The Bratva's Obsession (Obsession of the Month #6)

1. Celeste

CELESTE

The warehouse smells like rust and motor oil, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to die in it.

My father's hand is clammy on my elbow, his grip too tight to be protective.

He's not holding me because he's scared for me.

He's holding me because I'm his payment, and he wants to make sure I don't run before the transaction clears.

Twenty-four years of being his daughter, and this is what I'm worth: collateral for a gambling debt I didn't even know existed until three days ago.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.

Men in dark suits line the walls like soldiers waiting for orders.

I count them automatically because focusing on numbers is easier than focusing on the fact that my own father is about to hand me over to the Russian mob like I'm furniture he no longer needs.

"It'll be fine," my father mutters beside me, and I almost laugh.

Marcel Duval has been telling me things will be fine my whole life.

It was fine when he gambled away my college fund.

Fine when he pawned my dead mother's necklace for poker money.

Fine when the electricity got shut off for the third time in a year because he needed just one more bet, just one more chance.

I've stopped believing in his version of fine.

A door opens at the far end of the warehouse, and every man in the room straightens. The air changes, thickens, like the building itself is holding its breath. I watch the doorway, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

The man who walks through is nothing like I expected.

I'd imagined someone older. Softer. A businessman in an expensive suit who would look at me with cold calculation and see dollar signs.

Instead, the man coming toward us moves like violence given form.

He's massive, easily six-four, with shoulders that strain against his perfectly tailored jacket.

His hair is dark blond, cropped military-short, and his eyes are the palest blue I've ever seen.

Ice blue. Dead blue. The kind of blue that doesn't feel anything.

A scar bisects his left eyebrow, and another curves along his jaw like someone tried to cut his throat and almost succeeded. His hands are huge, knuckles scarred, and I find myself wondering how many people those hands have killed.

My father's grip on my elbow tightens to the point of pain.

"Mr. Sorokin," he says, and his voice actually breaks. My father, who has spent my entire life pretending he's important, sounds like a child about to be scolded. "Thank you for agreeing to meet. I have the, uh, the arrangement we discussed."

Viktor Sorokin doesn't look at him. He's looking at me.

Those ice-blue eyes trace over my face, my body, my hands, which I've clasped in front of me so no one can see them shaking. His expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his gaze. Something I can't name.

"This is the payment?" His voice is deep, accented, cold enough to freeze the blood in my veins. He still hasn't looked at my father. He's still looking at me.

"Yes, yes. My daughter, Celeste. She's, uh, she's very well-behaved. Won't cause any trouble. She can cook, clean, whatever you need. She was in college before, so she's smart, and?—"

"I didn't ask for a résumé." Viktor cuts him off without raising his voice, and my father actually flinches.

The room feels smaller suddenly, tighter, like all the oxygen has been sucked out.

Viktor takes a step closer to me, and I force myself not to back away.

I don't cower. I've never cowered for anyone, and I'm not about to start now.

He stops about a foot away, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

Up close, the scars are more prominent, telling stories I'll probably never know.

His jaw is granite, his expression unreadable.

"She's not a payment." The words are directed at my father, but his eyes—those cold, steel-gray eyes—stay locked on mine, unwavering. "She's a person."

Something cracks in my chest. Something I didn't even know was still intact after everything that's happened tonight, after standing here being bartered like livestock.

My father stammers behind me, trying to explain, to justify, to make this whole sordid transaction make sense, his voice pitching higher with desperation. Viktor silences him with a single raised hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout could ever be.

"Take her to the car," he says to one of the men standing silent and still by the wall, his tone leaving no room for discussion. Then, still looking at me, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly: "You'll be comfortable. You have my word."

I should argue. Scream. Fight. Spit in his face and make a run for it even though there are at least fifteen armed men between me and the door.

But there's something in his voice, something I don't understand, that makes me nod instead.

Just once. An acknowledgment between us that neither of us asked for this, but here we are.

I walk toward the door with my spine straight and my chin up. I don't look back at my father. I don't say goodbye. After twenty-four years, I don't have anything left to say to him.

The back of the black SUV is leather and silence. The driver doesn't speak. The man in the passenger seat doesn't even turn around. We pull out of the warehouse and onto the Brooklyn streets, and I watch the city lights blur past the tinted windows.

My father sold me to the Bratva.

The thought keeps circling in my brain like a shark. My father sold me. Like I was nothing. Like I was worth less than whatever he owed.

I wait for the tears to come, but they don't. I'm too numb for tears. Too shocked. The shaking I've been suppressing finally breaks through, and I wrap my arms around myself and let it happen. No one's watching. No one cares.

For the first time in my life, I'm valuable enough to keep.

The irony might kill me before the Bratva does.

The penthouse is on the Upper East Side, and it looks exactly like I expected a mob boss's home to look: all glass and steel and sharp angles. Cold. Beautiful. Completely devoid of warmth.

The elevator opens directly into the living space, which means there's no escape route I haven't already memorized. Top floor. No accessible stairwell. Windows that probably don't open. I'm not stupid enough to think I can run, but I'm not stupid enough to stop looking for options either.

A woman in her fifties meets us at the elevator. She has kind eyes and careful hands, and she introduces herself as Marta, the housekeeper. She leads me down a hallway lined with modern art that probably costs more than everything I've ever owned combined.

"This will be your room," she says, opening a door at the end of the hall. "Mr. Sorokin wants you to be comfortable."

I step inside and stop breathing.

The room is beautiful. A king-sized bed with crisp white linens.

A sitting area with a velvet loveseat. An en suite bathroom I can see through an open door, all marble and gleaming fixtures.

The closet is already stocked with clothes, and when I check the sizes, they're all mine.

How does he know my size? How does he know anything about me?

The windows don't open. I check twice.

"Am I a prisoner or a guest?" I ask, turning to face Marta.

She hesitates just long enough for me to get my answer. "You're under his protection."

The door closes behind her, and I wait for the lock to click.

It doesn't. Small mercy. I try the handle, and it turns easily.

I could walk out into the penthouse right now.

But go where? I don't have money, don't have a phone, don't have anywhere to run.

My father certainly won't take me back, assuming he'd even want to.

I sink onto the edge of the bed and press my hands to my face.

I'm alone. I've been alone my whole life, really, but this is different. This is alone in a stranger's home, surrounded by men who kill people for a living, with no idea what's going to happen to me tomorrow. Or the next day. Or ever.

I should cry. This seems like a crying situation. But instead, I laugh. It comes out bitter and sharp, echoing off the expensive walls.

"Well, Celeste," I say to the empty room. "You always wanted to matter to someone."

I can't sleep.

The bed is too soft, the room is too quiet, and my thoughts are too loud.

I've been lying here for hours, staring at the ceiling, running through every possible scenario in my head.

Most of them end with me dead. Some of them end with things worse than death.

None of them end with me walking out of here free.

Eventually, I give up on sleep and go to the window. The city stretches out below me, all glittering lights and moving cars, people living their lives without any idea that I'm up here. Trapped. Waiting.

I wonder if anyone will notice I'm gone. My coworkers at the diner might wonder for a day or two. My landlord will eventually realize I'm not paying rent. But will anyone actually look for me? Will anyone care?

Probably not.

I start to hum without thinking about it, an old habit from childhood.

It's a Billie Holiday song my mother used to sing when she was cooking dinner, back when she was alive, back when things were still okay.

Good Morning Heartache. The melody fills the quiet room, and for just a moment, I can almost pretend I'm somewhere else. Someone else.

A sound outside the door makes me freeze mid-hum, the melody dying in my throat.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, distinctly male, stopping right outside my room with an eerie precision.

I watch the shadow under the door, dark and unmoving, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib.

Whoever it is doesn't knock. Doesn't try the handle or announce themselves.

Just stands there on the other side of that thin barrier of wood, breathing steadily.

Existing in the silence. Waiting for something I can't begin to understand.

Minutes pass like hours. My pulse is so loud in my ears I'm sure whoever's out there can hear it through the door, can sense the rabbit-quick terror thrumming through my veins.

Then, without warning, the footsteps retreat, fading slowly down the hallway with that same measured pace, and I'm alone again with nothing but the echo of their presence.

I press my palm flat against the door, fingers splayed, feeling the lingering echo of whoever was there, the residual warmth or maybe just my imagination.

Viktor. It had to be Viktor. Standing outside my room in the dead hours of the night, not entering despite surely having the key, not speaking a single word, just watching over me or watching me. Guarding his newly acquired possession.

Or hunting, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

I don't sleep at all after that, keeping vigil by the door until the first gray light of dawn creeps across the floor.

In the morning, I find a tray outside my door. My favorite tea. Earl Grey with lavender, the specific blend I used to buy from the fancy shop near my apartment when I could afford it, which wasn't often. Fresh fruit, cut into perfect pieces. And a note, written in sharp, slashing handwriting:

You're safe here. — V

I stare at the note for a long time. At the tea I've never told anyone I prefer. At the care someone took to prepare this for me, specifically for me, when no one has ever bothered to learn what I like.

He's been watching me. Learning me. The monster who took me from my father knows me better than my father ever did.

I don't feel safe. But for the first time in my life, I feel seen.

I'm not sure which one terrifies me more.