Loving The Bratva Boss

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 11 — Jade's POV

I wake up to the sound of metal being dragged across concrete.

For a moment I think I'm still dreaming — because the air smells like cold iron and gun oil, and no dorm room I've ever lived in has felt this heavy. Then I bolt upright, my heart punching into my throat.

I'm not in my bed.
I'm not even in my country.
I'm in a wide, dimly lit room with concrete walls and a long industrial light flickering overhead.

A safehouse.
Or a prison.

Honestly? At this point I can't tell the difference.

My stomach twists in panic as everything crashes back — the men, the gunshot, Isabella's terrified face, the Russians dragging us apart. I hug my knees to my chest, trying to breathe, trying not to scream.

My best friend is somewhere in this godforsaken country... and I'm here, alone.

Footsteps echo outside the door.

I freeze.

Two voices. Low. Russian. And then English.

"She's awake."
"Of course she is. Americans are loud sleepers."

My blood boils even through my fear. Loud sleepers? Seriously?

The heavy door swings open and two Volkov guards step inside. Both armed. Both staring at me like I'm a problem they don't want to deal with.

"Get up," one says.

I don't. Not because I'm brave — but because my legs don't work right now.

"I said get—"

"Enough."

The third voice is deeper. Colder.
Somehow worse.

Domenico steps into the room like he owns the oxygen in it. He's wearing all black and looks carved out of winter. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes — those give it away. Razor-sharp focus. No warmth. No patience.

Isabella was scared of Nikolai.
I'm scared of this one.

The guards back off instantly when he gestures.

"Out," he snaps.

They vanish.

Domenico shuts the door behind them and for the first time, I'm truly alone with him. I swallow hard because the silence between us is terrifyingly loud.

He studies me — not like a man looking at a girl, but like a soldier assessing a threat.

"You should eat," he says quietly.

"I should go home," I snap back.

His jaw tics once. Just once. Like my defiance is mildly annoying, not dangerous.

"You're not leaving."

"And why not?" My voice cracks. "You people kidnapped me!"

"We protected you," he corrects without emotion.

"Protected?! From what?" I shoot back, tears suddenly burning behind my eyes. "From living my normal life? From being safe? From being with my best friend?"

A flicker — barely — crosses his face at Isabella's name.

He motions toward a metal tray on a small table. Bread. Soup. Water.

"Eat," he repeats.

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in two days."

"So what?" I whisper, hugging my knees tighter. "Maybe I don't want to."

His eyes lock onto mine. All that cold, iron-clad control cracks for half a second.

"Do not say things like that," he says, voice dropping to something dangerous. "Not here. Not around men who enjoy breaking people."

A chill creeps down my spine.
He isn't threatening me —
He's warning me.

I look at the tray again.
I don't want to owe him anything.
But I also don't want to pass out on a concrete floor.

So I drag myself toward it, pick up the spoon, and start eating with shaking hands.

Domenico watches. Silent. Still. Like a guard dog waiting for my next stupid move.

After a minute, I mutter, "Are you... staying to make sure I finish?"

"I'm staying," he says simply, "because you'll try to run the moment I turn my back."

...He's right, but he didn't need to say it with that much accuracy.

I keep eating. He keeps watching.
When I'm done, he finally steps closer — close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something dark. Musky. Controlled violence bottled in a glass.

"Don't attempt escape again," he says, eyes boring into mine. "The next time you run, someone worse might find you before I do."

The words hit me like cold water.

Before I do.

As if him finding me is supposed to be the good outcome.

My voice shakes as I ask, "Why do you even care?"

He pauses at the doorway, turning just enough to look back at me.

"I don't," he says.

A lie.
I don't know how I know it — but I do.

The door clicks behind him.

As soon as he's gone, I bury my face in my arms and sob until my throat hurts. Hours pass. I lose track of time. My fear melts into exhaustion, then into anger.

At him.
At the guards.
At this place.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I bury my face in my arms and cry until my throat burns. Hours pass. I lose track of time. My fear slowly dissolves into something else — exhaustion, confusion, and then a new emotion I can't untangle.

Anger.
Not anger at Isabella.
Not really.

She didn't choose this.
Neither of us did.

But she was there.
She heard something she shouldn't have.
She panicked.
I followed her.
And now we're both trapped in a country we never asked to be in.

The guilt presses down hard.
The helplessness is worse.

I miss her.
I want to know she's safe.
I want to know she isn't alone with that man.

A hard knot settles in my chest — not resentment, not blame, but a fierce, protective ache. I don't know what the hell is happening to either of us, but I'm going to survive long enough to find her.

And when I do, I'm going to hold onto her and not let go.

As for Domenico...

I swear I will never let a man like him get close to me.

...

The irony of that thought won't hit me until much, much later.