Page 10 of Owned By the Russian

Val leaned away from the balcony, pretending she was oblivious. “It’s nothing. Just Rhiannon inviting me to another one of their events.”

Her father’s expression shifted, a mix of intrigue and command. “You should go.”

“Papa,” she began, her voice laced with exasperation. She searched her mind quickly for a viable excuse, but she could tell he would not take no for an answer.

“Maintaining good relations with the Nikolais is important,” he interrupted, his tone sharper now. “Their reach is vast, and it wouldn’t hurt for them to see a Romano at their gatherings.”

She hated that he was right. The Romanos were powerful, but they were a smaller group. Visibility and connection with a family as powerful as the Nikolais were crucial.

Val pressed her lips together, the weight of his expectations settling on her shoulders. Suddenly, she wondered what it must have been like for Enrico, having to live up to such standards as the first born every day of his life.

“You’re just using me as a chess piece now.”

Lorenzo frowned. “Don’t force words into my mouth, Valentina. Tell her you’re going.”

Her fingers tightened around the phone as irritation bubbled beneath her calm façade. But she knew better than to argue with him—giving in now would save her from a week of lectures and relentless badgering.

Valentina loved her father, but sometimes, he didn’t know when to stop.

“Fine,” she sighed, shooting Rhiannon a quick text. “I’ve just texted her that I’ll be there.”

She tossed the phone into her pocket and took a quick drag of her cigarette. “Happy now?”

“Very,” he said, a small, pleased smile playing on his lips. He took a cigarette from her pack and lit it up. “You’ll thank me one day,Tesoro.”

Valentina doubted it.

Chapter 4 - Ilya

The bathroom light buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the small, tiled room. Ilya gripped the edge of the sink with one hand, his knuckles a ghostly white, while the other hovered near the angry bruises blooming across his ribs.

He glared at his reflection in the mirror—a hunk of a sweaty, disheveled mess trying to catch his breath. His reflection stared back at him, shadowed eyes and the faintest tremor in his jaw revealing his anger.

He dragged his fingers over the raw, jagged scrape along his neck. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it throbbed with a sharp sting every time he moved, a reminder of how close the blade had been.

The memory of the scuffle was fresh: the watching eyes in the restaurant where Mikhail had sent him to handle some minor business, the glint of a knife as it slashed past his throat, grazing the skin just enough to draw blood, the hot hiss of threats spat through clenched teeth, the metallic sting of blood in his mouth.

Fists had collided after that, blows landing like a dance of hammers. Somehow, he had twisted free, landing a lucky blow that gave him enough time to take off in his car.

What was supposed to be a simple fifteen-minute meeting with an alias turned out to be an ambush. He had sensed an odd vibe in the air while the meeting went on.

Then, a waiter ‘accidentally’ spilled wine on him. The red-faced man had gotten to his knees, pleading for mercy—distractinghim—until Ilya felt the cold sting of a blade against his throat.

He’d had no time to process it then, no time to acknowledge the searing pain in his side or the gash on his neck. Now, in the quiet of his bathroom, several thoughts ran through his mind as his adrenaline depleted, leaving behind the dull ache of bruises and the sting of torn skin.

Ilya winced as he dabbed antiseptic onto the cut with a piece of gauze, the sharp smell tickling his nose. The makeshift bandage he pressed against the wound on his ribs felt clumsy, but it’d have to do for now.

The men who jumped him were definitely not friends with the Nikolais. He couldn’t help but wonder who was behind it. As far as he knew, Aleksander, their major threat, had been hiding under the radar for months now, doing the mob well by not stepping out of line.

A notification from his phone echoed in the bathroom. He slid the device out of his pocket, the screen broken from the altercation half an hour ago.

His sister’s name flashed with a text.

Irina: You’re late. Everyone’s asking where you are.

“Blyad,”he cursed under his breath as he checked his watch. He hadn’t realized just how much time had passed.

He was running suspiciously late now, and as much as he wanted to bail and soak his muscles in warm water, the last thing he wanted to do was alarm his family in any way.

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