Dark Confession (Chicago Bratva #1)

Chapter 1

ASTRID

People talk about Paris like it’s a dream.

For me, it feels more like a dare.

The boarding pass gets checked again.

First class. An entire month of ramen sacrificed for this seat, and not a single regret.

Breathe, Astrid. You’ve waited all your life for this day.

Heat bites through the cardboard sleeve of a double-shot espresso from the café across from the gate, grounding me as my fingers curl tighter around the cup.

For a moment, everything slows.

What if I get to Paris and open a door that was locked for a reason?

The thought tightens in my chest.

My grip shifts as my breath comes too fast.

I never see it coming.

A sudden impact slams into my side.

The world lurches. Burning liquid surges over the rim of the cup and straight down my wrist, heat sharp and immediate.

“Shit,” I hiss, yanking my hand back on instinct.

“Oh my God,” a woman cries. “I am so sorry. He just ran off.”

A small boy clings to her leg, staring at me like he’d do it again if I test him.

So this is how I die. Taken out by a tiny human. Velcro shoes and zero remorse.

“It’s fine,” I lie.

My wrist throbs like a pulse under my skin, the flesh already screaming, heat blooming beneath the surface.

The woman hustles her child away, apologies trailing behind her. I cradle my wrist against my chest.

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck!,” I whisper to myself.

The ache doesn’t fade.

I press my lips together, blinking hard as tears prick the backs of my eyes.

“Here.”

A man crouches in front of me, holding a small cup of melting ice. He’s tall even folded down to my level.

He moves with quiet purpose, like he already decided what to do.

Zero hesitation.

I didn’t see or hear him approach.

“You burned yourself,” he says calmly.

His voice rolls over me like warm honey over gravel.

His accent is faint but unmistakable, rolling low and smooth beneath the words. Eastern European. Russian, maybe?

Whatever it is, it sinks under my skin and settles somewhere… inconvenient.

His face is striking in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

Strong jaw. Straight nose.

High cheekbones that give him a severe, almost aristocratic edge.

Dark hair cut short on the sides, longer on top, threaded with silver at the temples like a warning he’s earned. My gaze drops before I can stop it.

Big calloused hands. Scarred knuckles. Clean nails. A watch at his wrist that looks expensive without being flashy.

He’s the kind of man who doesn’t notice when people stare, probabaly because he’s used to it.

"I'm fine, really." Another lie.

He ignores me. He takes my wrist with steady hands, warm fingers bracing my palm, and presses the ice directly to the burn.

Wide palms. Long fingers. They swallow my wrist easily, and the size difference hits me like a second shock.

I’ve always been hyperaware of my body. Its softness. Its curves.

Right now, I feel small. Tiny infact.

My brain short-circuits next to him.

Heat coils low in my stomach, completely unrelated to the burn.

The cold from the ice is sharp, glorious relief crashing through me so suddenly my breath stutters.

"Breathe," he murmurs, low and grounding.

Not loud. Not rushed. Like he expects me to listen. "I've got you."

My pulse stumbles. His thumb presses just a fraction firmer, like he’s aware of exactly how much pressure I can take.

I inhale. Slowly.

He keeps the ice in place, firm but careful, his thumb anchoring my wrist just beneath the worst of the burn.

He doesn’t hover.

Doesn’t fuss.

He handles me like he expects me to respond, like control is a shared language between us and not something he needs to explain.

"I saw what happened," he says. "You took that better than most would."

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” I admit quietly, hyperaware that my skin feels too thin where he’s touching me.

My gaze lifts.

The color of his eyes hits me like a bull dozer. Storm-gray. Sharp. Unflinching. Framed by thick lashes that soften nothing. Silver threads through his dark hair, a quiet promise of experience earned, not given.

His gaze doesn’t just meet mine. It drags, slow and deliberate, as if he’s cataloging reactions I didn’t know I was giving away.

And his scent, clean cedar and leather with something darker beneath it, settles deep in my chest.

Expensive. Masculine. Controlled.

My stomach flips.

Nope. Not today!

I do not have the emotional bandwidth for a man who looks like a bad decision my body is already voting hell yes to.

The ice stays pressed to my skin. His fingers do not rush. They linger, steadying me as much as the cold itself.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

It’s painfully clear this man sees straight through my bullshit so I tell him the truth.

“Yes.” I admit. “But it’s much better.”

"Good." He adjusts the ice slightly, his touch slow enough to qualify as foreplay. "Five minutes."

I nod, suddenly very aware of how close he is. Of the way my skin tingles beneath his touch even where the ice doesn't touch.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he says evenly, as if the thought never occurred to him not to.

That simple statement lands heavier than it should.

"How did you react so fast? I didn't even see you coming."

"Practice."

Clearly he’s not the talkative type.

His eyes hold mine a beat too long.

I swallow hard. He's reading me. Peeling me open without even trying.

“You always rescue strangers?” I ask, attempting to break the trance.

“Only the ones who catch my eye.”

The words land low.

Intentional.

My pulse stumbles. Yep. Definitely flirting.

“Your accent,” I say softly, more breath than question. “Where are you from?”

His thumb stills for half a second.

“Russia.”

“It… suits you,” I add before I can stop myself.

His gaze sharpens. “Thank you.”

He releases my wrist slowly, like he’s making sure I’m steady before letting go.

“You don’t like accepting help, do you?”

The question slides under my ribs and stays there.

“Does it show that much?” The corner of my mouth quirks.

Something warm flickers in his eyes.

“There’s cold water and aloe in the restroom up front,” he says, practical again, grounding us back in the moment. “Ask the attendant. They’ll help.”

“I will.” I hesitate, then add, “Thank you, again. For… stepping in.”

His mouth curves faintly. Not a smile. Something quieter. More private.

“I’m Astrid,” I say.

He studies me for a quiet beat, eyes steady. Unreadable.

“Nice to meet you, Astrid. I’m Yuri.”

He says my name like it tastes good, like he plans to say it again just to test the sound.

Then, unhurried, he straightens and takes the seat across from me, settling in like this was always where he planned to be.

The shift of his jacket exposes the edge of a tattoo along his collarbone, black ink trailing over skin I shouldn’t be imagining. It’s bold, controlled, the mark of a man who never does anything halfway.

His gaze lowers for a fraction of a second before lifting again.

Controlled. Brief.

The boarding announcement breaks the silence, too loud, too soon.

I glance toward the gate, then back at him, my pulse still tracing the echo of his voice.

“Sounds like we’re boarding.”

I lift my bag, though every instinct in me resists leaving. Our eyes meet again, closer than they should be, the air between us thinning.

“Enjoy Paris, Astrid.”

He says my name slowly. Intentionally. Not a goodbye.

I walk away without looking back.

By the time I reach the gate, the truth settles in.

This isn’t finished.