The Bratva Monster’s Curvy Captive (Rusnak Bratva #6)

Prologue – Elara

Gosh, I am livid.

The city hums behind me. Horns, slush, the faint hiss of snow melting against the curb, but all I hear is the pounding of my heart. My gloves are damp, my coat dusted white, yet I don’t feel the cold.

I feel betrayal.

I slam the car door hard enough to make the driver flinch and storm up the townhouse steps two at a time.

I’ve never hated my father more than I do at this moment.

My body trembles as I climb, my mind replaying everything I uncovered about my father, David Chang, just a few hours ago.

The papers are still in my bag—a set of shipping manifests that damn him completely.

My father. Using the museum’s collections to launder stolen art.

I’ve always known my father was a lying, cheating jerk, but I was born into this world, so there was only so much I could do.

Still, I’ve done everything in my power to stay away from it.

I don’t use the Chang name unless I have to, and although his influence could open a thousand doors, I’ve fought to earn everything on my own.

Including my position as an art restorer at the New York Museum.

Why can’t he realize I want nothing to do with him? And now, not only has he interfered with my career, but he’s also using the institution I love to clean his dirty money. It’s so wrong. Art is sacred. I won’t let him put his grubby hands on it.

I reach the front door and push my way inside, my anger rising with every step that brings me closer to him.

The foyer hits me like a punch of old money and bad memories. I left this place years ago, and every time I have to return, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

The marble floor gleams, black and white like a chessboard, polished so perfectly I can see my reflection in it. Fresh lilies sit in a tall crystal vase on the console table, their scent too sweet, too staged, like everything in this house.

Gold-framed mirrors line the walls, each one reflecting art pieces either stolen or bought through shady dealings. Ugh.

I follow the buzz of activity to the dining room. It’s enormous, with vaulted ceilings, glittering chandeliers, and walls dressed in silk and gold. The long mahogany table stretches almost the length of the room, already set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery that gleam under the warm light.

It’s only like this when Papa is preparing for one of his lavish dinners.

My unease deepens.

It’s not a good sign that he’s hosting a celebration right after moving stolen art for sale. It’s almost like he’s celebrating something—something dark and triumphant.

And I have a terrible feeling I’m about to find out what.

I bypass the staff, my gaze searching for him. I find his study door slightly ajar. I move toward it, ready to unleash the desperate, ugly truth I need him to face.

He stands at the head of his massive cherrywood desk, bathed in the soft light of a vintage Venetian lamp. He is on the phone.

“Yes.” His voice is clipped, just like his personality.

I watch him through the slight gap. He is every inch the tycoon.

David Chang, his silver hair immaculate against his aged but still striking face.

He wears an immaculate suit, tailored to perfection.

He is always polished, and his sharp eyes, currently focused on a point far beyond the room, reveal nothing at all.

He is a work of art, but one carved from ice and deceit.

“The asset will be ready for review tonight,” he says into the phone. “The transfer is delicate, but guaranteed. Yes, the usual channels are too noisy now. We must finalize the sale quickly, before the shipment discrepancies surface.”

He pauses. “Okay. Goodbye.”

He snaps the phone shut. I am poised to attack, the furious, damnable evidence burning through the fabric of my bag.

But I freeze. A lifetime of fear, of weariness, of trying to stay small and invisible around this man, keeps my hand from pushing the heavy door completely open.

I am furious enough to destroy him, yet I am terrified of what he might destroy in return.

He looks up, catching my image in the polished glass of a framed map. He smiles. It’s the charming, deadly smile he uses for clients.

“Come in, Elara. You’re just in time.”

He turns, his back already to me, expecting me to fall into place like a good daughter. Normally, I would. But the sight of his rehearsed smile snaps the last thread of my control.

I burst into the room. “You’re laundering stolen art through my museum,” I accuse, my voice shaking but loud enough to rattle the air in the silent room. I practically spit the words. “You’re dragging me into your crimes.”

He doesn’t flinch. Not a flicker of surprise, not a hint of panic. He walks to a crystal decanter on a small side table and pours a measure of dark amber liquid. His movements are slow, deliberate, the very picture of unbothered sophistication.

He turns back, swirling the glass, the lamplight catching the reflection.

His smile is cool, utterly dismissive. “Elara, you always were dramatic.” He takes a sip, savoring the taste before dismissing my entire life’s work, my integrity, my fear.

“Go upstairs. Dress properly. We have guests tonight.”

His calmness chills me more than any denial would. He doesn’t even bother to pretend. There is no surprise, no anger, only weary annoyance that I’m making noise before his performance. He knows I know, and he simply doesn’t care. My fury means nothing to him.

“I won’t dress up for your parade of thieves,” I whisper, the fire in my lungs shrinking into a hollow, empty ache.

He sets his glass down with a precise thunk.

“You will do what you are told,” he states, his voice low but sharp enough to cut.

He looks me up and down—my thick coat, my angry eyes—and then turns back toward the doors with a sigh.

“Look, Elara, this is a very important night, okay? Don’t ruin it for me. ”

I’m about to retort when he raises a perfect, elegant hand and claps once.

The study door swings open and two familiar hulks step in—Chul and Haneul, Papa’s trusted shadows.

I’ve grown up with them at the edges of every argument, every threat; they are the muscle behind Papa’s silver tongue, his favorite intimidation tools, and I hate them with the kind of hatred that tastes like metal.

Papa’s smile never wavers. He inclines his head toward me, polite and poisonous. “Please, gentlemen. Escort my dear daughter to her room, and bring her down only when she’s fully dressed and ready to be social.”

Translation, loud and clear: Keep her locked away until she behaves.

I hold his gaze until my vision blurs with fury. He holds mine back, unruffled, the smile still carved on his face.

“This way, ma’am,” Chul says, stepping forward and motioning to the doorway.

They mean what they say. Both men move with that slow, casual readiness that doesn’t need words, the kind of readiness that can turn into force in a blink. I could resist. I could scream. But it would be stupid. No one is coming to save me.

I know the look on my father’s face when he’s annoyed: cold, small, and dangerous. I remember what resistance costs in this house.

So I keep my head high and follow them down the corridors, the marble swallowing the sound of our footsteps, until we reach the door to my room. They open the door and usher me inside before slamming it shut behind me. The sound echoes like a verdict.

Tears sting my eyes, but I take a deep breath and look around.

My room is exactly as I left it. Clean. Too clean, so I know the staff comes here to clean regularly. I haven’t lived in this room for years.

The walls are still painted that soft blush pink I begged for when I was fifteen, back when I thought color could make me feel safe.

The white canopy bed sits perfectly made, lace curtains falling like spiderwebs around the edges.

My childhood vanity gleams under the chandelier light, a neat row of old perfume bottles, frozen in time.

Framed photos of a smiling girl I hardly recognize line the shelves.

It was me, before I understood what being a Chang really meant.

It’s a room for a daughter my father once pretended to love.

I left this room years ago, the same way I left the name that built it.

I shake off the rush of nostalgia that creeps up my spine and stride toward the closet, yanking it open. My breath catches. Hanging right in the center, surrounded by soft silk pastels, is a dress I’ve never seen before. Midnight blue. Sleek. Expensive. And completely wrong.

Of course. My father always plans ten steps ahead. Even for my rebellion. Even for my humiliation.

“What a jerk,” I mutter under my breath.

I snatch the dress off its hanger and pull it on, the satin whispering against my skin as I tug it into place. When I turn to the mirror, I freeze. The neckline plunges far too low, and when I try to pull the hem together to cover my cleavage, it only makes the fabric cling tighter.

A bitter laugh escapes me. “What kind of bastard picks out a dress like this for his daughter?”

My reflection doesn’t answer, just stares back at me—angry, ashamed, and burning with defiance.

I want to yank the dress off and run back to my cold little apartment, to the museum’s fluorescent hum and the honest dust on the canvases.

But Papa would make a spectacle of that.

He would drag me back, humiliate me publicly, and make me perform contrition.

So I tuck the panic down, smooth the skirt with hands that are suddenly too shaky, and step out.

Chul and Haneul fall into step beside me like twin sentinels. They nod once when I appear; the motion is automatic and polite, the sort of courtesy that always tastes like a threat. We take the winding steps down, and the hallway opens into the dining room.

I’m ushered in and seated at the long mahogany table. The guests are men I don’t recognize—foreign, powerful, the kind who wear perfectly tailored suits but whose eyes gleam with something darker.

At the head of the table, my father presides like a conductor. He smiles in his usual practiced way and lifts his glass in a tiny, approving motion as if I’ve performed exactly as planned.

“Ah,” he says, loud enough for all the guests to hear. “Elara. You look…magnificent.”

The words are a trap dressed as a compliment. But I remain polite. “Thank you.”

My chair is cold. The dress clings. I tuck my hands in my lap and force a smile I can feel cracking at the edges.

Papa nods at me and begins the ritual: polite chatter, toasts, a laugh.

There are lines about art, about philanthropy, about potential buyers flown in from Europe.

I hear the phrases now with a different ear—code I have seen in manifests, hints of shipments and routing, of crates that will never be registered in museum records but will disappear into private hands.

Soon, we begin to eat.

Throughout dinner, their attention on me is suffocating. I can feel their gazes pressing down on me, heavy and intrusive, but I keep my eyes on my plate, pretending to focus on my food.

With every passing minute, though, their stares burrow deeper, burning through the thin fabric of my composure, heating my skin until I can barely breathe.

When I finally look up, I realize it isn’t curiosity.

It’s appraisal.

Every pair of eyes is on me, including my father’s.

He flashes me a smile, the kind that never reaches his eyes, and lifts his glass in a deliberate, almost theatrical motion.

“To alliances,” he says smoothly, “and beautiful, binding contracts.”

The guests echo him, voices deep and approving.

“To alliances and beautiful, binding contracts.”

The words hang in the air, rich with meaning and poison. He doesn’t say it outright, but he doesn’t need to. The truth crashes over me like ice water. This dinner isn’t about business. It’s about me.

My father is putting me on display.

Auctioning me off behind the glitter of crystal and wine.

I grip my glass so tightly my knuckles ache, and I’m certain it will shatter in my hand. My pulse hammers in my ears, my throat tight with fury I can’t afford to unleash.

Two truths slice through me in that moment, clean and merciless:

My father will never see me as anything but currency.

And if I ever want a life of my own, I’ll have to run.

I wait a few more minutes, forcing myself to breathe evenly, then rise to my feet. My chair scrapes softly against the marble floor, the sound far too loud in the tense room. I nod toward my father, silently asking to be excused.

Chul and Haneul turn to me instantly, their movements sharp, predatory, ready to drag me back into my seat if Papa so much as frowns.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, my father waves one dismissive hand, a lazy flick of his wrist that somehow feels both indulgent and demeaning. Normally, I’d burn under the insult of it. Tonight, I’m just grateful.

Relief rushes through me like air after drowning.

Chul and Haneul step aside, watching me with cold obedience as I move toward the door. I can feel the stares burning into my back, curious, assessing, demeaning.

I reach the door, push it open, and step out. The murmur of conversation fades behind me. I slam the door shut and lean against it, my chest heaving, my heart galloping against my ribs.

For the first time all night, I can breathe.

“David, why would you let your daughter leave?” a man’s voice says from the other side of the door. “We were enjoying the show.”

“Don’t worry,” my father replies smoothly, as if discussing the weather. “My daughter will be back. Her hand will seal our business; she’s my currency.”

I feel the air leave me. The words land like blows.

My throat tightens, and my vision blurs at the edges.

Hatred roars up through my ribs so hot it feels like fire.

Tonight, I decide, I will run, but not before I make sure David Chang understands exactly what he’s lost. I’ll destroy him in a way he can never recover from.