Page 8 of Innocently Captured By the Bratva

Well… good riddance.

Chapter 4 - Mark

I stare at the computer screen, my eyes fixed on Quinn's profile on her website. I've already spent an hour reading about her when I should be working. But I can’t bring myself to stop thinking about her, and this is one small way I can satisfy that longing.

Besides, I’m worried. For some reason, that whole incident with Charlie Letvin replays in my mind every night, and even though I know she’s practically a stranger, the fact that I was there to help her when she got into trouble makes me an invested party in her safekeeping.

I scroll through her impressive credentials. She graduated with honors in Corporate Communications and PR from NYU. She built a high-end matchmaking business from the ground up, raking in over half a million dollars in annual revenue within the first year. The connections she made during this process are equally remarkable. This woman is no ordinary 23-year-old.

My mind whirls with conflicting thoughts. What started as simple curiosity has spiraled into an obsession I can no longer control. I rationalize my actions by convincing myself that I am tracking Quinn’s every move for her own safety. Since she fell into my orbit, it has become my duty to protect her.

But deep down, I know there's more to it than that. She's gotten under my skin, and I find myself thinking about her often, wondering what it would be like to see her laugh at something I say, to hold her in my arms for just one night. Will she be soft and coy, or will she be pure fire? I shake my head, trying to clear these inappropriate thoughts. I certainly shouldn’t be obsessing over women.

Yet here I am, unable to look away from her photo. My pulse quickens as I imagine her reaction if she knew the extent of my interest. Would she be flattered? Disgusted? Afraid? A part of me longs to find out, to catch a glimpse of what she thinks about me.

But I can't risk it just yet. For now, I have to watch from afar and ensure her safety. As for my growing desire for her? That’s a problem I’ll need to handle on my own. It’s better to cut it off at the root, if I can.

I pick up the phone and dial a familiar number. “Dmitri, I have a job for you.”

“Yes, Boss?” His voice is gruff, but I can hear the underlying respect.

“I need you to follow Quinn Desmond. I’ll send you more information. Learn about her routines, meetings, and everything else. But be discreet; I don't want her to catch on. She’s an ally, not an enemy, and if you think she’s in trouble, intervene.”

”Understood. I'll put my best men on it.”

I hang up, satisfied with the plans made. If I can't be near her, at least I'll know she's safe. And who knows, maybe Dmitri's intel will give me the perfect excuse to finally make contact.

Days turn into weeks, and the reports keep coming in. Quinn's life basically revolves around client meetings and business deals. We’ve also discovered that her connections run deeper than we thought. From billionaires and politicians to members of the mafia, Bratva, and other underworld figures, she’s influenced every corner of the American and global elite in helping them find love. She’s gone so far as to arrange marriages among royals. Even Dmitri seems impressed, and that's saying something.

I find myself poring over the details, memorizing her favorite coffee order and the route she takes to work. It's becoming an obsession, one that's getting harder and harder to justify. What started as a simple background check has transformed into something that consumes every free moment of my waking day.

As I sit in my office, nursing a glass of vodka, a thought strikes me. What if I booked a meeting with her agency? It would be the perfect opportunity to see her again, to be in her presence without arousing suspicion.

I nearly choke on my drink at the absurdity of the idea. What am I thinking? Booking a matchmaking service? The idea makes me laugh out loud. And yet, the temptation is there, coming at me like a persistent itch.

I slam the glass down, disgusted with myself. This is ridiculous. I'm a grown man, not some lovesick teenager. I can't let some woman, no matter how intriguing, distract me from my daily life in such an unhelpful manner.

But even as I try to convince myself to forget her, I know it's a losing battle. Quinn Desmond has gotten under my skin, and no amount of making excuses for my actions can change that.

***

Two weeks later, while my men are busy gathering intel on a theft attempt on our shipments, I find myself sitting in my car, parked discreetly across the street from a high-end restaurant where Quinn is meeting with a client. My men have been tracking her movements and provided me with her schedule, but since they couldn’t make it today, I had the urge to check on her safety myself.

Through the window, I catch a glimpse of her, and my breath hitches. She's stunning, her strawberry-blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face, and her green eyes sparkling as she laughs at something her client says. She exudes C-suite confidence, her posture straight and her gestures animated.

In this moment, I admire her poise and professionalism, yet I am mildly annoyed at the way she seems to command the room without even trying. I had to work so hard to get there. She's a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure.

As I watch, Quinn leans forward with a serious expression while discussing something with her client. The man nods, clearly hanging on her every word. It's obvious that she's damn good at her job.

But there's another part of me, a darker part, that wants to claim her as my own just so I can keep her safe. I’ve seen her roster of clients. Not all men are innocent company. It's a dangerous thought, one that I know I shouldn't entertain. And yet, I can't seem to shake it.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen. It's a worrying message from one of my informants, warning me of movement in Quinn’s CCTV outside on her balcony. I know we shouldn’t have hacked her cameras, but how else was I to know if she’s safe when we’re not watching her?

My heart rate spikes with worry, and adrenaline pushes me into action. There shouldn’t be any movement. She lives alone, has no pets, and no one visits unless she’s there. The thought of her being in danger is unacceptable. I have to act, and quickly.

Hopefully, she doesn’t have to find out.

Without hesitation, I start the car, my mind already racing with plans. I'll need to check on her apartment and make sure it’s safe for her to come back to.

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