Page 35 of Brutal Bratva’s Owned Hostage

Camila resumed her shift less than an hour after I arrived, pulling me into a hug tight enough to knock the air out of me before immediately launching into an update on everything I’d missed.

“Okay, first, that man at table six has been asking for you specifically for weeks; he’s going to lose his mind. Second, management redid the drink menu, and it’s somehow worse than before. Third, I need you to tell me everything, and I mean everything, that you’ve been holding back on the phone.”

“I’ve told you most of it.”

“You’ve told me a curated highlight reel. I want the parts you left out.” She grinned, looping her arm through mine as we moved toward the bar to restock our trays. “How’s married life, really? Beyond the parts you’ve already given me.”

“Strange. Good, mostly. Still strange.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

I laughed, something easing in my chest at the familiar rhythm of her teasing, at the ordinary comfort of a friendship that had nothing to do with Golovins. “I’ve given you the answer I have.”

“Hmm? In the meantime, table six is staring at you like a man who’s forgotten how card games work.”

I glanced over discreetly and found him exactly where she’d said. He was a regular I vaguely remembered from before everything happened, and he was watching me with the kind of harmless interest that used to make me roll my eyes and now, given everything I’d survived since, felt almost quaint in its simplicity.

“You should go easy on him,” Camila said, following my gaze. “Poor man doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. A married woman with a security detail and a husband who apparently shoots people who upset her.”

“That’s not exactly the reputation I was hoping to build.”

“Too late now. You’re basically a legend on this floor.” She squeezed my arm once before peeling off toward her own section. “Go be legendary. I’ll check on you at the break.”

For a few hours, moving through the familiar floor, I almost felt normal again. I refilled drinks, navigated around tables without spilling anything, exchanged easy small talk with regulars who had no idea what my life actually looked like now. The security detail Dmitri had insisted on stayed discreet, positioned at a careful distance, close enough to reach me quickly if anything went wrong but far enough that I didn’t feel constantly watched.

Then the men arrived.

At first, it seemed like the ordinary attention occasionally directed my way, the kind I’d learned to manage years ago without much difficulty—standing too close, lingering comments said as compliments. I handled it the way I always had—polite, professional, putting distance between us wherever the floor allowed.

But it escalated faster than I expected.

One of them, broad-shouldered and clearly used to getting whatever he wanted without much resistance, deliberately blocked my path between two tables, close enough that I had to step back to keep from bumping into him.

“I asked you a question,” he said, something ugly sliding under the surface charm he’d been wearing a moment earlier. “Are you a real Latina or…?”

“I’m sorry, I have other tables waiting.”

“Other tables can wait.” He reached out, fingers closing loosely around my wrist, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to stop me from stepping past him. “I don’t think you understood me the first time.”

His friend laughed, low and unpleasant, saying something crude enough that heat rushed up the back of my neck, humiliation and fear tangling together in a way I hadn’t felt on this floor in years.

“Let go of my wrist,” I said, keeping my voice as level as I could manage despite the tremor already building.

“Or what,” the first man said, grinning like the question itself was entertainment. “You’ll cry to management? I’ve been coming to this lounge longer than you’ve been alive, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to do anything about a little conversation.”

I searched instinctively for security, for anyone who might intervene before this went further, my pulse climbing fast enough that I could feel it in my throat. The helplessness of being physically held in place by someone stronger made the whole room feel dangerously small.

Before I could fully process what was happening, the air in the room changed.

Dmitri didn’t enter loudly. He never did, not even in rooms he owned outright. He simply arrived, and the entire atmosphere shifted the second his presence registered, with conversation dying at the nearest tables and movement stilling in a ripple that spread outward from wherever he appeared.

The man holding my wrist recognized him almost instantly, his grip loosening, some of the earlier bravado draining from his face.

Dmitri didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Remove them,” he said, his tone quiet and absolute, the words carrying more weight than any shout could have. “Now.”

Security moved immediately, two men appearing on either side of the guest still holding my wrist, extracting him with the kind of unyielding pressure that left no room for argument. His friend went quietly too, whatever confidence he’d been showing evaporating completely under the authority radiating off Dmitri without him having moved an inch closer.