Loving The Bratva Boss

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11 — Isabella's POV

I wake to a quiet I don't trust.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet — the heavy kind, the kind that settles in your chest like something waiting to go wrong. Blinking sleep from my eyes, I take in the unfamiliar ceiling, the tall windows, the soft gray morning light stretching across the room.

For a moment I don't remember where I am.

Then the night before slams into me — Nikolai leaving, the tension, the fear, the locked door.

My stomach twists.

I sit up fast, heart already beating too hard, and swing my legs off the bed. The floor is surprisingly warm beneath my feet as I cross the room, fingers trembling as I reach for the door handle.

It turns.

It opens.

That shocks me more than anything.

A guard stands outside — tall, expression blank, hands clasped behind his back.

"You're awake," he says, voice flat but not unkind. "We're no longer on lockdown, Miss Cameron."

"W-what happened?" I ask. I'm almost afraid of the answer.

His face gives nothing away. "Not my place. But you're allowed downstairs. Breakfast is being prepared."

Allowed.
The word stings.

I nod anyway and close the door, getting ready quickly — splashing water on my face, brushing my hair, trying not to stare too long at the exhausted, anxious girl in the mirror.

When I head downstairs, the mansion seems different in daylight. Bigger. Colder. Too pristine, like a museum dressed up as a home. The faint smell of coffee and toasted bread drifts from the kitchen, but the space is empty. No cooks. No chatter. Just polished marble and the hum of the refrigerator.

I move into the dining room next. Also empty.

It's unnerving being alone here. Like ghosts should be wandering the hallways or something monstrous should be waiting around a corner.

Then—

"Nicky!"

A sharp, female voice slices through the silence.

I freeze.

The shout echoes through the corridor to my right, so I follow it cautiously, each step echoing louder than it should. When I turn the corner, I see her.

A woman — definitely not a girl — standing in the entryway like she owns oxygen itself. She's tall, stunning, and draped in designer clothing from head to toe. Diamonds flash at her ears and throat. Hair perfect. Makeup perfect. Confidence radiating off her like perfume.

For half a second, my heart sinks.

Oh my God... he has a girlfriend.

But then she turns her eyes on me.

And I know instantly — this woman is not the romantic type.
She's the dangerous type.

"Who the hell are you?" she snaps.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

Her expression sharpens. She reaches behind her casually, like she's brushing aside her coat, but when her hand comes back around—

There's a gun in it.

My breath catches so hard I choke on it.

"I'll ask you again."
She steps closer, each heel click a threat.
"Who. The hell. Are. You."

Fear hits me so fast it blurs everything. Hot. Cold. Overwhelming. I can barely think.

"I-I'm Isabella," I whisper, voice breaking. "Isabella Cameron."

"And what the hell are you doing inside this house?" she demands.

The way she looks at me — like she's choosing where to shoot first — steals all the air from my lungs. Her eyes are sharp, lethal, familiar in a way that makes chills crawl down my spine.

She has the same aura Nikolai does.

I've killed before. And I'll do it again.

"H-he brought me," I stammer. "That's the only reason I'm here, I swear."

Something about that answer makes her pause.

She doesn't lower the gun.

But she pauses.

With her free hand, she pulls her phone from her pocket, scrolling with an ease that tells me she's done this sort of thing before — holding a weapon, threatening someone, multitasking murder and business like it's the same thing.

She brings the phone to her ear, never breaking eye contact with me.

Whoever answers must say something confirming my existence here, because her expression shifts from murderous to mildly annoyed. She finally lowers the gun and slips it back wherever the hell she pulled it from.

"Security says you're supposed to be here," she says. "Pity. I haven't shot anyone in a long time."

She actually sounds... disappointed.

This woman is a psychopath. A glamorous, designer-dressed psychopath.

She smiles suddenly — bright, warm, completely terrifying.
"I hope you'll forgive me for almost shooting you, Isabella, was it? That's all water under the bridge now, right?"

I give a nervous, shaky laugh. "Yeah... water under the bridge."

"Wonderful." She steps closer, extending her hand like we're at a brunch instead of a standoff. "I'm Nadia. Nadia Volkov."

Volkov.

His last name.

His sister.

I force myself to take her hand, even though my palm is slick with fear. "Isabella Cameron."

And in my head:
I need to get the hell out of here.

Nadia releases my hand and glances around with a sigh, like this morning has personally offended her schedule.

"So," she says breezily, "you're the little secret Nicky's been hiding. Interesting."

"I'm... not sure what that means," I say carefully.

"Oh, I bet you don't." Nadia smirks. "He doesn't tell anyone anything. He barely tells me. And I'm his sister."

Her tone shifts slightly — not softer, just edged with something real. Something tired. Something sharp.

"Being a Volkov is a full-time nightmare," she continues. "You'll learn that soon enough."

I swallow. "You make it sound... unpleasant."

"Oh, it is." She waves a manicured hand. "He's a control freak. Overprotective. Bossy. Terrifying when he wants to be. Hell on the people he loves. Worse on the people he doesn't."

The way she says loves makes my stomach flip for reasons I absolutely do not want to examine.

"But," she adds, "he thinks you're worth dragging into this mess, so..." She shrugs. "Congratulations?"

I blink. "Are you—trying to comfort me?"

"God, no." Nadia snorts. "I'm trying to warn you."

Before I can respond, footsteps echo down the hall — heavy, familiar, purposeful.

Nadia's smirk widens. "And look who's finally home."

I turn.

Nikolai steps into the corridor, shadows still clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes go straight to me — sharp, assessing, then softening by a fraction I almost miss.

And in that moment...
I know.

Nothing about today is water under the bridge.
Not with Nadia.
Not with the body he found last night.
Not with the war building just beyond the horizon.

And definitely not with him.