Page 17 of Lobanov Bratva Obsession
Elena’s POV
The drive to the Lobanov estate was a masterclass in psychological warfare. I sat in the back of the armored SUV, my spine a rigid line of defiance against the hand-stitched Italian leather, watching the jagged, glittering skyline of Manhattan recede into a haze of grey and steel. As the concrete jungle gave way to the oppressive, manicured greenery of Westchester, I felt the weight of my heritage—the old Bratva blood in my veins—pressing down on me like a physical shroud.
To a casual observer, this was a high-level security relocation. To me—a woman who had spent her life reading the fine print of human cruelty and the legal loopholes of corporate crime—it felt like a funeral procession where I was both the mourner and the body. I had been groomed to understand the delicate dance between brutality and bureaucracy, but knowing the steps of the dance didn’t make the music any less terrifying.
“We’re here,” the driver muttered.
The gates were wrought iron and massive, bearing the seal of a family that had turned bloodshed into a multi-billion-dollar industry. As the vehicle crested the long, winding driveway, the estate loomed—a limestone titan of architecture that screamed power, pageantry, and permanent shadows. It felt like the kind of place that was designed to remind everyone who entered that they were small and utterly replaceable. The architecture was Neo-Classical, but the atmosphere was purely Gothic—a place where secrets were buried in the foundation.
My platinum blonde hair was impeccably styled, a silver shield meant to hide the fact that I had been a captive only days ago. I smoothed the fabric of my tailored dress, remembering how surprised I was that the guy who brought the clothes got thefit right, not just my size. I would not crumble. Not here. Not in front of the “Ghost” of the Lobanov Bratva.
As I stood in front of the building the driver led me to, I recognized the deception immediately. Damian had spoken of “security escalation,” of a need to move because the safe house had been compromised. But the moment I saw the perimeter, I knew he had lied. This wasn’t the frantic setup of a family under siege. This was a ceremony. The gravel had been freshly raked; the guards were in full formal tactical gear, standing like statues at every entrance. This wasn’t just protection. It was something more.
I entered the grand foyer, and for the first time in my life, my icy composure wavered. The room was a sea of power, a collection of legends I had only ever seen in redacted files and hushed whispers. I recognized them instantly—the titans of the Lobanov dynasty.
Viktor and Emilia stood near the hearth, their presence commanding and unified. Viktor, the Pakhan, looked at me with a gaze that calculated my worth in an instant, not as a person, but as a political piece. Roman and the sharp-eyed Liza were speaking in low tones with Konstantin and Alina.
That was when my eyes landed on the petite but curvy lady standing with Alexei Lobanov. Mila.
I had met her during my friend Anya’s engagement party and had taken a liking to her immediately.
“Elena!”
A blur of movement broke the stifling atmosphere. Before I could process the breach of my personal space, arms wrapped around me. I felt something melt inside me as I basked in the warmth of the first touch of affection since I’d been kidnapped.
“Mila, oh my God,” I breathed as she released me.
“You’re safe now, Elena. Damian wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise,” she whispered.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, inhaling the scent of her perfume—something soft and floral that didn’t belong in a house of war. “Safe is a relative term, Mila,” I managed to whisper back.
She remained beside me as Viktor spoke.
“Elena, welcome. And welcome to the family,” he said, his wife’s small smile and nod punctuating his words.
“Uh, family..?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Roman shook his head in understanding, a look that could pass for amusement crossing his face as he turned to face Liza, who pursed her lips.
“It’s nice to put a face to the name. That’s what my brothers are trying to say,” Konstantin told me.
I sighed and nodded at them, not totally convinced. “Well, same here.”
And where the hell is Damian?
“Why is everyone here? What’s going on?” I asked Mila, my tone low.
“From what I was told, it’s a family gathering to stabilize the Bratva. The rest will also join us soon.”
That was when my eyes instinctively moved to the far end of the room. And they landed on Damian talking to a guard. He turned towards where I stood, and our eyes met—and he didn’t look away. I did, anyway.
“I can’t help but think preparations are being made for something more than a mere meeting,” I told Mila.
She smiled.
My eyes wandered to Damian again. His gaze was on me. I felt exposed under it because it felt dark and possessive. I never thought it was possible to feel desired and trapped at the same time, but that was exactly how his gaze made me feel.
“All I can say is that you’re safe, Elena. You can rest assured.”
