Page 19 of Lobanov Bratva Obsession
I sat at the foot of the bed, taking off my shoes and placing them beside the bed. Looking at my reflection in the dresser mirror, I released my hair from the confines of my pins. Then I lay back, my eyes on the stark white ceiling as my feet remained on the floor.
The new knowledge of my situation sat heavily in my chest: Damian wasn’t offering marriage; he was enforcing it.
And where does that leave me?
Chapter Eight
Damian’s POV
The tactical command center beneath the north wing of the estate was the only place I felt at peace. It was a world of cold metal, blue light, and absolute data—a stark contrast to the floor above, which was currently being suffocated by white lilies and silk ribbons. Up there, a wedding was being staged. Down here, a war was being won.
I stood over the monitors, my arms crossed, watching the digital ghost of a traitor. Beside me, Yuri was a silent statue of focused violence. We weren’t looking at guest lists or seating charts. We were watching the lifeblood of the Bratva—money—as it hemorrhaged through the digital ether.
“The bait is working, boss,” Yuri muttered. He tapped a screen, highlighting a series of rapid-fire asset transfers moving through a shell corporation in Cyprus.
“Exactly as she predicted,” I confirmed.
He nodded in agreement. “The moment the word of the ‘security relocation’ leaked, the traitor panicked. They think the walls are closing in, so they’re trying to liquidate before we can freeze the accounts.”
I watched the scrolling lines of code with a grim sense of satisfaction. Elena’s mind was a lethal weapon. She had drafted the legal framework of this trap months ago. Now, I was the one pulling the trigger on her design. She understood the psychology of greed with a terrifying intimacy; she knew that when a rat feels the floorboards shake, it doesn’t fight—it runs for its hoard.
“The net is closing,” Yuri commented, his voice dropping into a low, jagged register. “By tomorrow morning, the final transfer will hit the decoy account. We’ll have a signature. We’ll have a name. And then, I’ll give you the throat.”
“Maintain the silence,” I ordered. “If the traitor suspects we’re watching the flow, they’ll vanish. I want them to think they’re winning right up until the moment the blade touches their skin.”
“And what about the lady herself, boss?” Yuri asked, his eyes cutting toward me. “The wedding is a massive variable. It’s a lot of noise for a silent operation.”
“The wedding is the diversion,” I snapped. “It keeps the families distracted. It keeps the eyes on the pageantry while we move in the dark.”
I left before he could push further. Yuri knew me too well. He knew that my focus wasn’t on the traitor’s assets. My focus was drifting, constantly, like a compass needle pulled toward a magnetic north, back to the third-floor suite where Elena was currently being fitted for a cage.
I walked the halls of the estate, my boots echoing with a lonely, hollow sound. The house was a hive of activity. Staff were moving in synchronized patterns, polishing silver that didn’t need polishing, arranging flowers that would be dead by Sunday. Every time I passed a servant, they bowed, their eyes fixed on the floor. They feared the Ghost. They feared the man who kept the Lobanov name clean by getting his hands dirty.
But as I reached her door, the fear I felt wasn’t for my enemies. It was for the woman inside.
I stood there for a long moment, my hand hovering over the heavy oak handle. It was nearly midnight. I knew she was awake. A woman like Elena didn’t sleep when her life was being signed away. Besides, considering how upset she was just a few hours ago, she would be too restless to retire to bed early. I pushed the door open without knocking.
The room was bathed in the pale light of the moon. Elena was standing by the window, her silhouette a sharp, elegant line against the glass. But it was her hair, which fell to her lowerback, that made her look so young. So tender and beautiful, even though I only had a view of her back. She didn’t turn. She simply stood there, watching the security lights sweep across the lawn.
“The security arrangements are finalized,” I said, my voice sounding like gravel. “The perimeter is triple-locked. No one gets in or out without my thumbprint.”
“Is that what you came here to tell me?” she asked, her voice a low, melodic blade. “That my prison is now airtight?”
“The wedding will happen very soon. A day or two, at most,” I informed.
That was when she turned around so violently that I feared she might get dizzy and fall.
“And who the fuck do you think you’ll be getting married to? I really want to know, ‘cause it’s definitely not me!” she retorted.
She looked exhausted, her blue eyes ringed with a dark, restless energy. But she wasn’t broken. If anything, the anger had refined her, stripping away the shock and leaving behind a cold, crystalline defiance.
She continued, “Or are you going to drag me down the aisle? Are you going to chain me to your bed and have your men torture me if I don’t do your bidding?!”
“Elena, enough,” I growled.
“No, it’s not enough!” she shouted, her voice finally breaking. She moved toward me. “You stand there in your custom suit and your silent arrogance, acting like you’re doing me a favor. You’re coercing me into a life-sentence, Damian.”
She stopped inches from me. I could feel the heat radiating off her, the scent of her skin—something like vanilla and ozone—filling my senses. She looked vulnerable, her shoulders trembling slightly, but her gaze was a challenge I couldn’t ignore.
