Loving The Bratva Boss

Chapter 6

By the time the wheels finally touch down, I've lost all sense of time.
Hours—maybe a full day—have blurred together in the stale, humming air of the jet. I've never been to Russia, but the moment the plane shudders on landing, I know we're nowhere near home. The sky outside the window is gray, the tarmac slick, and everything feels colder... heavier.

Nikolai still hasn't spoken to me.

Not once.
Not a glance.
Not even accidental eye contact.

He sits across from me with a book in his hand and a wall around himself so high it might as well be made of steel. Every time I try to work up the nerve to say something—to apologize again, or maybe to ask why that topic made him so furious—he shuts the possibility down with silence alone.

It bothers me more than it should.

Because now I want to know.
Not just why he killed that man.
But who he is under the armor and the shadows.

Nikolai Volkov is a puzzle with missing pieces. Cold. Detached. Impossibly contained. A man who can execute someone without flinching and then read quietly like he didn't stain the night red only hours before.

And somehow... that makes me want to understand him even more.

The cabin door opens. Cold air spills in, sharp and bright. A man in a dark coat steps forward.

"We're here, sir."

Nikolai stands immediately. No hesitation. No sign of fatigue. He moves with that same rigid purpose he always does. I follow him because I don't know what else to do.

Outside, a sleek black car waits at the edge of the landing strip—engine already running, headlights cutting through the misty air. The area around us is completely empty. No airport terminals, no other passengers, no sounds except the wind.

Definitely not a public airport.

"Where are we going?" I ask quietly. Carefully. As if my words themselves might set him off again.

"Home," he answers.

He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to.

His home.
Not mine.

The driver steps out and opens the back door for us. The interior is warm, almost too warm, with soft leather seats and the faint smell of cedar. I settle in slowly, folding my hands in my lap.

We don't move yet.
Instead, Nikolai reaches into the compartment beside him, pulls something out, and turns toward me.

A blindfold.

"What—why are you tying that over my eyes?" I ask, startled.

His fingertips brush my temple as he secures it, and even that small contact sends a shiver down my spine.

"Because you are a captive," he replies calmly, as if this should be obvious. "And captives do not get to memorize escape routes."

He tightens the knot gently, almost carefully, which somehow makes it worse.

"We wouldn't want you trying to run away, would we, Isabella?"

He says my name slowly—deliberately—and the sound of it vibrates straight through me.

"Straight home, Gio," he adds, and I hear the engine rumble as we pull forward.

So the driver's name is Gio.
Part of me stores that away for later, even though I don't know if "later" even exists for me anymore.

The drive feels long. Silent. The kind of silence that grows thick in your chest and crawls under your skin. Without sight, everything else feels amplified—the hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires over uneven ground, the subtle shift in temperature as we move.

Eventually the car slows. Gravel crunches beneath us, then stops entirely.

A seat belt clicks. A door opens.
Cool air brushes over my arms as someone removes the blindfold.

And when I open my eyes—

My breath leaves my body.

We're parked in front of the most stunning property I've ever seen in my life. Calling it a house would be an insult; it's an estate, a fortress, a palace carved into the Russian landscape. Massive stone pillars rise toward the cloudy sky. Large windows glow with warm light. Pine trees sway behind wrought-iron gates at the bottom of the long driveway.

It feels like stepping into another world entirely.

"This is beautiful," I whisper, unable to stop myself. The awe slips out on its own.

Nikolai doesn't respond. He simply walks ahead of me, up the stone steps leading to enormous doors. Before he reaches them, they swing open.

"Welcome home, Master Volkov," two voices say at once.

A man and a woman stand waiting—both older, both dressed in immaculate black, both bowing their heads respectfully.

"Thank you," Nikolai replies. "Are the quarters prepared as instructed?"

"Yes, Master," they answer together, voices steady.

Nikolai nods once, satisfied. "Good."

Then he turns to me.

"This is Francisco, the head butler. And this is Irina, the head chef."

I smile politely, even though my stomach is twisting with nerves. "It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is ours, Miss Cameron," Francisco says, extending a hand. Irina does the same, and I shake both of theirs. "If you require anything at all, please ask. We are here to serve."

I'm still trying to process their formality when Nikolai cuts sharply back in.

"Now that introductions are finished—Irina, take Isabella to her room. Francisco, inform the kitchen to begin dinner. I'll be in my study."

And just like that, he's gone.
Disappearing into the mansion without looking back.

Francisco follows his orders just as swiftly, leaving only Irina beside me.

"Come, Miss Cameron," she says kindly. "Your quarters are this way."

She leads me up a marble staircase, down a hallway lined with paintings, then turns left into a corridor with tall windows overlooking a frosted garden. By the time she opens the door at the end, my heart is pounding.

The room steals the breath straight from my lungs.

It's stunning—soft warm lighting, a bed big enough for four people, shelves lined with books, a window seat overlooking the snowy forest outside. The colors are soft, calming. Inviting.

"Master Volkov informed me of your love for literature," Irina says gently. "So I arranged the library wall for you. If you wish for any changes, please tell me."

I blink. Several times.

How did he know?
Why would he care?

"This is... amazing," I breathe.

Irina offers a small smile. "There is a full closet and an en-suite bathroom as well. Please make yourself at home. Someone will come fetch you when dinner is ready."

"Thank you," I tell her, meaning it.

She bows her head slightly before closing the door behind her.

Silence fills the room.

I stand there, unmoving, as everything that's happened crashes into me all at once—New York, the club, the gunshot, the kidnapping, the plane, the cold silence, this impossible mansion.

This new... home.

I don't know how things will end.
But for the first time since this nightmare began, I feel something unexpected pressing at the edge of my thoughts.

Curiosity.
Anticipation.

And maybe—God help me—something dangerously close to excitement.