Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #14)

Chapter 1 – Wren

“Watch it, punk!” a cyclist yelled at a driver, whose vehicle almost knocked him down. “Learn to drive, asshole!”

The driver who’d already pumped the brakes stuck his head out the window, a frown etched on his face. “Fuck you!” he cursed, glaring at the cyclist riding into the traffic.

He cursed some more, rambling words that I didn’t pay enough attention to catch. The driver slid back into his car and drove away, his tires screeching loudly against the asphalt.

The street was alive this hot afternoon, pulsing with energy. Impatient drivers blared their horns, construction workers hammered away, the roaring noise of their heavy engines filling the atmosphere.

The savory aroma of delicious food from a nearby restaurant wafted through the air, mingling with the acrid scent of hot asphalt and exhaust fumes. In the distance, sirens wailed—perhaps an ambulance or a police car chasing some criminals. It wouldn’t be the first time anyway.

My boots scuffed against the pavement as I walked down the sidewalk, the gentle breeze caressing the stray strands that framed my face. My golden blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun on top of my head, my pale skin freckled from the sun.

I lifted my camera to my face, squinting an eye with slightly furrowed brows. The camera shutter clicked with each shot as I took photos of the streets—cityscape, skyscrapers, pedestrians, and so on.

This was one of the few things I loved so passionately: photojournalism. It was the one thing that made me feel alive and complete. Taking photos helped me relax, get my mind off the random stuff that constantly flooded my thoughts.

For instance, my declining grades.

Yes, I was failing. I wasn’t proud of it, but it’s the truth that no one was aware of. For some reason, I wasn’t doing well in school this semester like I did last semester. Which was strange considering I was majoring in photojournalism, something I was freaking good at.

However, I already had a plan to get back on track by studying harder in the courses I was weak at, like Photojournalism History, which I hated.

I found it dry and boring, especially because it required me to know the pioneers in the profession.

Not to mention how daunting it was to memorize hundreds of specific dates.

It was so overwhelming.

There’s also a course called Statistics for Journalists, which I felt didn’t relate directly to my passion for photography.

Or maybe I just didn’t like the course because I hated math, and there’s a lot of math involved.

Plus, Professor Smith was terrible at teaching the class.

He was a trainwreck as a teacher—respectfully speaking, of course.

These courses, along with a couple of others, just felt disconnected from practical application. I realized that I was failing those courses because I hated them. So, the first step was to find a way to love them.

How can I fail at something I love?

Anyway, today I was out on the streets chasing emotions, the rawness of city life with my camera hanging loosely at my chest. I was looking for faces in the crowd that tell stories without speaking, exotic cars, peeling posters.

I’d been roaming the streets for what felt like an eternity, scanning, searching, chasing the kind of grit that made me feel alive. The city closed in on all sides, but that wasn’t enough to shake me off.

I lifted the camera, adjusted the focus, and the shutter clicked when I captured the construction workers. Something else caught my attention across the road: an eight-year-old boy with the smile of an angel.

Maybe he noticed my camera, or maybe he was just smiling at something the woman holding his hand was saying. I assumed she was his mother or legal guardian. His honey blond hair caught the sunlight, and his hazel eyes glinted as he moved, looking up at the woman.

They stopped by an ice cream truck, and while the woman placed their order, the boy turned in my direction just in time for me to capture that beautiful smile. My lips curled at the corners, my expression soft as I watched him through my lens.

The boy waved at me, retaining that heart-warming smile that stirred a flutter in my chest. He did notice my camera.

I waved back, picked up my pace, and continued walking.

A busker leaned against the brick wall, fingers expertly strumming the strings of his guitar as he performed Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph.” His soft and wistful melody hit me with a wave of nostalgia.

I took a moment to appreciate his voice and the memories that the song sent rushing back into my head.

The small crowd around him listened in silence, heads nodding slowly, some eyes closed, some palms placed on chests. For a moment, it was as though the busker’s music had frozen time itself.

Three teenagers stood by a lamppost, eyes fixed on their phone screens like they weren’t listening, even though their heads would occasionally tilt toward the busker’s direction.

I lifted my camera and took as many shots as I could, focusing not only on the performer but also the crowd around him. I captured the woman with grocery bags standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and the old man staring at the ground like he was replaying a memory in his mind.

Clearly, I wasn’t the only one feeling nostalgic right now; the busker’s music had that effect on a lot of us. My lips curled into a small grin as I lowered my camera and walked away.

A few paces ahead, I rounded a corner, and just down the street, something interesting caught my attention.

A black SUV idled at the curb outside an open warehouse.

Inside, two men in impeccably tailored suits stood beside a pillar, speaking quietly.

Behind them was another figure—a man dressed in a suit whose form was almost swallowed by the shadows.

I watched him step out quietly, half his face catching the neon light, the other half still shrouded in the dark.

Perfect view. Sharp, intense, and menacing.

The camera shutter clicked. Shot taken—clean and mysterious. I lowered my camera and moved on quietly. Maybe it was best to leave before those Terminator-looking men discovered that I’d just taken a photograph of them.

Not everyone liked strangers taking photos of them without their permission, even if it was for a college project. And these guys? They looked mean—sharp suits, cold eyes—like they’d walked straight out of The Godfather.

Yep, I’d better disappear before someone spots me.

I had enough photos already anyway, so I headed back home to get some rest.

***

The vehicle pulled up by the sidewalk, gravel crunching beneath its tires as the Uber driver came to a stop outside my apartment. I stepped out of the car, the cool evening breeze brushing against my face.

Across the horizon, the sun was setting, its golden glow draped over the city. My boots scuffed on the pavement as I headed into the building, up the stairs, down the corridor until I got to my doorstep.

Under the hallway’s soft light, I reached into my pocket for my key, and that’s when I heard it—the moans.

“Yes, Daddy, fuck that pussy!” Olivia cried out, her voice muffled behind the wall, laced with sheer pleasure.

“You like that shit?” Drake’s voice followed immediately, louder than Olivia’s.

“Yes, yes—harder, baby. Fuck me like you own me!” she replied, her moans growing louder and more urgent.

My head dropped, fingers rubbing my tired eyes as an exasperated sigh fell from my lips. Classic Drake and Olivia, the neighbors who just couldn’t keep their voices down. At all.

The entire building knew when they argued; we also knew when they were fucking—like right now. They just didn’t know how to be quiet about anything.

“Sometimes, I wish I could just hit a mute button on those two,” a familiar voice spoke behind me, tinged with a hint of disgust.

I glanced back at the speaker: a woman in her late sixties with streaks of gray in her short black hair and a few wrinkles softening her face. She was carrying a grocery bag with leafy vegetables sticking out from the top.

“Hi, Mrs. Alderman,” I greeted her, wearing a polite smile.

“Why can’t they just be more like you, Wren?” She paused at her doorstep, two apartments away from mine.

I squinted my eyes, head tilting slightly to the side. “Uh…I don’t think I follow.”

“You’re reserved, very private, and well respected,” she explained, her eyes watching me from behind her glasses. “Drake and Olivia can learn a thing or two from you.”

I chuckled. “I’m flattered, Mrs. Alderman. But I think they’re just leaving their lives the way they want.”

“Well, it sucks ’cause everyone knows what their life is all about—too much information. Drake and Olivia have no privacy,” she replied.

Pete joined in on the conversation, his head sticking out of his door. “Come on, Mrs. Alderman, they’re just having a good time,” he said, smoothing his hand through his hair, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.

“Of course you’d say that.” She shot a quick glance at him, scowling. “I bet you jerk off to Olivia’s moans in your bedroom.”

My eyebrows arched in an instant, my jaw dropping in shock as I struggled to contain my laughter.

She pushed her door open, walked in, and slammed it shut behind her.

I did the same, locking mine behind me, and that’s when I burst out laughing. Her assumption was embarrassing, especially because it was most likely true. But it was also funny at the same time.

I tossed my keys on the table, strolled into my living room, and flicked my shoes off without slowing down. I grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, then increased the volume until it was loud enough to drown out Olivia’s moans.

The song playing on the TV station just happened to be Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph,” the same as what the busker had performed on the street earlier this afternoon.

What a coincidence!

I set my camera on the table, my neck rolling in a massaging motion while the chorus played in the background.

“So you can keep me

Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans

Holdin’ me closer ‘til our eyes meet

You won’t ever be alone….”

I took off my oversized shirt, wandering barefoot into the bedroom as I sang along. My hands flew behind me, fingers undoing the hooks of my bra, exposing my breasts.

I sang along, my voice barely above a whisper.

“And if you hurt me

Well, that’s okay, baby, only words bleed

Inside these pages, you just hold me

And I won’t ever let you go

Wait for me to come home….”

In my bedroom, I slid out of my jean pants—my panties too. A hot shower was what I needed right now to ease the stress of the day.

After showering, I slipped into an oversized V-neck sweater, its sleeves swallowing my hands and the hem grazing my thighs.

I headed back out, sat in my swivel chair, and opened up my laptop.

The scent of my perfume mingled with the smell of the cinnamon candle I forgot to blow out in the morning, filling the air with freshness.

This time, it wasn’t a music video playing on TV; it was the evening news. It didn’t matter, though. Any sound would suffice at this point, as long as it drowned out the noise from the other room. The last thing I needed was a distraction.

Then came the knock on my door, loud and persistent. “Hey, open up, I know you’re in there!” she called out from outside the corridor.

I blew a raspberry and rolled my eyes, knowing exactly who was behind that door. My best friend, Ravyn Jensen.

She banged harder. “Wren, don’t make me break this door!”

I laughed, strolling toward the entrance to grant my esteemed friend access to my place before she unleashed the kraken.

Her lips curled into a mischievous grin the moment I answered the door. “Finally.”

“You, my dear friend, are a pain in my ass,” I said to her, feigning being mad.

“Aww, I love you too.” She pushed past me and walked right in like she fuckin’ owned the place.

“Come on in,” I murmured sarcastically under my breath as I closed the door.

“Hey, did you know your neighbors are fucking as we speak?” She slid onto my couch with her shoes on.

I lowered my head, fingers rubbing my brows as I wondered how the hell I had that as a friend.

“Yeah, it’s—it’s kinda like a regular thing around here,” I answered, walking back to my desk.

“Oohh, live porn,” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows. “They should dial it down a little, though—they’re too loud even for me. It’s awkward.”

A soft chuckle escaped my lips.

Behind Ravyn’s sarcasm and sharp wit, there’s a sweet girl born into wealth who never quite fit in with her world. She was a billionaire’s daughter who chose a simple life as a fashion design student.

Ravyn was the definition of gorgeous. The twenty-one-year-old was blessed with fine curves, long honey-blonde hair always styled to perfection, and a pair of charming blue eyes.

Her clothes were always on point, and today, she was dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a lacy top under a leather jacket.

While she watched TV, I scrolled through my camera, eyes squinting at the lit laptop screen. Some of the shots were throwaways, bad lighting, crooked angles, and so on. However, a few stood out. Like the busker and the crowd, the boy with the angelic smile, and….

My eyes settled on the warehouse shot—clean, sharp, and mysterious.

“I like that one,” Ravyn said from behind me, where she sat with her legs on the coffee table. “It’s giving this…Mafia mystery…thingy.”

I turned back to face her. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at me. “You should totally post it.” She went back to watching TV.

“Hmm.” I clicked the photo, fingers rattling across the keyboard in a bid to make a few tweaks here and there.

It took me a while to edit the photo, and although most of the suited men were hidden in the shadows, one stood out. This man’s face was partially illuminated by the neon lights, just enough to keep the frame intact and add character to the image.

I uploaded the other photos on my blog, but hesitated for a moment before posting this one. The second I hit the upload button and the image went live, I felt a shiver run down my spine.

“You okay?” Ravyn asked, noticing the twitch in my movement.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

I captioned the photo, Urban Ghosts.

A few likes and comments about the grit and mystery of the shot trickled in shortly after. I responded to the comments, closed my laptop, and turned toward my guest.

“You hungry?”

Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Thought you’d never ask.”

“Silly goose,” I teased, rising to my feet and heading to the kitchen to fix us something to eat.