Page 9 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva (Zolotov Bratva #14)

When I exit my room to find him waiting, I see Ilariy’s eyes glaze over as he looks at me. He clears his throat before meeting my eyes. “You look…pretty,” he says.

“Thanks,” I whisper, suddenly feeling hot. In those linen pants and crisp white shirt, he doesn’t look half-bad himself.

***

Before dinner, we decide to stroll through the streets for a while and come across a bustling market.

Colorful stalls sell everything from handcrafted jewelry to embroidered dresses, and the street performers are a delight to watch.

I’m so hit by the sounds, the colors, the delights, that my neck cranes in every direction.

“See something you like?” Ilariy asks when I pause to admire a silver bracelet with delicate sea turtle charms.

“No,” I lie, moving on quickly. He buys it anyway, along with a hand-painted scarf I lingered over. I try to wave him off, to tell him I don’t need these gifts, but he insists.

Every time I take delight in something, I find him watching me. More than once, I feel his hand accidentally brush against mine, and feel him stiffen.

I don’t know what it is. The tropical air, being away from the city, or finally having the chance to let loose, but out here, neither of us is hostile.

I notice that Ilariy has a side to him I never expected him to have.

He speaks fluent Spanish, gives the local children coins for ice-cream, leaves tips wherever he can, and never has a harsh word for anyone—even gently encouraging the people around us to be less pushy to sell their wares to tone it down.

It’s a side of him I realize I like. It’s not dominating or demanding. But rather, kind, helpful, a side where he listens.

And it’s terrifying how much I like it.

Because I know I shouldn’t. I’m here because of a deal. Because my family owes him. I’m here so he can make sure he collects.

So why can’t I stop remembering the little things?

How he checked in on me by bringing me tea the night before we left for Cancun.

How apologetic he had been, without saying so in words, when I was angry about this unexpected trip.

How considerate he’s being tonight by showing me the town instead of locking me away.

It almost makes me forget that he’s my kidnapper. My forced husband.

And that’s what makes it so hard when I catch myself admiring the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs adorably, or feel the distracting brush of his hand against mine.

And suddenly, I’m afraid to meet his eye like I’m scared I’ll see the humanity there.

We continue our stroll, and though I had been relaxed, I find myself on edge again. Ilary makes for pleasant company, and that’s a damning realization.

“You have to try one of these,” he insists when he pulls me up to a taco stand and orders a birria fish taco.

I eye him warily, but take a bite. The sauces are so smoky, so rich that they send an instant dopamine hit.

“Mmm,” I murmur. “This is …so good.”

He leans over, and his fingers brush against the corner of my lips. “You’ve got some sauce,” he says, his thumb grazing my lip.

I freeze.

So does he.

He quickly pulls back, like he just realized what he did. I meet his eyes—those gorgeous brown eyes—and feel time stand still.

Right now, under the moonlight with those fairy lights twinkling above, he looks devastatingly human. Caring. Kind.

And that’s what it does.

That’s what cracks me.

Scares me. Terrifies me.

I look away fast and pretend to study the menu.

“Should we get another?” he asks, turning to look at the menu too.

I smile despite myself. “Trying to stuff me up so you don’t have to pay for a fancy dinner?”

“You caught me,” he grins, raising his hands in the air.

How normal this feels is dangerous, and I find myself guilty as a thought passes my mind: Am I betraying myself and my brothers by enjoying this time with Ilariy?

And the thought lodges itself in my chest like stone, refusing to leave.

I find the walls around me build back up again, block by block, making this very night, his very presence feel fraudulent. I find myself thinking of my brothers, wondering if they’re worried about me. If they’ve noticed I’m missing.

And suddenly, this magical night with this kind man turns into something sinister. It’s like I had been drugged, and now the haze has lifted. I remember who he is: Kidnapper. Tyrant.

I have allowed the Cancun air to mess with my brain, to let me think this is a real holiday. But it isn’t, is it? It’s a very expensive kidnapping.

The very lanes I was taking delight in now become sirens for escape, and I find my eyes darting around, knowing that we’re not being followed.

If I could find a moment alone, I could escape, hide out in a store or something, make sure to call my brothers.

At the hotel, that’s impossible with his men watching.

Just then, like a sign from the universe, Ilariy leaves me to browse and steps away for a conversation, his back turned to me.

I feel my heart race and realize this is it.

This is my only chance to escape, and without thinking, on impulse, I weave my way across stalls and enter a narrow alley, running across to the other side of the market.

My heart pounds as I weave between people, putting distance between us. This is madness—I know it even as I’m doing it. I signed a contract. I made a deal. But that was before he took me out of the country, before I realized just how in over my head I truly am in this situation.

I’m completely at his mercy.

I need to call my brothers and tell them what’s happening. Before I lose my mind and start thinking this is something I can live with.

Ten minutes of brisk walking brings me to a quieter area, away from the main tourist drag. And when I can finally think, I find myself filled with utter dread. What was I thinking running away like that?

Fuck. I have no phone. No money. No passport. Even if Ilariy doesn’t find me, how the hell do I get home?

What was I thinking?

I feel the panic clawing at my throat, the anxiety rumbling through me, and it must show on my face because just then, a young man with a friendly face approaches and asks if he can help me.

I hesitate, then decide I have little to lose. “Could I borrow your phone? Just for a quick call? It’s an emergency.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods, pulling out a smartphone. “American?” he asks.

“Yes,” I admit. From the corner of my eye, I see two men hovering, but think nothing of it. They must be tourists. Lost.

“Actually, why don’t you come with me?” the man suggests. “I haven’t got a phone with me, but there’s a store nearby you can make a call from.”

For some reason, this strange turn of events, along with those two hovering men, makes the hair on my neck prickle. I back away and shake my head. “No, thank you. Actually, I just remembered, my friends are meeting me at that restaurant soon.” I point to one behind him.

His hand suddenly shoots out and grabs my wrist. “I insist.”

Fear floods my system, and I realize this isn’t safe. I’m in trouble. I wrench my arm away and turn to run, but he’s faster, catching me around the waist.

“Let me go!” I scream, kicking backward.

The two hovering men are there now, one of them reaching for my other arm. I fight wildly, but they’re too strong, trying to drag me into the alleyway.

“She said, let her go.” I hear Ilariy’s voice behind me, and despite having run from him, I feel such utter relief I could cry.

Suddenly, I feel safe.

The men turn, still holding me between them. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Ilariy steps forward, looking terrifying, and my captors hesitate.

“This is not your business,” the first man says.

“She’s my wife,” Ilariy replies evenly. “That makes it my business.”

What happens next is so fast that I can barely follow it.

Ilariy jumps and kicks down one of the men before elbowing the one holding me in the gut.

The man staggers back and releases me. The third comes toward us, but Ilariy grabs me and moves sideways, kicking the attacker out from under his shins.

Ilariy grips my elbow, and together, we make a run for it before my attackers can find their footing again.