Page 27 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)

I felt cold.

A piercing cold that caused my joints to ache uncomfortably.

There was no warmth, and I couldn’t smell Rafael’s scent around me like I usually did. Instead, I was suffocated by a pungent scent that forced its way into my nostrils, causing me to gag.

My pulse then quickened as my eyes flew open.

The room was dark—too dark and unfamiliar.

Its width was nothing more than a cubicle, and I suppose it was once a storeroom of some kind, as dusty, cobwebbed shelves lined the walls.

A few chained cuffs hung from the ceiling just above my head, and when I tried moving my body, I realized my torso had been bound to a metallic chair I was supposedly sitting on.

Panic surged through me as my eyes immediately started to search for an exit of some kind.

The walls were sludgy, lined with scratch marks and patches of dried-up blood, with the ceiling dripping murky water onto the ground and sputtering onto my bare feet.

Bugs swarmed almost every inch of the room, a few crawling up my leg, the hairs on my body bristling as I struggled to contain the scream trying to gnaw its way out of my throat.

And apart from the gigantic metallic door that stood inches away from me, the only other possible exit was a clerestory window just below the ceiling, which allowed only a dull ray of light to filter into the room.

It didn’t take me long to realize I had been kidnapped. The memories of last night came flooding back to me.

I went to the movies with Brandon, and then we had dinner. After that, he drove into a grim part of town, where we were kidnapped. Some parts of my memories from last night were blurred, so I couldn’t remember just how much transpired.

But where was Brandon?

My mind intentionally seemed to be blocking off a particular memory about last night, but I could still see those faces that hovered above me before the abduction.

The faces of those men had been sadistic, a murderous glint in their eyes as they brandished their knives and stared me down, right until I passed out. I hoped Brandon was okay. He wasn’t a part of this world, and this wasn’t how I wanted him to be introduced to it.

He was innocent.

I had to find a way to get out of here.

My body felt sore from sitting upright for too long, and my stomach churned in aggression at the cold and the rancid smell seeping into my system.

Then there were the bugs that kept creeping on me, inching closer and higher to my face.

It wasn’t healthy for my baby to be in this situation, and if I so much as tried to shake the bugs off me, I was certain I’d fall over.

How was I going to get out of this situation alive?

Just then, a click resounded on the door, like it was being bolted open, and then it creaked forward, revealing the one person whose presence filled me with both anger and a foreboding sense of dread.

I pressed myself against the chair as he entered the room, flooding it with light, and the bugs that had swarmed around the room and on my body scurried away, hiding.

He was just as I remembered him. Tall, burly, with muscles that always threatened to rip the buttons of his Italian custom suits.

But today, he was dressed in a T-shirt tucked into suit pants, his bare muscled arms etched with black ink that ran up his biceps and disappeared into his clothes, reappearing on the nape of his neck.

Joaquin Saavedra.

He wasn’t exactly my father’s best friend, but I’d considered them somewhat close. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he always haunted the narrative of Father’s life. He and Father were business partners, as Father always claimed. Their supposed partnership ran deep, even before I was born.

My memories of him were always blurred, but every year on my birthday, I received some kind of present from him.

We didn’t share any bond, but I always thought he was a pretty nice man and the only true friend Father actually had.

But to think he had been the one to kill my father….

Now, he towered over me, right as he slammed the door shut, the sudden jolt causing me to flinch. A lopsided smile was plastered on his face as he sifted through the pockets of his pants and brought out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up and taking a sharp drag.

He then crouched down to my level, so we were eye to eye, and puffed out the smoke he had dragged slowly onto my face, causing me to cough as the bitterness hung in my throat.

A dark chuckle escaped his lips.

“You remember me, don’t you, Chiquita ?” Joaquin asked, his Spanish accent creeping into his words.

Chiquita .

It was his pet name for me growing up. Anytime we got the chance, he’d ask me how things were faring on my end. Then, the word had made me giggle—it sounded cute—but now I loathed it with every ounce of my being.

I drew in saliva from my mouth and spat it right onto his face. “Fuck off, Joaquin.”

Taken aback, Joaquin slowly dug into his pockets and brought out a clean handkerchief, wiping off the pool of saliva that threaded down his face before he rose to his feet, hands clasped behind his back, jaw locked in anger.

“I’m going to cut that mouth open and shove it down your throat, bitch,” he threatened darkly, the sound of his bones popping as he cracked his knuckles.

But that didn’t stop me from running my mouth. “You’re gonna die, Joaquin. And I swear to God, it is going to be a slow and painful death!” I yelled, pushing against the ropes binding me as though I were mad.

He snorted. “What can a silly, sheltered heiress like you do, Chiquita ?” His arms opened, slow and deliberate, as though welcoming a challenge. “I would love to see you try. After all, neither your mother nor father put up a good fight anyway. I wonder if you’ll be any better.”

A string in my head pulled at his words. And then, like a lucid dream, I could finally see the details of the nightmares that had haunted me my whole life.

I was just six. Mom had been driving me to a birthday party I had been invited to from school.

We were singing along to this song, and then, right as she drove into a tunnel, her car was rammed from behind.

I could still hear her shrill scream as the car somersaulted—could still feel how my head rang when it slammed against the ground.

And then four men dressed in all black, their faces masked, approached. Mom thought they had come to help.

She had called his name, saying, “Joaquin, help me.”

He was there, and he had been the one to drag Mom by the hair and slice her throat while I watched the blood gush out of the wound in horror, unable to scream, the air knocked out of my lungs.

The trauma had left me with memory loss—bits and pieces only coming to me in the form of nightmares. And somehow, my head had blocked the image of Joaquin being present at that scene.

Tears blurred my vision as I glared at him. He ran his tongue across his lower teeth, and I could tell he was relishing that memory in his head, his eyes gleaming with a predatory-like excitement.

All these years, I had searched for answers—for the truth behind Mother’s death. I had laughed with him, even after that incident. Ogled the gifts he sent to me in awe.

I had been fraternizing with the enemy right from the beginning.

“Don’t go crying now, Chiquita . You should blame your father.” Joaquin now stepped forward, pointing his cigarette at my face.

“He betrayed me. That fucker betrayed me!” he roared.

“Your father’s business was supposed to be mine.

We were partners. We didn’t play by the rules—we got good money, whether it was legal or not.

But then suddenly, he wasn’t paying attention to my advice.

He didn’t feel like laundering money anymore. ”

Joaquin laughed, once again bending over as he grabbed my chin roughly and squeezed it hard until I felt it would bruise.

“Your father thought I was bad company. Can you imagine? And then guess what—he got himself entangled with the Bratva, thinking he could somehow protect himself from me. And for what?” he growled into my face.

I shut my eyes to ward off his tobacco-tainted breath.

My heart pounded fast beneath my chest with fear. Fear that he would kill my baby and me. Fear that I would never get to see Rafael again.

But at the same time, I was too stubborn to beg Joaquin for mercy. That was how much I resented him.

He yanked his hands away, almost knocking me over, and shakily, I opened my eyes to find him smiling brightly like a psychopath.

“Don’t worry, Arlette.” His voice was back to its leveled, smooth baritone. “Once I’ve taken everything from Rafael and completely destroyed the Bratva’s cash-flow empire, I’ll split your skull open and grant you the chance to see your parents again.”

The mental image made me shudder, but I kept my head high.

This wasn’t the time to be afraid.

Brandon.

I had to know he was safe. “Where is he?” I asked, my voice wavering yet loud enough for him to hear. Joaquin raised a brow. “My brother. Where’s Brandon?”

And then another mocking laugh escaped from his mouth. This time, it sounded like he had heard a knee-slapping joke, and I could only keep in the scream building up in me.

“ Brother? ” Joaquin boomed, trying to catch his breath. “Oh, you poor child. I actually feel pity for you.”

Pity?

My brows furrowed in confusion as I watched him, unable to understand why asking after my brother was so funny to him.

My heart clenched.

Had he killed Brandon?

No. No .

If he did, that would’ve been the first thing he told me.

Just then, the metal door creaked open. My heart pounded in anticipation of who was behind it, relief flooding my system when Brandon appeared—his eyes searching the room in worry until they fell on me.

I chuckled as hope reignited in me.

He was safe. And I was sure he’d find a way to get us out of here.