Page 24 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva (Zolotov Bratva #14)

I see the mansion looming up ahead, and immediately, the happiness I feel after hanging out with Tatiana and Katya begins to fade around the edges. Seeing the house reminds me of Ilariy and how I’ve been avoiding him for three days straight.

I know it’s cruel how I’m treating him by not giving him a conversation. I know, somewhere in my heart, that I’m being unfair.

But the truth is that I’m a raging mess nowadays. After everything that happened with my brothers, I don’t know how to channel my hurt. I feel guilty, knowing I’m taking it out on Ilariy, understanding, somewhere in my heart, that he couldn’t have meant those words he said to my brother.

But the fact that he even cared to say them hurts.

The moment we drive up to the house door, I realize something is wrong. I step out of the car to see guards rush past me. The drivers are checking weapons, and there’s a whole convoy being prepared to drive off.

My stomach drops as I grab the arm of a passing security man. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

The man looks startled by my touch. “Mrs. Letvin, please go inside. Everything’s under control.”

I tighten my grip when he tries to pull away. “Tell me what’s happening,” I snap, imagining scenarios so dark that my heart begins to race.

He hesitates, but answers. “There’s been an attack at Mr. Letvin’s warehouse. We’re sending reinforcements.”

My blood turns to ice. “An attack? Where is Ilariy?”

He pales. “Boss is at the warehouse, Ma’am.”

“What?” I screech, panic making my knees weak. He’s at the warehouse under attack, and if reinforcements are being sent, things must be bad out there. He might be hurt… or worse.

“I’m coming with you,” I say, already walking toward the nearest SUV.

“Ma’am, that’s not possible. Boss would never—”

“He isn’t here to object,” I cut him off, turning to face him. “I’m going. You can either help me, or I’ll follow on my own.”

The guard seems torn between his loyalty to Ilariy and the fear of losing track of me. Finally, he sighs. “You’ll stay in the car. No matter what we find, you don’t get out unless we clear it. Understood?”

I nod quickly. “Just hurry.”

***

The ride feels endless. I sit in the back of the SUV. The guards are in the other seats, and no one talks. Everyone is tense, and every time I try to call Ilariy, he doesn’t answer. My mind races with horrible possibilities.

What if this is the last time? What if my last memory of him is the hurt in his eyes when I refused to let him explain?

I think about his voicemails. Each one repeats the same plea: “Arina, please. What you heard... it isn’t what you think. I need to explain. Please call me back.”

I never did. Pride and hurt kept me away, and now that stupid pride might cause me to never see his face again.

“We’re five minutes out,” the driver announces, and I lean forward to see through the windshield, and my heart seizes. There’s a fire of some sort out in the distance.

When we turn the final corner, I gasp. The warehouse is in flames. There’s a firetruck out there, trying to control it.

People run in every direction, some covered in soot, others bleeding. Paramedics tend to the injured on the sidewalk.

“Stay here,” one of the guards orders as they exit the vehicle. I roll down the window and look out to see if Ilariy is anywhere to be seen, but I can’t find him.

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it hurts. I can’t just sit in here. I have to get out there and look for him.

Without thinking, I step out of the car and rush toward the scene. A few of the bodyguards scream at me to come back, but I ignore them.

I keep running until I see Ilariy.

My heart lurches into my chest. He’s sitting on a stool while someone is trying to help him drink water. I run closer, and that’s when I see his face and clothes—streaked with blood and soot.

But he’s alive. My relief is so intense that I nearly collapse.

“Ilariy!” I call out, and his head snaps up. I can see his shock at finding me here.

“Arina?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving. “What are you doing here?”

I reach him and fall to my knees to sit in front of him, my hands hovering over his body, afraid to touch him and cause more pain. “I came as soon as I heard. You’re hurt.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” He winces as he shifts his weight. “Just some cuts and bruises.”

One of the men tending to him snorts. “And two cracked ribs, probably.”

I take in the full extent of his injuries. There’s a gash above his eye that’s still oozing blood, and there are burns on his hands. “You need a hospital.”

“No hospitals,” he says firmly. “Home. Just need to get home.”

The guards who chased after me catch up, looking furious but relieved to find us together. I turn to them. “We’re taking him home. Now.”

No one argues with me, not even Ilariy. They help him into the SUV, and I climb in beside him, careful not to hurt him. As we pull away from the burning warehouse, I finally ask, “What happened?”

“We were ambushed,” he says. “They came in shooting. We weren’t expecting it.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“Not yet,” he sighs. “Agafon’s working on finding out.”

I nod and reach out, wanting to hold his hand. But I’m afraid I might hurt him, so I pull back. I whisper gently, “Don’t worry. I’m here now, and you’re going to be okay.”

He looks over at me and smiles, the kind of smile that melts into me. “I’m so furious you came, and yet…thank you, Arina.”

“Always,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. I was such a fool to let anger keep me away from him.

***

At home, I take charge. Ilariy tries to wave away the doctor Agafon sent home after I texted him, but I force Ilariy to let the doctor examine him.

I carefully go over the detailed instructions the doctor leaves with me, and once we’re alone, I help Ilariy to the bathroom, where I gently clean the blood and soot from his face.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says as I carefully dab antiseptic on the cut above his eye. “The staff can help me.”

“I want to,” I say, reaching for some fresh cotton.

“Arina.” He catches my wrist and forces me to look at him. “About what you heard me say to your brother—”

“Not now,” I interrupt. “You’re hurt. We can talk about that later.”

“No.” His grip tightens slightly. “I need you to know. What I said to Tikhon—I didn’t mean any of it. I was trying to hurt him, to make him feel powerless the way he made my family feel.”

He looks so pained, so very angry with himself, and just his simple acknowledgment of the truth is enough for me. I lean over and gently caress his cheek, careful not to linger on any bruises. “I know. I’m sorry too. We should have talked about it earlier.”

“I said horrible, vile things.” He closes his eyes from the guilt.

“We all do sometimes,” I whisper and get back to treating the wounds he didn’t let the doctor touch.

I swallow hard at the sight of his bruised and battered face, the ugly marks across his chest, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to fall. I hate whoever did this to him. Hate that he hurts.

***

After I’m done tending to him, I lead him to his bed and bring him some water and the pain medication the doctor prescribed. I make sure he’s settled in and comfortable before perching on the edge of the mattress beside him.

“You should rest,” I tell him, but he shakes his head.

“Stay,” he says, patting the space next to him. “Please. Just for a little while.”

I hesitate, then slip off my shoes and lie down beside him, keeping space between us. We lie there in silence for a while.

“Do you think they’ll try again?” I finally ask. “The people who attacked tonight?”

“No. Not right away.” He turns his head to look at me. “They lost men, too. They’ll regroup, lick their wounds. We have time.”

The thought doesn’t comfort me. “This will never end, will it? This violence in your world?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I know I don’t want us caught in the middle of it anymore.”

I don’t miss that word he uses. Us.

I nestle into the bed and turn to my side to face him, to look at this man who has come to mean so much. I haven’t forgotten all he did for me after I found out the truth about my brothers. He never forced his presence, but he was always worried, always checking in.

He put himself and his wants and needs aside and gave me what I needed. I could have lost him tonight.

There’s no doubt in my mind now that Ilariy has come to mean a lot to me. For some reason, I can no longer imagine a life without him. But to imagine a life with him, I need to know more about his life.

“What was it like?” I whisper. “Growing up?”

He furrows his brows and loses himself to memories. “When our parents passed, Agafon had to bear too much responsibility. We tried to help him, but we were a large family, and no one could help ease his worries. He did everything to keep us safe.”

“Was there always…so much violence?” I feel my throat tighten at the thought of what Agafon must have sheltered them all from.

“Initially, yes,” Ilariy nods. “When our father passed, people considered us weak. Agafon worked tirelessly, day and night. He never let us know what troubles lay at bay. He was our rock.”

“He must be quite strong, as a person,” I sigh in admiration.

Here, Ilariy frowns. “He always has been. But there was a point when he nearly broke.”

I suddenly feel tense. “Why? What happened?” my voice comes out in a whisper.

Ilariy’s expression softens. “What happened with Nikandr broke him. Nikandr was always the gentlest of us. Our father called him weak, but Agafon and I knew better. He just felt things more deeply than the rest of us.” He shifts, wincing slightly.

“When your brothers introduced him to drugs, it was like watching a light go out. He became someone else—paranoid, angry, desperate. He stole from us, lied to us. He disappeared for days at a time.”

I think of Nikandr as I know him now—quiet, kind, with a wry sense of humor that catches you by surprise. “How did you get him back?”

“It wasn’t easy. We tried everything—rehab centers, interventions, threats, bribes. Nothing worked until Agafon tried something different.”

Ilariy’s voice grows soft with memory. “Agafon let Nikandr off the hook, and it broke him.

“What do you mean?”

“He realized Nikandr had to hit rock bottom,” Ilariy says simply.

“As long as we remained, he’d always have options.

So, when in a fit of rage, Nikandr decided to walk out of our house and said he never wanted to see us again, Agafon let him.

It killed him. He worried every night. We heard rumors about things Agafon had been up to.

He’d been stabbed in Berlin during a bar fight.

He relapsed. He stole for drug money. But Agafon stayed away. ”

“And then?” I suck in the air, imagining these horrible things happening to Nikandr.

“And then Nikandr hit rock bottom, as Agafon needed him to. He cleaned himself up and came back home. But those years he was away, it haunted all of us.”

I remember the way Nikandr had gone out of his way to make me feel welcome. He never once showed resentment for who my brothers were. In my heart, I feel happy for Nikandr. Happy he made it out of that mess.

“He’s lucky to have you all,” I say quietly. “To have a family that fought for him.”

“We fight for our own,” Ilariy says, reaching out to touch my hand. “Always.”

The words hang between us. Am I one of his own now? Why do I wish to be?

“I’ve missed you,” he says, breaking the silence. “These past three days, the house felt empty without you.”

“I was angry,” I confess. “And hurt. But I missed you, too.”

He laces his fingers through mine. “Will you stay tonight? Just to sleep,” he adds quickly. “I just... I don’t want to be alone.”

The vulnerability in his voice undoes me. After everything he’s been through today, he’s still reaching out, still asking instead of demanding.

“Yes,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I’ll stay.”