Loving The Bratva Boss

Chapter 4

The SUV hums beneath me, its engine a low, steady growl that vibrates against my spine. If I close my eyes, I could almost pretend I'm just heading home from class... before remembering that home is no longer something I am allowed to have.

Instead, I'm sitting here—kidnapped, terrified, helpless—being taken somewhere I didn't agree to go. Someone outside taps the glass, and the tinted window darkens even further. I swallow hard.

God.
How did my life turn into this?

My wrists aren't tied, but the presence of the man beside me—broad shoulders, jaw carved out of stone, a vein pulsing in his neck—makes the lack of ropes irrelevant. I'm trapped. Completely. Utterly.

The silence in the car is suffocating. Heavy. It feels alive, coiling around my throat.

Can they even do this?
Who are they?
What rules do they follow?
Do rules even exist in their world?

I don't think I want the answer anymore.

They killed someone last night. I heard bones snap. Heard a gun go off. Heard a life end like it meant nothing.

And they took me anyway.

My breathing stutters, but I force myself to hold it together. Jade... God, Jade. They split us up when they shoved us inside the vehicles, and I haven't seen her since. I cling to the one sliver of hope I have—that they need her alive, just like they apparently need me.

Jade can talk her way out of anything. She's bold. Sharp. Fearless.

I'm... not.

I shrink when things get hard. I fold. I survive by making myself small.

And that terrifies me more than any gun or threat ever could.

The car slows.

My lungs freeze before the rest of me does.

We stop.

The man beside me says nothing. He doesn't even look my way before opening the door. Cold air sweeps inside, biting against my skin. A gloved hand clamps around my upper arm, firm enough to bruise, and drags me out.

I stumble, catching myself against the SUV before gazing up at—

A plane.

Not just a plane.
A monster of metal and privilege.

White body, silver trim, polished so perfectly it reflects the early morning sky. It screams money. Power. Danger. And it's parked in the middle of nowhere—just a stretch of private runway and clusters of evergreens closing us in.

My heartbeat becomes frantic wings trapped inside my chest.

This isn't a normal plane. It's a private jet meant for people who own cities. The kind who wipe away their mistakes with money or bullets. The kind who can kill a man in a nightclub and walk away untouched.

And I am being forced onto that jet.

I hesitate one step up the stairs—just one—and the man behind me shoves my lower back with a sharp push, forcing me forward. The metal steps slam under my heels as I climb the rest of the way on trembling legs.

Inside, the air smells faintly of expensive cologne and leather. The interior looks more like a luxury penthouse than an aircraft. Cream seating, warm lighting, marble-topped tables. Even the carpet hushes under foot.

And then I see him.

Sitting like the plane itself belongs to him which it probably does. Sitting like the world belongs to him.