Dark Obsession: An Age Gap, Bratva Romance (Chicago Bratva Series)

‘If one more guy looks at me like I’m an appetizer, I might start breaking noses.’

I sip my martini, running my tongue along the rim for dramatic effect. Sasha and Natalia laugh, but they know I’m not joking.

The place is packed. Down below, bodies grind together, lost in the lights and the bass that shake the walls of Bellagio 223. We’re perched above it all in our private lounge, the best seats in the house. Figures, even when I go out to unwind, I’m still on a throne.

“Let them look,” Sasha says with a smirk, leaning back into the plush couch cushions, her tiny silver dress baring most of her body. “They can’t afford you, even if they sold their souls.”

Natalia raises her glass, the diamonds on her wrist glinting in the strobe lights. ‘Here’s to that.’

I smooth my dress, a deep, rich burgundy satin that hugs every curve with a slit cut dangerously high. A diamond necklace—vintage Cartier—glistens against my skin like it was made just for me. And actually, it was. The leather cuffs on my wrists, studded with gold, give me just enough of an edge to remind people who I am. Princess, for sure, but not the kind you’d ever dream of saving.

The bodyguards linger close by, stationed in every corner of our private section as my brothers’ have ordered. They’re annoying but even I know better than to complain when it comes to our family’s safety.

Tonight isn’t about my brothers, though. It’s about me. It’s my birthday. My freedom, what little amount I’ve allowed myself to taste.

Power comes from knowing when to use it.

I sit back, martini in hand as I scan the dance floor. It’s a sea of men, all trying way too hard. Some of them have been looking my way—boldly at first until they realize who I am—and then I see a change in their expressions, the way their interest turns into fear the second they learn my last name is Ivanova is amusing.

Cowards.

One guy wearing too much cologne and not enough brain cells stares a little longer than the others. I raise an eyebrow, and he quickly turns his attention back to whatever unlucky girl he was grinding against.

Sasha nudges me with her elbow. “Come on, Elena, get out of work mode for one night. You can go back to playing “CEO of Everything” tomorrow. Tonight’s about having fun.”

“I am having fun,” I reply, swirling the last bit of martini in my glass.

Natalia snorts. “If staring down men until they piss themselves is your idea of fun, fine. But I’m talking about actual fun. You’ve been working nonstop lately. Ivanov Holdings won’t collapse if you take a night off.”

Easy for her to say. She doesn’t run the IT department of a multibillion-dollar empire. Still, they’re not wrong. I do need to relax.

I finish my drink, letting the cool burn of vodka settle in. “You’re right,” I say with a smirk, standing. “Let’s dance.”

The girls cheer as I finally give in, and we head down to the dance floor.

One of the bodyguards steps up, his face impassive. “Miss Elena, be careful.”

I laugh under my breath, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Relax, Anton. I’ve been living this life for exactly twenty-seven years as of today. I think I’ve got it handled.”

He gives me a look like he wants to argue, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. The rest of the bodyguards fall in line, spreading out across the dance floor, dark, watchful, and more than a little suffocating. Not exactly the vibe you want when you’re trying to forget you’re a Bratva princess.

I wonder what it would feel like to dance without all of this fanfare around, with no bodyguards watching my every move, stepping in any time a guy gets too close, no worrying about whether or not someone might be stupid enough to try something, creating chaos in the middle of the dance floor.

I wonder what it would feel like to simply be… free.

But I know better than to waste time on daydreaming about such things. That life isn’t for me. It never was.

Sasha grabs my hand and pulls me into the beat. The music pounds, and for a second, I forget everything else. We dance, and like clockwork, men start to orbit. Circling. Watching. Hoping.

But none of them piques my interest. They never do.

As expected, if one of them gets too close, the bodyguards stiffen, ready to intervene. It’s no wonder I’m still a twenty-seven-year-old virgin. Romance doesn’t exactly thrive under armed surveillance.

Sasha leans in, her voice cutting through the thumping bass. “What do you think of the guy in the white shirt?” She tilts her chin toward some muscle-bound guy with slicked-back hair. He’s eyeing us like he’s trying to decide which of us he’s got the best shot with. Spoiler alert—none of us.

I smirk. “He looks like he belongs on a reality show, one of the low-rent ones. Pass.”

Natalia laughs. “Okay, but what about your bodyguard?”

I blink, confused for a second. “What? Who?” I feign innocence though the truth is I have fantasized about the man more than once.

She rolls her eyes. “Grigori! He’s a total ten.”

“Oh, come on, Nat. Don’t tell me you’ve been drooling over him.”

She shrugs, completely unapologetic. “If a guy’s hot, he’s hot. And Grigori is hot. By the way, where is he?”

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re insane. I’m not letting you anywhere near him.”

Sasha snickers. “Elena, she’s got a point. Where is Grigori?”

I glance around, expecting to spot him immediately, but he’s not hovering like he usually does. He’s always the closest to me. But now, he’s nowhere to be found.

I stop dancing as a strange feeling knots in my stomach, my instincts kicking in.

Then, through the sea of dancers, I see one of my guards crumple to the floor.

Shit.

And then I hear it, sharp and unmistakable. Pop. The sound cuts through the music, louder than the pounding bass. The crowd hasn’t noticed yet; they’re too lost in their world of drinks and dance, but I see the men emerging from the side entrances, moving with purpose.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My heart hammers in my chest but my brain stays sharp. I look at Sasha and Natalia, both of them frozen in fear.

“Go!” I bark, grabbing Natalia’s arm. “Get out of here, now!”

They hesitate, eyes wide, clearly not wanting to leave me behind. “Elena—”

“I’ll be fine! Move!” I snap, my voice rougher than I’ve ever used with them. Panic is starting to ripple through the crowd as people notice something’s wrong, a nervous energy crackling in the air.

Finally, they listen and dart toward the exit, blending into the rush of people. I take a deep breath, knowing I need to follow. But where the hell is Grigori?

Suddenly, a rough hand grabs my wrist, yanking me back. A man, face half-hidden in shadows, growls something in Spanish. My pulse spikes, but before I can react, Natalia reappears and hurls her drink in his face, following it up with a sharp slap.

The man staggers, momentarily blinded, and I don’t waste a second.

Natalia stands there, wide-eyed, like she can’t believe what she just did. I grab her by the shoulders, giving her a quick shake to snap her out of it.

“Thanks but move! Now!”

She blinks, nods frantically, and then bolts, disappearing into the panicked crowd.

I scan the room again. Through the chaos, I spot two of my bodyguards still on their feet—Alexei and Viktor. Both look like they’ve been through hell, shirts torn, faces grim, but they’re standing.

“Elena!” Alexei shouts, pushing through the crowd toward me. “Get out of here! Head for the back! We’ll hold them off!”

I hesitate, my stomach twisting. But Alexei’s face is set, determined, and Viktor’s already moving to cover the path.

“Go!” Viktor growls, raising his weapon. “We’ve got this!”

Damn it. I grit my teeth, glancing back one last time. The place is total bedlam—people screaming, shoving each other out of the way, glass shattering as more shots ring out.

As I take cover behind a pillar, my mind races. This isn’t some amateur hit. This is high-profile, coordinated. Who the hell would have the stones to come for me here? And where the fuck is Grigori?

More gunfire fills the air, sharp and deadly. My heart skips a beat, adrenaline pumping as I spot one of the men coming toward me, his eyes locked on me like a predator who’s found his prey.

I dive behind the bar, the cold tile biting into my knees. My hand scrambles for something—anything—and lands on a bottle of Louis XIII Cognac. Figures. Of all the booze in this club, I grab a bottle worth more than most people’s monthly salaries.

What a shame.

I tighten my grip on the neck of the bottle.

I wait until the footsteps get closer, until I can practically feel his breath, and then I pop up, swinging hard. The bottle crashes into his head with a satisfying crack, and the guy stumbles backward, dazed. I don’t wait to see if he’s getting up. My heart pounds furiously as I make a break for the exit.

I burst into the back maintenance hallway, the sudden quiet shocking my senses after the insanity I left behind in the club.

It’s too quiet and something isn’t right. My instincts scream at me but there’s no turning back now.

My footsteps echo through the quiet hallway.

I spot the exit ahead, my heart lifting slightly. I need to get outside, hop in a taxi, and get home. From there, I’ll call my brothers, tell them exactly what went down, and they’ll handle it. But first, I need to make it out of here alive.

Just then, a door slams open, and I whirl around to see who it is. One of the assassins steps through, his eyes locking on me immediately. His gun is raised, his voice cutting through the silence as he shouts something in Spanish.

My pulse spikes. I barely speak Spanish, but I know enough to understand he’s saying, “Where is he?” He’s demanding something, or someone.

He? Did I misunderstand him? My mind scrambles, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about, but I don’t have time to think about it. He’s moving closer, his gun still trained on me, eyes dark with intent.

Then, with a sudden bang, the exit door flies open.

Relief floods through me the moment I see Grigori standing in the open doorway. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see that cold, unreadable face.

The assassin pulls the trigger, firing wildly. The shot goes wide as Grigori ducks for cover, his movements fast and precise. For a second, the assassin seems to lose interest in me completely. My head is spinning.

What the hell is happening?

Grigori fires off a couple of rounds, the shots echoing down the hall. ‘Stay down!’ he shouts, his voice rough, commanding. I know better than to argue with him and duck.

The assassin shouts something else in Spanish, and Grigori answers back in the same language. Whatever they’re saying, it’s making my stomach knot. There’s clearly tension between them, something I can’t quite place, and I don’t like it. It’s as if they know each other.

Without warning, the assassin rushes at me. Before I can react, his hand grips my arm hard, yanking me to my feet. I stumble, my heart racing as he pulls me close, his gun now pressed against my side. He’s shouting—more threats, I assume—but his voice is all background noise compared to the roar of blood in my ears.

Grigori rises slowly from behind cover, holding up his gun as if he’s surrendering. But I know better. We’ve practiced this before—it’s one of the perks of having a private bodyguard who’s prepared for everything.

The assassin keeps shouting, but I barely hear it. Grigori and I share a look.

It’s all about timing.

Grigori winks, and I wink back. It’s go time.

I yank my elbow forward, then with all the force I can muster, I drive it straight back into the assassin’s gut. The impact is solid, and the satisfying whoosh of air leaving his lungs tells me I hit the mark. His grip on me loosens just enough for me to twist free and dive to the ground.

Pop, pop. Two clean shots from Grigori’s gun and the assassin collapses, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

It’s over.

Grigori’s on him in seconds. He kicks the gun away, making sure he’s down for good before helping me to my feet. ‘Nice work,’ he says, flashing me a grin. ‘But you should’ve kept your elbow a little tighter; more force that way.’

I roll my eyes, brushing dust off my dress. ‘The guy’s dead, isn’t he?’ I shoot back, voice dripping with sarcasm as we start moving toward the exit. ‘And their target—me—is still standing.’

“Not quite.”

“Huh?”

The noise from the club is just a distant hum behind us now. As we exit the building, a black car awaits, engine running. I relax a little bit as Grigori opens the door for me, but then he drops a bomb that stops me cold.

“Their target wasn’t you, Elena,’ he says, his voice low and serious. ‘It was me.”