Page 2 of Cruel Russian Pakhan (Safin Bratva #1)

“You’ve got this, Katya Simoens!” I pumped myself up, locking the door behind me.

I practically skipped down the hallway, a pep in my step. I hadn’t felt this amazing since the day Arnold and Daisy adopted me.

And like that day, today was a new beginning.

Pushing open the front door of the grimy apartment building, I stepped outside and took a deep breath of fresh air.

Today was the first day of the rest of my life, and I was so ready for it, and totally dressed the part.

I wore a navy-blue pantsuit I picked up at the thrift store last week.

It fit better than I expected, snug in the right places, loose where it mattered, and the color brought out the dark blue of my eyes like it was made for me.

Underneath, I had a crisp white blouse that made the whole outfit feel more professional.

I’d even added a pair of silver stud earrings.

My hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and I slid in my favorite handmade hair stick, a slim wooden piece with a silver-bladed core and tiny black beads.

I always wore it. Most people thought it was just for decoration, but I knew better.

It could pick any lock if I ever needed to escape.

A kid who grew up in foster care learned to stay ready.

On my shoulder was my favorite black handbag, which matched my black heels. Paired with the thick, black-rimmed fake glasses I’d found in a dollar bin, the whole look came together perfectly. Anyone looking at me would think I was already working at an office, not on my way to an interview.

It had been six months since I graduated with my associate's degree in office administration, which meant six long months of sending out resumes and hearing nothing back.

I was tired of flashing fake smiles for lousy tips at the diner and covering double shifts when other waitresses didn’t bother to show up. After working my butt off in college, I was ready to reap the benefits and move up the poverty line.

So when I finally got a response, I nearly fell off my chair.

The starting salary was triple what I made at the diner, and with fewer hours. Plus, the office was within walking distance from my apartment. It felt like a win-win.

A wave of nostalgia hit me, and I sighed. I just wished Daisy and Arnold had been here to see me now.

When they adopted me at thirteen, I was a nightmare. Years in foster care had taught me not to trust anyone, and at that age, I figured I was too old for anyone to want me. I thought they had some hidden agenda. I waited months for the other shoe to drop.

But it never did.

With time, and a mountain of patience and unconditional love, Daisy and Arnold chipped away at my walls. They made me feel safe, seen and loved. For the first time in my life, I believed in something permanent.

But when I turned sixteen, my world flipped on its axis.

One random trip to the bank turned into a tragedy. A robbery…warning shots…and just like that, they were gone. And I lost the only family I had ever truly known.

I’d never met my birth parents. My mother dropped me off at an orphanage shortly after I was born and vanished. When I turned eighteen, I went back hoping to find her name, some clue…something, but they said they had no record, no information. Just a blank space where my history should’ve been.

After Daisy and Arnold died, I was left with a small inheritance, and that's when I got a job as a waitress. I pushed through high school and got into community college, working my shifts at the diner in between classes. I wanted to make them proud, even if they weren’t around to see it.

I wanted to prove to myself and to them that even though my life didn't have a happy beginning, hard work could produce a happy ending.

So yeah, this job? It meant everything.

I’d be able to purchase brand new clothes, shoes and accessories. I could afford real food, meals that didn’t include ramen or saltine crackers.

I was lucky the diner gave us one free meal a day. You’d think eating like that would make me thin, but no such luck. My curves were stubborn. Not that the men who came in cared—they barely looked me in the eye when they talked to me, anyway.

If I got this job, I could finally move to a nice apartment in a better neighborhood, save, go on real dates and fall in love.

I had only spent three years with Daisy and Arnold, but the love that I saw them display towards each other had a life-changing impact on me.

They had been married for thirty-five years and still acted like teenagers in love.

Arnold would leave little love trinkets around the house for Daisy, and she'd always sit with him during Monday night football and back his team even though they were losing.

They laughed together, cried together, supported each other.

And I couldn't see myself being in a relationship without those things.

At one point, I even dreamed of my wedding day, walking down the aisle to meet my groom. But his face was always blurred. I couldn't help but look forward to that big day, anyway.

Thanks to Daisy and Arnold.

They had given me a taste of love, and I wanted more of it. No . I craved it.

I didn’t just want a husband, I wanted a home filled with laughter, sticky fingers, bedtime stories, and tons of love. My children would grow up with the love of both parents. They'd never go through what I did, and I'd never abandon them, no matter what.

Because if life had taught me anything, it was that love mattered. Love made you feel seen and heard. And since I didn't belong in anyone else's world, I’d have to build my own from scratch.

I crossed the street and made my way to the corner when I caught sight of a van behind me. I didn’t think much of it, until I crossed again, turned the corner, and there it was again.

Wait…is that van following me?

I cut across the street, turned onto another block, and saw it there, too. My heart skipped a beat, and the first thought that flashed through my mind? It had to be the police.

“Katya, it’s been at least nine years since you’ve done anything for the police to come searching for you. Just breathe,” I murmured to myself.

Living in foster care meant fending for myself.

While some kids got sent to amazing foster parents, mine only did it for the paycheck, and for the free help around the house.

I was the youngest of the eight children they had, and I was frequently physically bullied until I finally started carrying a pen knife.

The bullying didn't totally stop, but the fear of getting slashed was as good a deterrent as any to think twice.

When they realized that it was harder to bully me physically, they decided to torture me in a new way: they locked all the cupboards, even the refrigerator, leaving me hungry. Complaining to my foster parents was like talking to a brick wall. So, I did what I had to do to survive…steal.

I learned how to pick locks and sneak into places undetected. Some of those places had alarms, though, and that’s how I got caught. I spent a few nights in a holding cell because my foster parents refused to pick me up when the police called, and I had to wait until morning.

But now, at twenty-two, I was in a better place. And I hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, my nerves were on edge, and my pulse raced. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up like a warning signal. I hastened my footsteps, and I spotted an alley up ahead and decided to cut through.

If I moved quickly, I could make it to the other side before the van circled the block. But I was still watching the van when I stepped into the alley, and I slammed into something.

“Ouufff…”

I stumbled backward, helpless to stop myself from falling.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed my arm and yanked me upright. Another wrapped around my waist, steadying me, and I got a whiff of his cologne.

And just like that, I was face-to-face with the handsomest man I’d ever seen, wearing a suit.

His tanned skin glowed in the sunlight, and his black hair looked like a lion’s mane—one that he probably ran his fingers through a thousand times a day.

His jaw was strong and smooth, the kind that made a girl want to run her fingers along the edge.

I clutched the front of his shirt, my breasts pressed against a firm, muscular chest. I was almost certain he could feel how fast my heart was racing.

But it was his eyes that truly caught me; not blue, not green. They were black. Dark, endless vortexes that dragged me into their depths.

I felt a vibration beneath my fingers. That’s when I realized he was speaking.

“Huh?” The word barely escaped my lips.

“Are you okay?”

Oh. My. God. That voice. It rumbled from his chest like thunder, deep and mesmerizing. It was the kind of voice that belonged on a paranormal thriller audiobook. My knees nearly buckled beneath me.

I forced myself to look away, scanning the street. The van was gone. I exhaled in relief.

“I’m okay,” I said, shakily.

Maybe you should tell him someone’s following you…or ask him to walk with you the rest of the way. You’re only a block away.

I was just about to open my mouth and ask when his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line.

That couldn't be good.

I tried to step out of his grasp, but his arm tightened around me, and a low growl escaped his lips.

Before I could panic, the van appeared out of nowhere and skidded to a stop in front of us. By the time I realized what was happening, I was being tossed into the van like I weighed nothing more than a damn helium balloon, and he climbed in after me.

I stumbled and landed hard on the floor between two bench seats bolted to the walls of the van. My heart pounded so loudly it echoed in my ears as the van lurched forward.

For a split second, all I could do was stare in disbelief.

This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not when I was finally so close.

Suddenly, an inferno of rage surged through me. That job interview was my shot at the life I’d dreamed of: security, stability, a real home and a family someday.

And now this stranger with his stupid perfect face and devil’s eyes had stolen it from me.

There was no way I had gotten this far to go down without a fight. They didn't call me ‘Hellcat Katya' for nothing in foster care.

He chose the wrong woman to kidnap today. And I was going to make him suffer for it.

With that, I launched myself at him like a woman scorned, dragging all of hell’s fury in my wake.