Page 3 of Bound By the Bratva

The private room beyond the wine cellar is soundproofed and unwatched. I close the door behind me and tap the call button on the secured panel. A guard answers quickly, ready to heed whatever orders I dish out.

“Pull the full employee schedule for tonight’s rotation,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Cross-reference the name Anya Morozova. If she used an alias, I want the original application. Forward it to me immediately.”

"Yes, sir," he grunts, and the line clicks as he leaves to follow orders.

I could have any woman I want, though some would come at my beckon more easily then others, and here is Anya, once again thrust into my line of sight. So pure, so innocent, so naive, and everything a man like me loves about a woman, with a bit of bite that makes it fun to play with her.

I sit on the edge of the low leather couch and open the surveillance system linked to my tablet. Most feeds from the main lounge aren’t archived past a week, but tonight’s stream is still live. I rewind it manually, ignoring the time stamps until I find the exact moment she walks onto the floor.

There’s no hesitation in her stride, only restraint. She knows how to do her job well, avoid unwanted attention, and my God, is she fucking incredible. Her hips sway just enough to catch notice, and her waist curves into long, athletic legs that move with quiet confidence. Her lips are full, unsmiling, and her eyes flicker once toward a loud voice. Everything about her demandsattention without asking for it. But I notice her eyes—flat and alert beneath lowered lashes. She's afraid.

The door opens behind me. My guard enters and hands me a file. He stands with his hands folded in front of himself as he speaks. “She used a different last name at hiring,” he explains. “But her ID was flagged in the background system this week. It updated automatically.”

I read the sheet in full.

Morozova, Anya

Hire Date: October 4

Role: Floor Service / Lounge Rotation

Current Address: Mytishchi, Karamzin Street, Apartment 21B

Background Check: No flags. No convictions.

This part of town looks the same as it did six years ago—bleak concrete, old Soviet bones, and heat that barely holds through winter. Cheap rent draws people with problems, the kind of places someone like Anya would return to when every other option closed. Which tells me she's struggling and hints at financial problems outside of her responsibility. It makes me think of why she landed in my bed to begin with.

“She work steady hours?” I ask, glancing up at him.

“Five shifts a week, almost all nights. Rotates floors." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and clears his throat.

“Did anyone refer her?” My eyes trace back to the paperwork, but there is so little to go on here. An application doesn't tell a story of why the applicant needs the job.

“No reference listed. Applied through the general portal, sir."

“Get me the roster of everyone hired the last three months. I want names, addresses, ties to her or her family. If she’s not alone, I want to know who brought her in.” It's like some sick twist of fate dangling a carrot in front of me like this. I could pull it up by the roots, enjoy the savory flavor of my labor, but then itwouldn't be her choice, and I'd much prefer that she beg me this time.

He nods and steps out again, and I return to the screen. She hasn’t stopped working. Two men at the table try to flirt with her, but she doesn’t respond. One of them slides her a chip meant as a tip. She doesn’t touch it. Instead, she steps around the table, refills his drink, and walks away without blinking.

She hasn’t looked up toward the glass once, and I wonder if she thinks I left or if she knows I'm still here watching her. She knows I saw her, but she’s pretending I didn’t. She wants to finish the night without being called out. She has no idea that I already have everything I need.

I watch her the rest of the night, turning two different waitresses away who come to bring me drinks. They'd suck me empty if I let them, which after seeing Anya, I might enjoy, but I'm not interested in any lips being wrapped around my cock but hers right now.

When her shift ends, she clocks out and takes the back hallway. Her sweater is the same one she wore the last time I saw her—pilled at the sleeves, stretched at the hem, and too thin for the season. Her bag is slung across her shoulder, and she disappears through the rear door into the staff lot without checking behind her.

As much as I want to, I don’t follow. I stay where I am, watching the screen while I think. Anya never planned on running into me again. She probably didn't realize that my family had purchased the track. My father insisted it was a good investment, but in his old age, I'm the one running things for the most part, which is the only reason I'm here where I could see her instead of out doing business elsewhere while my father checked out the scene.

With the one fascinating thing about this track gone for the night, I decide it's time to leave. By the time I reach the car, theengine is already running, my driver pulling up to the back door to meet me.

We leave the lot slowly, the headlights off until we’re out on the service road. I sit with one arm braced on the window frame, watching the overhead blur past in streaks of gray. But my mind is lost on her and why she's at my track running tables and scraping by.

I unlock my phone and call Arman, the one man in Moscow I trust to keep eyes on someone without making a mess. It rings three times before he answers.

“Vetrov,” a voice answers on the other end.

“I have a surveillance order,” I say. “Put light pressure on Pyotr Morozov and dig into where he’s getting his money. I want confirmation if he’s gambling again and a full picture if he’s involved in anything new. If he’s clean, then I want every reason that explains why his daughter came back.”

“Understood,” Arman says. “I’ll look into it and report back.”

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