Page 8 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva (Zolotov Bratva #14)

“Arina!” Ilariy’s impatient, loud voice echoes through the door, and his knocks get even more aggressive.

I groan and sit up. Okay. I’m definitely not dreaming. What the hell is going on?

“Coming!” I bellow in a hoarse, sleepy voice and put on a robe before getting to the door.

My jaw hangs open at the sight. “Don’t you sleep or something?”

“I do. You’ve just had more of it than me,” he says, holding out a cup of coffee.

“For me?” I ask, incredulously. “Thanks, but it’s a little early for coffee.”

“Take the coffee, Arina,” he glowers.

I take it. “What’s going on?”

“Drink up and get dressed,” he tells me impatiently, leaning against the door with his arms crossed.

His gaze lingers on my hair, my morning face, and skims down my body as I realize how ultra-short my shorts are.

I tug down the hem of my robe, and he immediately stands, as though he wasn’t aware he’d been looking, and I see his face turn red.

“Get dressed?” I ask, completely confused.

“I have a business trip to take and you’re coming with me!” he declares.

“What? Why?” I ask, the anger evident in my voice. This makes no sense. Why the hell would I accompany him for a business trip?

“I can’t leave you here,” he says simply.

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You mean, you won’t . God forbid you lose your precious hostage,” I hiss and see him flinch at the spite in my voice. Good.

“I know it’s hard,” he says with such unexpected kindness that I find myself stunned, compelled into taking a softer voice.

“No, you don’t,” I say, softly. “You don’t know what it’s like to be told what to do and where to go like you’re some puppet.”

A flash of something like regret crosses his eyes.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he says.

“But right now, I need you to get dressed and eat some breakfast. The maid is bringing it up right now, and she’s also got your suitcase all packed.

Please, Arina, just think of it as a vacation," he says. “The flight leaves in two hours.”

I don’t answer. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m… starving.

I sip the coffee, muttering, “I’m not happy about this.”

“I know,” he says.

“And I’m not going because you said so. I’m going because I want fresh air.”

His mouth twitches into a half smile as he looks at his phone and begins to walk away. “Fair enough.”

“Where are we going?” I shout at his retreating form.

He doesn’t answer, already on his phone.

I grumble and shut the door. My head hurts from the lack of sleep, but I manage to force myself into the shower.

***

I manage to get myself down to the car to see his guards standing by, the luggage already in the car, with my clothes, whatever they look like. Ilariy stands by the car with his arms crossed, looking impatient as he waits for me.

“Finally,” he declares with a huff when I reach his side. He opens the door and ushers me into the back of the Hummer.

“Where are we going?” I ask as soon as he gets in beside me from the other side. The driver begins to drive, and a convoy of security follows. Is the casino and hotel business really so dangerous that it needs so much security? Or maybe he’s just a walking target with all that money.

“Cancun,” he declares, like it’s the neighboring street.

“Cancun, Mexico?” I ask, shocked at the thought.

“Most wives would be happy to accompany their husbands to Cancun,” he says drily.

I open my mouth to argue when he smirks. “If you didn’t want to, you should have written it in the contract clauses, along with your declaration not to sleep with me.”

I blush, remembering that moment. But I’m not quite done yet.

“What about,” I scramble for an argument against this preposterous idea, “my passport?”

“I had a new one made,” he shrugs.

I freeze. He…got a new passport made? I know he’s wealthy. Powerful. But can anyone be that powerful? A small voice in my head screams out a warning. Tells me there might be more at play here.

But then again, what do I know of rich people? He might be a billionaire or something. He probably just has access to power I can’t even imagine.

“How?” I whisper in disbelief.

“Does it matter how?” he shuts down any other questions I may have.

“Give it to me!” I narrow my eyes and slide out my hand. He looks reluctant, but passes it to me. I flip through it, and sure as hell, it’s authentic. The real deal. Brand new. He must have really pulled some strings to have this done.

“How did you get my picture?” I ask, my mouth hanging open.

“They used the one they had on record,” he says. “I filed a report on your behalf, claiming the previous one got lost.”

“You could go to jail!” I shriek. “This is forgery!”

He cocks an eyebrow at me as though to say, Really?

“Guess you’re right,” I say, frowning at him. “You kidnapped me and didn’t go to jail. What’s a little passport?”

He looks offended and tells me there are other things he hasn’t gone to jail for, but doesn’t give me details.

“Proud little brat,” I mutter.

“Spoilt little princess,” he mutters back, under his breath.

“Don’t call me—”

“Princess. I know. Old habits,” he shrugs. But there’s something in his expression that tells me he won’t stop.

I smile. This morning banter…it’s almost fun. But I’m tired, exhausted, and mildly annoyed at that smug expression on his face, so I turn away and say I need a nap. After all, it’s still only 6 AM.

And within seconds, I doze off.

***

“Arina.” I hear Ilariy’s soft voice as he gently rubs my shoulder to wake me. “We’re here.”

“Mm-hmm.” I open my eyes lazily, and his face is the first thing I see. So close, his soft smile curving in that dimple. So handsome.

I suddenly jerk away, shrugging off his hand. What am I thinking?

“We’re here?” I squeak, looking out of the window, expecting to see the lines outside the airport.

Instead, my jaw drops open.

I hear Ilariy exit and am still so stunned, my eyes fixated on the sleek white jet that waits for us on the tarmac, that I only exit when Ilariy opens the car door and helps me out.

“That’s... yours?” I hate how breathy my voice sounds when I exit the car.

“One of them,” Ilariy says casually.

I don’t say anything about this unexpected turn of events, but this is definitely not how I thought we’d be traveling to Cancun. I know he is rich. I thought we’d fly business, or first class at that, but a private jet?

“The bags are already on the plane,” he tells me as he guides me up the stairs. On entering, half a dozen airhostesses greet us, before Ilariy guides me inside to seats that can recline into whole, entire beds.

I try really, really hard not to let my jaw drop when he tells me there’s a hot tub and shower at the back.

I find a seat. “Take any,” Ilariy tells me, and then proceeds to take one across the aisle from me. I run my hands down the soft leather, breathe it in. The air hostess comes around with some champagne and insists I take one.

Who the hell am I to say no?

The flight passes by way too quickly. I try to resist the comfortable seat, the insane meal, the attentive service—but it’s hard to maintain righteous indignation at being whisked away at a moment’s notice when you’re being served lobster risotto at 30,000 feet.

I hate that I’m enjoying any of this, but my heart does a little flutter, excitement running down my spine.

Cancun. Here I come.

***

We land in Cancun three hours later and step out into the hot, humid air. I can already smell the salt in the air, the tropical feel seeping through me. Another black SUV awaits us on the tarmac, and Ilariy ushers me inside.

“No customs?” I ask once we’re inside the car.

Ilariy’s lips quirk up. “Private entrance has its privileges.”

Of course it does. The man probably has officials in his pocket in every country.

The drive to our resort is stunning beyond belief. I look out of the window greedily, taking in the coastline.

“I’ll be having some meetings,” Ilariy tells me. “But the resort has more activities than you know what to do with. It’s all inclusive, so feel free to try out whatever you like. The spa, the beach, snorkeling, or diving.”

“Mm-hmm,” I’m barely listening now as the resort comes into view.

The lobby itself is bigger than most hotels in New York.

“This place…Ilariy,” I sigh. “It’s beautiful.”

“Wait till you see the beachfront villa,” he grins.

The villa, if one can call it that, is literally a mansion. It’s gorgeous, with white plaster flooring, beautiful wooden furniture, cane figurines, and couches that look like cotton. There’s so much light coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows, which open up to allow the sounds of the ocean in.

And the view. My goodness. The view.

“Your room is through there,” Ilariy points to a door off the main living area. “I have meetings this afternoon. We’ll have dinner at eight.”

And just like that, I get to spend an entire day on the beach. Suddenly, I don’t mind being here so much. That night, I find myself eating alone at the restaurant, enjoying a glass of wine and a fresh lobster. For now, I just want to soak in this moment.

***

The next morning, Ilariy leaves again. I spend the day exploring the grounds, and sometimes a thought crosses my mind: What would it be like to just… walk out? To make a phone call to one of my brothers? But when Ilariy’s gone, I always have a shadow, making escape impossible.

That evening, Ilariy returns at five and finds me reading on a recliner in the living room.

“Get dressed,” he says to me. No hello. No nothing.

I put aside my book and look at him in surprise. “Seriously?”

“We’re going into town.” He tugs off his tie and leaves for his room.

An excitement shoots down my spine. While the resort is stunning, exploring the town seems like a wonderful idea. I’ve had a lovely, long day on the beach, but the solitude is getting to me.

I select a simple blue sundress from the suitcases and pin my hair back with a clip, leaving it half down. In the holiday mood, I decide to put on some makeup and wear a pair of earrings.