Lobanov Bratva Obsession (Lobanov Bratva #6)

Chapter One

Elena’s POV

The numbers never lie.

I'd built a career on that singular truth. Columns aligned. Transactions balanced. Paper trails surfaced exactly where I'd anticipated, meticulous and damning in equal measure. Tonight was no different.

I left the conference room on the forty-second floor of Carter working late outside my residence was another.

The building was practically silent, and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound as I crossed the marble lobby.

My heels echoed sharply against polished stone.

Outside, Manhattan glittered with its usual cold indifference—traffic lights cycling through empty intersections, steam rising from subway grates, the city breathing in the rhythm I'd learned long ago to trust.

I didn't trust silence.

The parking garage entrance loomed ahead, its entrance dark and uninviting. I slowed my pace fractionally, letting my gaze sweep the street. A black sedan idled half a block down, engine running. No headlights. I cataloged it almost unconsciously—make, model, tinted windows—and kept walking.

My uncle Sergei had taught me to notice cars that didn't belong. He'd also taught me other things, but I'd chosen law school instead.

I descended into the garage, and the temperature dropped by about ten degrees.

Concrete walls swallowed the noise from above, replacing it with the hollow drip of condensation and the hum of ventilation systems. My car sat in its designated spot on sublevel two, a silver Mercedes gleaming under harsh LED strips.

Then I felt it. The silence seemed ominous. Like it wasn’t just normal. I looked to the right, my eyes looking for anything unusual. Then, turned to the left. There was nothing unusual. Still, it didn’t feel right.

My instincts flared three seconds before the world turned violent.

A hand clamped over my mouth from behind, cutting off the scream before it could form.

Another arm wrapped around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides with terrifying efficiency.

My briefcase clattered to the concrete. I tried to twist, to drive my heel down onto an instep, but whoever held me anticipated the movement and shifted his weight, neutralizing the attempt before I could complete it.

There was no shouting. No chaos. Just controlled, surgical precision.

A second man appeared in my peripheral vision, moving with the same practiced silence. He bent to retrieve my briefcase while a third man secured my wrists with a zip tie that bit into my skin. The whole operation took less than thirty seconds.

I forced myself to breathe through my nose, counting the inhales, cataloging details. Three men. Professional. Coordinated. The one holding me smelled faintly of expensive cologne and gunpowder residue. His grip was deliberate—restraining without bruising, controlling without cruelty.

I became acutely, unwillingly aware of him.

The heat of his body against my back. The controlled strength in his forearms. The way his breathing remained steady while mine threatened to spiral.

Fear collided with something I refused to name, and I hated myself for noticing the difference between violence and precision.

A black SUV materialized from the shadows, its door already open. They lifted me and placed me inside with the same clinical efficiency. A blindfold came next, blocking out the garage's harsh lights and replacing them with velvet darkness.

The door slammed shut.

The engine purred to life, and we were moving.

I sat perfectly still, listening. Two men in the front seats—driver and passenger. One beside me in the back. The same one who'd restrained me. I could feel his presence like a physical weight. I could smell that same cologne mixed with something darker I couldn't identify.

My legal mind kicked into overdrive, overriding the panic trying to claw its way up my throat. Kidnapping. Federal crime. Crossing state lines elevated it further. If they'd harmed me, assault. If they searched my briefcase without a warrant, illegal seizure of attorney-client privileged material.

Well, if they killed me, none of it would matter.

I tested the zip tie experimentally, shifting my wrists. It didn't budge, but the movement made the man beside me shift slightly. Not touching me, but close enough that I could track his position.

"I wouldn't," he said.

His voice was low, controlled, with the faintest trace of an accent buried beneath perfect English. Russian. Of course it was Russian.

I turned my head toward the sound, even though the blindfold made it pointless. "So, under whose authority am I being taken?"

Silence.

But the way the man beside me tightened his hold, I knew my words landed.

I sighed loudly.

“You have suddenly grabbed me and are now taking me to God-knows-where. I demand to know who sent you,” I went on, my voice low but not friendly in the least.

More silence.

Okay, then.

The SUV made a series of turns—left, right, another left. I tried to track them, to build a mental map, but after the fifth turn, I lost orientation. We could be anywhere in Manhattan, or even out of it entirely.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere quiet."

"To kill me?"

"To talk."

"People who want to talk don't usually start with kidnapping."

"People who file lawsuits like yours don't usually survive long enough for conversation."

There it was. Confirmation.

I'd known the lawsuit would provoke a response. But sitting here, blindfolded and bound, the abstract threat crystallized into something visceral and immediate. Never did I expect it to come so soon.

"Then why am I still breathing?"

"Because I haven't decided yet."

“Sounds to me like it’s not your decision to make,” I commented, wishing I could actually roll my eyes at him just to spite him.

He didn’t respond.

Of course.

We drove in silence for what felt like an eternity, but was probably just twenty minutes. When the SUV finally stopped, I heard the unmistakable sound of a garage door closing behind us.

Private property. No witnesses.

My legal mind cataloged it all even as my body tensed involuntarily.

The door opened. Hands—definitely his hands—guided me out of the vehicle with the same controlled precision. His fingers wrapped around my upper arm, steadying me without hurting.

"Three steps down," he said quietly.

I descended carefully, hating that I had to trust his guidance. But what I hated even more was the fact that his touch felt oddly protective rather than threatening.

We walked across what sounded like concrete, then through a doorway. The air changed, becoming warmer and circulating. Hardwood floors replaced concrete. I heard the soft click of a door closing, then the muted sound of movement as the other men retreated.

We were alone.

He released my arm. I stood perfectly still, listening to him move around me. A drawer opened. Glass clinked against glass. Liquid poured.

"I'm going to remove the blindfold," he said. "Don't run."

"Where would I go?"

"Exactly."

The fabric lifted away, and I blinked against sudden light. It took several seconds for my vision to adjust, for the room to come into focus.

Expensive.

That was my first thought.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan's skyline. Minimalist furniture that costs more than most people's cars. Dark wood, leather, and steel. Everything is designed to intimidate without being obvious about it.

Then I saw him.

Damian Lobanov stood near the windows, silhouetted against the city lights. Six-three height that was sure intimidating. Broad shoulders that filled out a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Jet black hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it too many times. And, his eyes.

They were blue, utterly unreadable, and fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

He held a crystal tumbler in one hand, the amber liquid catching the light.

He was lethal control personified, no two ways about it. His stance was still, watchful.

"You're very composed," he observed.

"I'm very expensive," I corrected. "My firm charges six hundred dollars an hour. This interruption is costing someone a significant amount of money."

"Money isn't the issue."

"Then what is?"

He leaned closer. Not touching, but close enough that I felt the shift in air pressure and caught another wave of that cologne. "You."

My pulse kicked, but I kept my breathing even. "I'm flattered."

"You shouldn't be."

"Elena Vasiliev," he said, and my name sounded different in his mouth. Familiar and dangerous. "You've made yourself a problem."

I lifted my chin, refusing to let him see how badly my heart was racing. "For whom?"

"Powerful men."

"Men who launder money through shell corporations and hide human trafficking behind real estate fronts?" I kept my voice level. "Yes, I imagine they're very displeased."

Something flickered in his expression. Not quite surprise, but something close.

"You're not begging," he observed.

"Would it help?"

"No."

I swallowed before speaking.

"Under federal statute 18 U.S.C. § 1201, kidnapping carries a minimum sentence of twenty years.

Crossing state lines makes it a mandatory federal case.

Interfering with an attorney actively engaged in litigation adds obstruction charges under 18 U.S.C.

§ 1503." I went on, keeping my voice steady.

"If you've touched the contents of my briefcase, you've violated attorney-client privilege, which means anything you've seen is inadmissible, and you've committed yet another felony. "

At first, he blinked silently at me.

Then, almost conversationally, he said, "You're not in a courtroom, Ms. Vasiliev."

"No," I agreed. "I'm in an unknown place, restrained and kidnapped, which adds additional charges of false imprisonment and unlawful detention. Every second you keep me here compounds your exposure."

He moved closer, circling me slowly. Predatory. Assessing. I forced myself to stand still, to not track his movement like prey watching a hunter.

"You filed a lawsuit," he said. "Very public. Very detailed. Naming specific corporations, specific transactions. You had to know what would happen."

"I'm a lawyer. Lawsuits are my job."

"Don't insult my intelligence." He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

"Right. I can’t say I’m surprised we’re having this.. conversation." I gestured with my bound wrists. "Though I would have preferred it without the zip ties."

He pulled a knife from his pocket—a sleek thing that looked perfectly balanced—and cut through the plastic in one smooth motion. The tie fell away, and I brought my hands forward, rubbing my wrists where the plastic had bitten into skin.

We stared at each other for a long moment. The air between us felt charged, crackling with tension that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second before returning to meet my gaze.

He moved away abruptly, finishing his drink in one swallow.

Then he moved to the door. He opened it, spoke quietly to someone I couldn't see, then closed it again.

"You'll be confined here," he said. "Under guard. Until I decide what to do with you."

"Protective custody or imprisonment?"

"Does it matter?"

"Legally, yes. Practically, probably not."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. "You really are a lawyer."

"Glad you noticed."

That was when two men walked in, heading straight towards me.

“I’m to personally oversee your detention until your ‘problem’ is solved,” Damian told me.

“Hm-mm,” I muttered as the two men stood on either side of me.

“You’re coming with us,” the one on my right informed.

I nodded once and walked with them.

Just a few feet to the magnificent door, I turned my neck back towards Damian.

“You know, there’s really no need to sugarcoat. I know the Lobanov name. And I know what happens to loose hands.”

He tilted his head a fraction, but his expression remained unreadable.

Voice calm, I continued, “Killing me won’t end the lawsuit—it will detonate it.”

He didn’t say anything, but the shift in the atmosphere was palpable, to me at least.

The man dragged me forward, forcing me to look away from the man whose eyes were fixed on me.

We walked past a few doors along a dimly lit hallway until we stopped in front of one at the end. The one on my left unlocked the door with a key, and the other one released me, standing behind me. I stepped inside the room, and they shut the door immediately, the click of the lock sounding final.

I stood alone in the room, overlooking a city that suddenly felt very far away. My phone was gone. My freedom was gone.

I wasn't sure what would happen next, but I wasn't scared.

Not yet.