Stolen Hostage to the Obsessed Bratva Stalker (Rudenko Bratva #3)

Chapter One - Felix

The Whitmore’s ballroom hums with the particular frequency of money changing hands beneath crystal chandeliers.

I stand near the northwest corner, nursing whiskey I won’t finish, tracking movements across the marble floor with the same precision I apply to shipping manifests and offshore accounts.

Senator Harlow is deep in conversation with the healthcare lobbyist whose wife doesn’t know about the condo in Battery Park. Senator Ruvik just excused himself to take a call—probably his campaign manager confirming the wire transfer cleared through the third shell company we set up last month.

Everything moves according to plan.

I adjust my cuff links and catch Oleg’s eye across the room. He nods once. The security sweep came back clear twenty minutes ago, all entry points monitored, guest list vetted twice.

Rudenko Strategic Consulting doesn’t leave gaps. We can’t afford to.

This is what I do—manage the machinery that keeps politicians in office and Bratva interests protected.

The work is surgical, not brutal. I leave the blood to Pavel.

My cousin understands violence in ways I never needed to; I understand leverage, pressure points, and how to make powerful men believe their choices are their own.

A waiter passes with champagne flutes. I wave him off and scan the crowd again, categorizing threats out of habit.

The blonde near the bar works for a rival firm; she’s campaign data analytics, mostly harmless.

The man in the navy suit talking to Harlow’s chief of staff is new money trying to buy access he doesn’t understand.

The woman in red by the silent auction table is exactly what she appears to be: a trophy wife bored enough to cause problems later.

Then my gaze catches on something that disrupts the pattern.

A woman in black stands in a tight circle near the donor tables, tablet in hand, her posture radiating the kind of confidence that comes from competence rather than posturing.

Her hair falls long and dark past her shoulders.

The dress she’s wearing is tailored precisely—not the kind of thing you pick up off a rack.

It hugs her body in ways that make my attention linger longer than it should, the fabric pulling across her hips and the soft curve of her waist in a way that suggests she chose it knowing exactly what it would do.

She’s curvy in a way that makes her impossible to overlook, and she carries herself without apology. No shrinking and no self-consciousness. She plants her heels and takes up space.

I don’t recognize her, which is unusual. I make it my business to know everyone in rooms that matter.

She’s speaking to Gerald Whitmore, one of the senior donors whose generosity is less about civic duty and more about keeping certain audit triggers from landing on the wrong desks.

Whitmore is sixty-three, used to deference, and visibly irritated.

The woman gestures toward her tablet, her voice calm but clear enough to carry.

“The allocations you reported don’t match the invoices filed with the compliance office.” She tilts the screen toward him. “You claimed eighty thousand for digital ad buys in the third quarter, but the actual media spend was forty-two.”

Whitmore’s jaw tightens. He tries to wave her off with the kind of dismissive chuckle men like him have perfected over decades. “I’m sure there’s been some confusion with the paperwork.”

“There hasn’t been.” She scrolls without breaking eye contact. “The discrepancy shows up in three separate filings. I pulled the reports this afternoon.”

The group around them goes quiet. I shift my weight, angling closer without moving from my position. This is either reckless or calculated, and I need to know which.

Whitmore’s smile thins. “Miss…?”

“Clarke. Diana Clarke, with Clarke she’s framing it as a mutual problem that needs solving. It gives him an exit that doesn’t involve losing face entirely.

Whitmore glances around, aware that others are watching now. His voice drops, but I catch the edge of forced civility. “I’ll have my team send over the corrected documents.”

“Within forty-eight hours,” she says, and it’s not a question.

He hesitates, then nods stiffly. “Fine.”

She taps something into her tablet, then looks up with a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Whitmore.”

The circle disperses slowly, conversations resuming with the awkward energy of people pretending they weren’t eavesdropping.

Whitmore walks off toward the bar, his shoulders tight. Diana Clarke stays where she is, exchanging a brief word with a colleague—a younger man in an ill-fitting suit who looks both impressed and nervous.

She laughs at something he says, controlled and easy, aware that she’s still being observed. The optics are deliberate. She made her point without turning it into a spectacle, but she didn’t back down either.

I take a slow sip of whiskey and reassess.

She’s competent. That much is obvious.

Except competence in this world is often a liability, especially when it comes attached to someone who asks the wrong questions in front of the wrong people.

Whitmore’s donation history runs through accounts Pavel and I spent months structuring to stay invisible. If she’s digging into compliance filings, she’s one or two layers away from connections that can’t be explained away.

Oleg moves closer, his presence barely noticeable in the crowd. I don’t look at him directly.

“The woman in black,” I say quietly. “Diana Clarke. Find out who she works for and what else she’s been auditing.”

He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s already memorizing her face.

I watch her navigate toward the hallway that leads to the VIP lounge, her stride confident, her hips swaying in a way that makes the dress shift with every step.

The soft weight of her body, the way the fabric stretches across her thighs—it’s distracting in a way I don’t allow. I’ve spent years perfecting control, reducing variables, eliminating anything that could compromise focus. Desire is a weakness I don’t indulge.

And yet.

I set the glass down on a passing tray and follow.

The hallway near the VIP lounge is quieter, insulated from the ballroom noise by heavy doors and thick carpet. I’m halfway down the corridor when she rounds the corner without looking and collides directly into my chest.

Her breath catches. I steady her instinctively, hands closing around her waist, and the contact sends a jolt of awareness straight through me. She’s warm beneath the fabric, solid and soft in equal measure, her body pressing briefly against mine before she steps back.

Her eyes flick up—sharp, dark, assessing—and I see the moment she decides I’m not a threat. Or at least, not the kind she needs to worry about immediately.

“Sorry,” she says, though her tone suggests she’s more annoyed at herself than apologetic. “Didn’t see you.”

“Happens.” I don’t let go right away, my fingers lingering at the curve of her waist longer than necessary. “You alright?”

“Fine.” She smooths her dress, her gaze sweeping over me in a quick appraisal. I watch her categorize me the same way I did her—tailored suit, no visible security detail, expensive watch but nothing flashy. She assumes I’m another strategist, someone adjacent to power but not wielding it directly.

She’s wrong, but I don’t correct her.

“Let me guess,” she says, a dry edge creeping into her voice. “You’re heading to one of those closed-door sessions where men convince themselves immunity comes standard.”

I almost smile. Almost. “That’s a cynical assessment.”

“It’s an accurate one.” She crosses her arms, and the motion shifts the neckline of her dress just enough that I have to force my gaze back to her face. “I’ve been to enough of these events to know how the script goes.”

“You’re here to…?”

“Make sure the script includes footnotes.” Her mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile but close. “Someone has to care about transparency.”

“Dangerous habit in a room full of people who prefer shadows.”

“Good thing I’m not particularly risk-averse.”

The space between us tightens without either of us moving. I notice the subtle tremor in her breath, the way her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat. She’s aware of me now—not just as another body in a crowded venue, but as something that demands attention.

I lower my voice, testing. “You should be careful about asking questions people don’t want answered.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s heat beneath the skepticism. “Well, you should be careful about assuming I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The defiance mixed with awareness is intoxicating. She’s not intimidated, but she’s not oblivious either. She feels the shift in the air between us, the weight of proximity and unspoken threat, and she holds her ground anyway.

I should let her walk away.

Instead, I step aside and gesture toward the ballroom. “After you.”

She hesitates, just for a second, then moves past me. I follow, close enough that my hand finds the small of her back again, ostensibly guiding her through the returning crowd but really just because I want to touch her.

The dress pulls tight across her hips as she walks, fabric stretched over the generous curve of her ass, and I memorize every detail—the way her body moves, the confidence in her stride, the way she doesn’t flinch when I keep my palm pressed against her even after we clear the narrow hallway.

She glances back once, her expression unreadable, and I meet her gaze without dropping my hand.

When we reach the edge of the ballroom, she steps away smoothly, creating distance that feels deliberate. “Thanks for the escort.”

“Anytime.”

She gives me one last assessing look, then disappears into the crowd near the silent auction tables.

I don’t follow this time. I’ve already taken more risks tonight than I allow myself in a month.

Oleg reappears at my side, silent and expectant.

“Diana Clarke,” I say quietly, my eyes tracking her across the room even as I force myself to turn away. “I need a background check on her. Something tells me there’s more than meets the eye.”

“You got it, Boss.”

I don’t look back at her as I leave, but the shape of her stays burned into my mind—the weight of her waist beneath my hands, the challenge in her voice, the way she didn’t step back when she should have.

I already know I’ll see her again.

Oleg walks with me toward the valet station, his expression neutral but his silence pointed. He knows better than to ask questions I haven’t invited, but twenty years working together means he reads me well enough to sense when something’s shifted.

“Background check,” he says eventually, voice low. “Standard depth or comprehensive?”

“Comprehensive.” I pause near the marble column outside the ballroom entrance, adjusting my watch. “Employment records, financial activity, social connections. If she’s filed anything with campaign oversight offices in the last two years, I want copies.”

“She made Whitmore uncomfortable.” Oleg’s tone is flat, observational. “That takes either ignorance or confidence.”

“She’s not ignorant.”

“Then she’s dangerous.”

I consider that. Dangerous implies threat, and threat requires response. What I felt in that hallway wasn’t threat—it was possibility. The difference matters, even if I can’t articulate why.

“What’s the concern?” Oleg presses. “She digs into donor allocations. If she traces Whitmore’s funding sources back far enough—”

“She won’t get that far.” I meet his gaze directly. “I want to know if she’s already started, though.”

He studies me for a beat too long, and I know what he’s thinking. This isn’t standard risk assessment. Standard would be flagging her file and moving on. This is personal interest wrapped in operational justification.

“How soon do you need it?”

“Tomorrow morning. Early.”

Oleg nods once, then adds carefully, “People are going to ask why we’re spending resources on a marketing consultant.”

“It’s precautionary.” My jaw tightens. “She confronted a donor we’ve spent months protecting. That makes her relevant.”

“Understood.” He doesn’t push further, but the skepticism lingers in his expression as he turns toward the valet line.

I head toward my car, ignoring the tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with operational security and everything to do with the memory of her waist beneath my hands.