Claimed by the Bratva Boss

Chapter 1

Willow

"Willow, this concept didn't work."

The director shoved the printed proposal back across the desk at me. "You weren't at the last pitch meeting, but I could tell you how it went. The investors' exact words were: nothing new. Do you understand what that means?"

I stayed where I stood, hands clasped in front of me, and said nothing.

He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and cleaned the lenses at a leisurely pace. His gaze settled on my face through that thin layer of glass—soft, friendly.

"If we don't break through this time, our department's project budget next quarter is going to get cut in half."

I nodded and smiled. My palms already started sweating.

If I had been some fresh graduate, I would've been moved by his patience and "guidance."

A gentle boss. A thoughtful warning. The perfect workplace role model.

Too bad I wasn't.

Tom Carson was an asshole. Anyone who had lasted three months in this building knew it.

He always smiled. Always spoke politely. Always played the office nice guy.

And he excelled at dumping the nastiest problems on the people under him, then stepping back to rake in the credit. If it worked, it was his leadership. If it blew up, it was your incompetence.

"I got it." I forced a professional smile. "I'll revise it and bring you a new version before I leave today."

I reached for the proposal. The second my fingers touched the edge, he pressed down on the other end and wouldn't let me pull it away.

"Hold on."

He rose.

His chair slid back a fraction. The wheels rolled over the floor with a dull grind that hit my eardrums like a warning bell.

It wasn't loud. It still made my whole body lock up.

I knew that move too well.

Every time he said "hold on," it meant that thing was about to happen. And every time, I just stood there and waited for it to be over.

Tom came around the desk and stopped behind me.

His steps barely made a sound on the carpet, but I felt him getting closer—cologne and that too-sweet coffee smell, sticky in the air like a film.

His hand landed on my shoulder.

"Honestly, why are you still playing innocent with me?" His voice dropped low, like he wanted it to feel intimate. "Your proposal sucks, but it isn't like I can't help you. You make me happy, and I'll rubber-stamp your stuff first from now on. No hold-ups."

"Girls like you—chubby girls—haven't even had a man yet, right?"

I didn't move.

He grabbed my ass hard, twice. Through the fabric of my skirt, it felt like a cold snake sliding over my skin, leaving something filthy behind.

My stomach clenched.

Blood surged up to my head, then drained out just as fast, leaving this ice-clear kind of focus.

Same shit.

He always cut me down first, then took what he wanted—like he could trick me into thinking being touched by him was some kind of favor.

I should've turned around and slapped him. I should've shoved him off and yelled loud enough for the whole department to hear what a predator he was.

Instead, I curled my fingers into fists until my nails dug into my palms.

I couldn't lose this job.

Bills didn't wait. Rent didn't wait.

So I stood there and waited for the nausea to sink back down, until I could speak again.

I turned slightly, slipping out from under his hand like it was nothing. I even kept that perfectly timed little shy look on my face.

"Mr. Carson," I said softly, "I'm going to go revise it now. I'll have it on your desk before I leave."

I didn't wait for an answer.

I turned, pulled the door open, and got out.

The second it shut behind me, the cold sweat finally broke down my back, soaking into my blouse, chilling enough to make me shiver.

I leaned against the hallway wall and closed my eyes.

Then I drew in a deep breath, straightened up, and walked back to my desk.

Like nothing had happened.

"Hey, Willow, wanna grab lunch together?"

Jessica in the seat ahead of me turned around. Her dark brown hair looked freshly washed, the ends still a little damp, making her round face look even smaller. When she smiled, her eyes curved into two sweet little crescents.

Most people saw her and thought: easy to get along with.

I did too, which made it hard to say no.

Jessica Harper was the only person in the whole department who actually talked to me.

It wasn't like everyone else was openly cruel. They were just distant—going to the cafeteria in groups without inviting me, cutting off break-room gossip the second they saw me coming.

That silence hurt more than straight-up hostility.

They didn't like me.

A fat girl. Average at best. Sitting in a spot a lot of people would've killed for.

Their looks said that seat shouldn't have been mine. That I must've done something dirty to keep it.

There was nothing I could say to explain it, and I knew explanations didn't matter. Most people believed the story they'd already written in their heads. Anything I said just sounded wrong.

"Okay," I said. "Jessica. Let's go."

I glanced at my watch. It was lunchtime.

The cafeteria was packed—trays clacking, voices overlapping, heat and noise everywhere.

I carried my tray past the line and, for some reason, ordered two of everything.

A burger, fries, a small salad, and a yogurt.

Jessica followed behind me with a plate of salad—so few leaves it looked like a joke, stacked all neat.

She glanced at my tray and her eyes creased with a smile.

"Willow, I seriously envy you," she said, and she sounded sincere. "You eat like that and don't worry about getting fat?"

She looked down at herself. "I could never. I am terrified of losing my shape. I always have to control my portions. I don't need a bigger bed—I need a boyfriend."

She said it like she was talking about the weather.

I didn't know if she meant it, or if I was being paranoid—maybe she was just lamenting that she couldn't eat what she wanted.

Still, the words went in anyway. Like a shard of glass under my skin.

I bit into my burger. It tasted like nothing. Whenever Tom happened, I usually drowned that tight, ugly feeling with a reckless lunch.

Eat enough. Eat until I was full. Eat until my brain went quiet.

But not that day. Same burger, same fries, same creamy sauce—yet it tasted like leftovers, cold and stale, just grease.

Yeah. That was probably why I never lost the weight.

I pushed a few fries around and mumbled, "I don't have a boyfriend, so I don't have to worry."

Jessica made a little "oh," then leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Don't worry about it. Tonight we go to a bar, and you just have to wiggle your finger. Men will come running."

Wiggle my finger?

Like that had anything to do with me.

Nobody wanted a fat girl.

I'd bartended long enough to see flirting and hookups on repeat, and none of it ever landed on me.

I'd watched men on barstools look right past me, eyes locking on the slimmer, prettier girl behind me.

I'd gotten used to it.

I started to say no, but Jessica leaned in more, her shoulder bumping mine. "Come on. You need a normal nightlife."

Nightlife.

The word almost made me laugh.

My nightlife was busy—pouring drinks, mixing cocktails, polishing glasses, watching everyone else's nights ignite and burn out. None of those stories were mine.

But I couldn't refuse her.

That was me. Even when I didn't want to, I couldn't get the word no past my throat.

I was like that as a kid. I stayed like that as an adult.

I always thought if I didn't refuse, people wouldn't leave. Then I learned some people stayed only because they hadn't found something better yet.

I heard myself say, "Okay."

Jessica smiled, those familiar crescent eyes.

So I agreed to meet her at the bar that night.

?????

That night, 9:00 p.m.

The music in the bar thumped so hard it pressed on my chest, bass like a heartbeat pounding outside my ears. Stage lights spun in waves, splashing over the bar like moving paint.

I leaned against the edge of the counter, both hands cupped around a bottle of beer.

Jessica danced in the middle of the floor. She looked loose, fearless. Her dark hair whipped and fell with every move, a smile hooked at the corner of her mouth. She swayed, then—under a wall of hungry stares—she slid her panties off and used them like a scrunchie, tying her hair up high.

Men formed a half-circle around her, whistles and laughter pouring into the light. She pulled every eye like she was a damn magnet.

I looked down and took a sip of beer. Cold.

The foam spread across my tongue. The bitterness faded fast.

She had guts. If it had been me, I never would've dared.

I finished one bottle and opened another.

Jessica danced for a long time. Three or four different guys rotated in and out near her. I stayed put.

The music changed a few times. I lost count.

The wood at the bar darkened where glasses left wet rings. I stared at one stain for a long time, waiting for it to fade.

"Baby, this is my friend, Willow."

When Jessica came back, a man's arm was around her shoulders.

She smiled, hooked herself into him, and tipped her chin toward me.

I looked at the guy beside her. He looked me over too.

Then he grinned.

"Oh, baby, your friend is a sumo wrestler." He kissed Jessica's cheek. "I like my women slim."

He laughed. Jessica laughed with him.

They leaned together, close like a brand-new couple.

Their laughter slid past my ear and mixed with the sharp fizz of beer, scratching my throat tight.

I drank another bottle.

I'd heard versions of that line too many times.

I wasn't even angry anymore. It was more like this numb, worn-down bluntness—like an old scar. It didn't hurt, but if you touched it, you remembered that it once did.

Jessica covered her mouth as she giggled, like she'd just remembered something. "Yeah, my friend has super strict meal standards. Even burgers—she has to eat two."

A few low chuckles rose nearby.

With my head swimming in alcohol, I followed their lead and slurred, "Burgers are good."

When Jessica finished laughing, she leaned into my ear, her breath warm with booze. "Upstairs. Room 805. I set it up for you."

She patted my shoulder. "An escort. I picked him special. Enjoy your night, girl."

I stared at her. She looked serious.

Something inside me that had been pulled tight all day—something like a wire—slackened just a little. Even if she was bullshitting. Even if I opened that door and found nothing.

I still wanted to believe, just once.

I lifted my chin and smiled. "Then thanks."

I slid off my barstool and headed for the stairs.

Jessica's voice didn't follow. The music swallowed it whole. The stairs were covered in thick carpet, and my steps made almost no sound.

The wall sconces were dim and sleepy, stretching my shadow into crooked shapes—now ahead of me, now behind.

I kept a hand on the wall and counted the room numbers.

807. 806. 804.

No 805.

The gear in my head jammed, stuck in place.

I kept walking. The booze kept surging and receding, pulsing behind my eyes. I pushed open a door—

Someone sat inside.

He lounged back on the couch, shirt open two buttons at the collar. The white fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. Warm light turned the skin beneath his collarbones a soft gold, the lines sharp like they'd been carved.

His shoulders were broad, his waist cut in. He looked like a bow drawn halfway back—loose, but ready to snap tight in a second.

Dark gray eyes slid over to me.

The second I met that gaze, the stuck gear in my head came loose and spun too fast to grab onto anything.

So damn handsome.

I swallowed, then casually pulled the door shut behind me.

He couldn't run now.

"Hey, handsome," I heard my voice roll out, thick and sticky, downright filthy, "I am gonna take real good care of you."