother so completely whipped in my entire life. He and Kira are madly in love, and honestly, I’m happy for him. After everything he’s been through, he deserves that kind of happiness. We are close, but still, she’s loyal to him first.

My smile disappears when bright red and blue lights suddenly flash in the rearview mirror.

Milana’s laughter cuts off. “What’s going on?”

I ease my foot off the gas and pull over to the side of the road. I’m annoyed more than anything. We’re so close to home.

“Stay calm,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. “I’m sure it’s just a normal traffic stop.”

“What if they arrest us?” Milana whispers, her earlier lightness gone.

“Why would they arrest us? We didn’t do anything wrong.” I glance at her and force a small smile. “Just stay calm and act normal. We’ll be out of here in a minute.”

In the rearview mirror, I watch one officer step out of the patrol car and walk toward us. He’s huge, built like a tank, broad shoulders straining against his uniform, thick arms swinging at his sides. The sheer size of him unsettles me.

Another figure remains inside their vehicle. I roll down my window, pasting on a polite expression.

“Good evening, officer.”

“Ladies,” he replies, his tone flat. “Where are you coming from tonight?”

“We were just leaving a club downtown,” I answer honestly. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t respond to my question. “License and registration, please.”

I reach into the glove compartment, pull out the documents, and hand them over. He studies them for a long moment under the beam of his flashlight.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” he asks.

“Yes, but only one drink at the start of the evening. Nothing to worry about.”

He looks at me for a beat, then says, “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

My heart kicks harder. “Officer, I’m fine to drive—”

“Out of the car. Now.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and push the door open, still trying to explain as I step onto the asphalt. “I’m really not intoxicated. We just—”

The second officer gets out of the patrol car and moves straight to Milana’s side. He’s just as built as his companion, massive, and muscular.

“Ma’am, you need to step out as well,” he orders her.

The night air suddenly feels colder. I glance at Milana through the windshield and see the same flicker of fear I’m trying to push down in her eyes that.

The second officer yanks open Milana’s door and hauls her out before she can even unbuckle properly.

“Take it easy with her! I just told you we’re not drunk.”

This doesn’t feel like a normal traffic stop anymore. I notice immediately that they aren’t listening to a word I’m saying.

“What’s going on?” I demand. “What is your name and which precinct do you work for?”

They don’t answer.

That’s when the unease settles. I look around the empty street, we’re the only ones here. The officers are too tense, their hands hovering way too close to their weapons.

“What is this about?” I ask again, louder this time.

Still no real answer. The officer beside me suddenly grabs my arm in a bruising grip. At the exact same moment, the other man seizes Milana.

“Get your hands off me!”

I twist hard, slamming my elbow back into the man’s ribs with all the strength I have. He grunts but doesn’t let go. Milana screams and starts kicking wildly at the man holding her, her heel connecting with his shin.

“Get your hands off her!” I snarl, fighting like hell.

I manage to wrench one arm free and strike the officer across the face.

For a second, I almost reach Milana, our fingers brush, but I’m yanked back by my shoulders.

Just then two more men pour out from the shadows. And they don’t have police uniforms on.

That’s when it hits me. These are not real cops. My blood turns to ice as they overpower us, dragging both of us away from our car, past the police car and toward a black limo waiting further down the shoulder.

“Milana!” I shout, still struggling, still clawing.

But it’s useless. They are too many, and we are completely alone. I shouldn’t have stopped; I should have kept on driving.

I scratch, claw, and swing with everything I have, nails raking down the arm of the man gripping me. Milana is right beside me, screaming and kicking, her heel connecting with someone’s knee hard enough to make him curse.

We twist and buck, trying to break free, trying to run back toward our car.

It’s useless.

My shoulder slams into the side of the black limo. “Get off me!” I snarl, still fighting as they shove the back door open.

Milana’s scream cuts through the night again, but they’re already forcing her inside ahead of me. I keep struggling, heels scraping the ground, until one of them lifts me off my feet entirely and pushes me forward.

I tumble into the cool, leather-scented interior. “Who are you guys and what do you want…” my words die in my throat as I see the man sitting across from me.

He’s sitting inside, one arm resting along the back of the seat, legs spread with lazy authority. He is not dressed like the fake officers or the other men who grabbed us.

Instead, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored black coat over a crisp black shirt, open at the collar, the fabric stretched across broad, powerful shoulders.

Dark blond hair cropped short. Sharp, aristocratic features that look like they were carved from ice and stone.

He is devastatingly good-looking in the most terrifying way possible.

Power rolls off him in waves. His presence fills the entire limo, thick and suffocating. Tattoos peek from beneath his cuffs and collar. His posture is relaxed, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s the kind of stillness that feels dangerous, like a predator conserving energy before it strikes.

I know instantly that he’s in charge.

He looks at us, first at Milana, who is pressed against me, chest heaving, then slowly, deliberately, at me.

His gaze drags over my face, my disheveled hair, the way my chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. There is no heat in it. No obvious lust. Just cold assessment, like he is deciding exactly what exactly he’s going to do with me.

He doesn’t seem like some low-level thug or hired muscle. He seems like something far worse.

I hold his gaze, breathing hard. My arm aches where the man grabbed it, and I can already feel bruises forming. Milana is trembling beside me, but I refuse to let whoever these men are see me break.

I lift my chin and glare straight at the stranger.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice comes out a little shaky. “What are you doing? What do you want with us?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Those cold dark eyes slide from me to Milana, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. Then he leans back slightly, the movement elegant and predatory at once.

“I’m here to collect a debt.”