Page 6 of Brutal Bratva’s Owned Hostage

“I understand that. It doesn’t change the fact that people saw you in that room last night.”

“Then I’ll tell the police I saw nothing. I’ll say I fainted before anything happened. I’ll say whatever keeps me out of your family’s business permanently.”

“It’s not the police I’m worried about.” His voice stayed level, patient in a way that made my skin crawl in irritation. “Someone planned that raid to hit our legal floor and the private game in the same ten minutes. That takes real intelligence into our operation. Whoever’s behind it isn’t finished just because their men are dead. And right now, they don’t know who saw what. You’re a loose end to them, whether you want to be or not.”

“So what, I’m supposed to just accept that I’m in danger because you say so?”

“Yes,” he answered with no hesitation at all.

“I don’t belong to your world, Dmitri. I never asked to be part of it. I pour drinks for men like you because it pays better than anything else I could find, not because I want any part of what happens after the cards get put away.”

“Danger doesn’t care whether you belong to it or not.” Something tightened in his jaw. “You think the men who did this are going to check your employment file before they decide whether you’re worth silencing?”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I meant it to. “Don’t stand there acting like you’re protecting me. You brought me here without asking. You had someone change my clothes without asking. Now you’re telling me I can’t go home, also without asking. That’s not protection, that’s control but with manners.”

His eyes went hard, something flashing behind them fast enough that I almost regretted the words the second they left my mouth. For a moment neither of us said anything; the silence between us was loud.

“Fine,” he said finally, his tone low and clipped. “Go home.”

He didn’t argue further, didn’t raise his voice, simply stepped back from the doorway to let me pass, and something about how quickly he gave in unsettled me more than a fight would have. Part of me had wanted him to fight harder, had braced for the controlling pushback I’d half expected from a man used to getting his way. Getting exactly what I’d asked for instead had left me strangely off balance, like I’d won an argument I hadn’t finished making. I gathered the few things I had—my phone, my shoes, the black uniform someone had folded neatly over a chair—and moved past him toward the door.

He caught my arm at the last moment, almost gently, like he needed to say what came next before I was out of reach.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

I looked up and found none of the recklessness I’d learned to expect from him over the last several months. What I found instead was something underneath it that looked almost like fear, though I couldn’t imagine what a man like Dmitri Golovin would have left to be afraid of after last night.

I pulled my arm anyway.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, and walked out before either of us could say anything that made leaving harder.

The drive home didn’t feel real.

Vegas had a way of carrying on regardless of what happened below the surface, and that morning was no exception. Tourists were already crowding the sidewalks in shorts and sunburns, a wedding party was spilling out of one of the small chapels near the corner in a cloud of confetti and cheap champagne, someone’s music thumped faintly from an open convertible two lanes over. None of it matched what was going on inside of my chest.

I kept my hands folded tightly in my lap the entire ride, watching them tremble anyway as I stared out the window at a city that had decided nothing worth remembering had happened eight hours ago.

I called Camila from the back of the car. She picked up before the first ring ended.

“Oh my god. Val. Are you okay? I tried calling you all night; nobody would tell me anything. I thought—”

“I’m okay,” I cut in, the lie smooth. “I’m on my way home now.”

“Where were you? Security wouldn’t say anything. I saw Dmitri carry you out and I—” She stopped herself, and I could almost hear her deciding how much to ask. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me.” That much, at least, was true. “I’ll call you later, Cam. I just need to sleep.”

“Okay. But I’m serious, Val, whatever happened last night, we need to talk about it. Not over the phone. Call me the second you’re home. I mean it.”

Somewhere between hanging up and my apartment building finally coming into view, I told myself that the worst of it was behind me. That Dmitri’s warning had been exactly what I’d accused him of—a man used to controlling everything, uncomfortable with the idea that I could simply walk out of his life and never think about him again.

That illusion lasted exactly as long as it took me to reach my building.

The hallway leading to my apartment smelled the way it always did, of someone cooking two doors down and the cheap industrial carpet cleaner they used every other week. For one full breath I let myself feel something close to relief. Home. Ordinary. Mine.

Then two men stepped out from the stairwell ahead of me, and every ounce of relief dropped straight through the floor.

They moved with a deliberate, unhurried step that told me, before either of them said a word, that they’d been waiting. One of them had broad shoulders and a set jaw, his eyes already fixed on me like he’d been shown a photograph beforehand and was simply confirming a match.