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

“Don’t stop, Grigori…”

Flashes of last night burn through my mind—the way Elena writhed beneath me in pleasure, her body clenching around my cock as I drove into her over and over. The sight of her coming, eyes rolling back, lips parted in a moan that sounded like my name. Fuck. The memory makes my blood run hot, and for a moment, I almost lose myself in it.

A blaring car horn snaps me back to the present.

I blink, gripping the steering wheel hard, jaw clenched. It’s a rainy, miserable morning in Chicago, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. The windshield wipers lazily drag across the glass, fighting a losing battle against the drizzle.

I’m parked outside a CPD precinct, and I fucking loathe being here. Dealing with cops is never my idea of a good time, but I need answers. And if we’re paying these bastards, I might as well use them.

I shove the car door open, ducking my head against the rain as I make my way inside. The lobby smells like stale coffee and desperation, and I hate every second of it.

Approaching the front desk, I give the desk sergeant a nod. Her eyes widen with recognition—she knows exactly who I am, or more importantly, who I work for.

‘I’ll get Detective Barnes right away,’ she says. Good. They know not to waste my time.

‘Thanks.”

I glance around the precinct. It’s a place crawling with beat cops, plainclothes detectives, and plenty of low-level scum getting processed. Some of the uniforms give me a quick glance, but nobody dares to say a word. I’m not the kind of criminal they lock up. I’m the kind they work for, whether they like it or not.

It’s a reminder of the hierarchy here, and I’m at the top of it.

A few of the newer guys try to avoid eye contact, probably sensing the weight of my presence, but I catch a few of the older officers giving me the quick, knowing nod. They’ve seen enough to know how this works. I’m not the guy they hassle. I’m the guy they pretend doesn’t exist until I need something.

It doesn’t take long before Detective Barnes shows up. Mid-forties, balding, with a gut that suggests more takeout than patrols, but he’s competent enough. His whole demeanor shifts when he sees me—eyes widening, posture straightening. Obedient, as always, with just the right amount of fear in his eyes.

‘Grigori,’ he greets me. “I assume you’re here to discuss the situation at Bellagio last night.”

“Detective Barnes,” I greet back, “and you are correct.”

‘Let’s go to my office,’ Barnes says, gesturing for me to follow. I can already tell he’s nervous. He should be. This isn’t just about business. This is personal now.

We step into Barnes’ office, the door creaking as he closes it behind us. The space is small and cluttered, smelling faintly of coffee and old paper. Barnes sinks into his chair with a heavy sigh, running a hand over his balding head.

‘Last night was a fucking mess,’ he starts, his voice heavy with fatigue.

‘Casualties?”

‘A few of the assailants, thankfully, no civilians,’ Barnes replies, glancing at me warily. ‘A few people got trampled in the stampede, a couple of broken fingers and sprained ankles, but nothing too serious.”

Good. That’s one less problem to clean up. A couple of my own men took bullets last night, and they’re in bad shape in one of our off-the-books clinics, but Barnes doesn’t need to know that. He deals in surface-level chaos; I handle the deeper shit.

‘I was there.”

Barnes nods like he’s not surprised. ‘Figured as much. I’d ask you what went down, but I’m guessing if you knew, you wouldn’t be talking to me.’

I give him a wry smirk. “You’re a detective for a reason, aren’t you?”

Barnes laughs, though it’s more nervous than genuine.

‘Right.” He taps the side of his desk. “Let’s start with the CCTV footage from Bellagio. Maybe that’ll give us something solid.”

‘Lead the way.’

We walk into a small, dimly lit room where a couple of officers are hunched over a monitor, eyes glued to the footage from last night. The moment I step inside, they tense up, shifting nervously in their seats. Nobody says a word as I move behind them, my eyes locking on the screen.

The footage shows the front entrance of Bellagio, the grainy feed from one of the exterior cameras. The assailants arrive together in a dark SUV, four of them, masked and moving with purpose. I watch as they bribe the bouncers—money slipping into pockets, heads nodding—and then slip inside, blending into the crowd. Professionals, no question.

Inside, the cameras catch them fanning out, each one taking a strategic position around the club. Their movements are coordinated and on a silent signal, they strike. The first pops off a couple of rounds in the air, causing a distraction, while the others move in with precision, guns drawn.

Then, I spot Elena in the crowd. My gut tenses. I know that she’s fine but the sight of her in danger forms a rage in me that I can barely comprehend.

“They knew exactly what they were doing,” I say. “Pro outfit.”

Barnes nods beside me. “That’s what we were thinking. Cartel, maybe.”

I keep my gaze on the screen, watching as one of the masked men pushes through the crowd, moving directly toward where she’s dancing. Toward her. My jaw tightens. “Went for the girl first,” I say.

“Yeah,” Barnes replies quietly. “Looks like she was the target.”

I don’t say anything, my fists clenching. I know they were really after me, but I can’t reveal that just yet. Not until I have more answers.

“I want to see the bodies,” I state.

Barnes and the other officers in the room stiffen, exchanging uneasy glances. “Uh, the coroner and the forensic team haven’t finished with them yet,” Barnes says, shifting on his feet. He’s stalling, trying to put up a wall I have no patience for.

“I don’t care,” I reply coldly, my eyes drilling into him. “You think I’m here to wait for paperwork? Show me.”

Barnes swallows hard, his discomfort written all over his face. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. “Alright,” he says, resigned. “This way.”

We head to the morgue in silence, our footsteps echoing through the sterile hallways. Barnes glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Did you know the club was going to be hit?” he asks, his voice low, careful.

I let the question hang for a moment, considering my words. “I had a suspicion. I was outside, hoping to draw them out. Thought I could handle it before it got messy.”

“Didn’t work out that way, huh?” Barnes replies.

“No dice. They went straight for the girl to get my attention.”

We enter the morgue, and it’s the cold that hits me first—sharp, sterile, and unnatural, like the air itself doesn’t belong to the living. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting a sickly glow on the steel tables. The smell of disinfectant clings to everything, masking what’s underneath but not completely erasing it.

The coroner, a thin woman with gray hair tied in a tight bun, looks up as we step in. “Let’s see what we’ve got, Doc,” Barnes says as he steps forward.

She hesitates for a second, then nods, pulling back the sheets to reveal the bodies. Three men, laid out like sacrifices. Their chests are covered in ink—tattoos that scream their affiliations louder than words ever could.

“The first two,” she starts, “late twenties, around 180 pounds, Hispanic. No identification, but their bodies suggest they’ve been through some rough situations—knife scars, bullet wounds. The third, older. Mid-thirties, same build.”

I look at the third body, recognizing him immediately. He’s the one I put down last night.

I turn to the coroner. “These tattoos… cartel?”

“Yes. All three of them. They’ve been branded, too.”

She pulls back the sheet, revealing the mark. I know it instantly. A jagged tattoo intertwined with a branded circle of flames, a symbol no one in this business forgets.

“Oscar Molina’s men.”

Barnes tenses beside me. That name carries weight. More than weight, it carries blood.

Barnes eyes the bodies, then glances at me, his face pale. “The Molina Cartel,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Ruthless, bloodthirsty as they come. But I didn’t think they’d made it up here. Not yet anyway.”

“They’re here,” I say, voice cold as steel. “And they’re not just passing through. They’re on a mission. Coming straight for me.” I run my hand through my hair.

“But Oscar’s dead. Been dead for years.”

No one says a thing, leaving me to solve the puzzle of how a ghost could be trying to kill me.

We leave the morgue, the heavy door swinging shut behind us with a soft hiss. The hallways feel smaller this time, claustrophobic as we walk. Barnes looks like he’s trying to process what all of this means, but he’ll never really understand. This is personal, and it’s far beyond his pay grade.

“Listen,” I say. “I want all the CCTV footage from last night erased. Every second that shows my people. The rest, do whatever you want with.”

Barnes stops, his face tightening. “We need that footage, Grigori. All of it. It’s crucial for our case.”

I turn to face him, the weight of my stare enough to make him shut up. “This isn’t a request, Barnes. I’m not asking for a favor.”

He gets it. His shoulders slump, resignation washing over him. He’s trapped between the law he serves and the money he takes under the table. I can see the wheels turning in his head.

“And don’t worry,” I add, “it will all work out for you. You’ll have your case and more.”

Barnes frowns, confused. “How?”

I stop walking and turn to him, letting the silence stretch for a moment before I speak. “Because I’m going to take out the Molina Cartel myself.”