Page 1 of Lobanov Bratva Obsession
Chapter One
Elena’s POV
The numbers never lie.
I'd built a career on that singular truth. Columns aligned. Transactions balanced. Paper trails surfaced exactly where I'd anticipated, meticulous and damning in equal measure. Tonight was no different.
I left the conference room on the forty-second floor of Carter & Hale with my briefcase in one hand and three depositions stacked inside it—each one a nail in the coffin of a man who thought himself untouchable.
Victor Hale. The reckless, arrogant American financier. He was definitely underestimating the woman who'd just dismantled his shell corporations piece by calculated piece.
“So, onto the next?” Julian inquired, a small smile playing around his lips as he wiped imaginary sweat off his forehead.
I chuckled.
“Well, the strategy is now settled. Tidying things up is what’s next,” Irene answered.
“And publicity prep. This is big. It’s going to blow up, we all know that,” Julian pointed out.
“Right. But we’ll cross the bridge when we get to it. For tonight, we should just relax and regain our strength,” I replied.
What I didn’t tell my colleagues was that I was already gathering sticks for building that bridge, because I knew, more than they had any idea of, that it wouldn’t look like they were expecting.
“I’d say we’ve earned it after, what, seven hours?” Irene joked.
“And.. speaking of relaxing…Irene and I are going to Eddie’s right away. Karaoke and drinks. You in?”
“Uh… I’ll pass,” I answered, heading into the elevators.
“Of course. We’re going up the stairs. Straight through the back to the alley and then we’re on the intersection of 122nd and Brooke Street,” Irene informed, wiggling her eyebrow.
“Straight to Eddie’s,” I uttered as the doors started to close.
“Damn right. Bye, Lena,” Julian said, bringing an arm around Irene’s shoulders.
“Bye, guys.”
I released a sigh and rolled my neck. Then I let out a huff of breath through my mouth.
I checked my watch as the elevator descended.
11:47 PM.
It was late, even by my standards. Working late was one thing; working late outside my residence was another. The building was practically silent, and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound as I crossed the marble lobby. My heels echoed sharply against polished stone. Outside, Manhattan glittered with its usual cold indifference—traffic lights cycling through empty intersections, steam rising from subway grates, the city breathing in the rhythm I'd learned long ago to trust.
I didn't trust silence.
The parking garage entrance loomed ahead, its entrance dark and uninviting. I slowed my pace fractionally, letting my gaze sweep the street. A black sedan idled half a block down, engine running. No headlights. I cataloged it almost unconsciously—make, model, tinted windows—and kept walking.
My uncle Sergei had taught me to notice cars that didn't belong. He'd also taught me other things, but I'd chosen law school instead.
I descended into the garage, and the temperature dropped by about ten degrees. Concrete walls swallowedthe noise from above, replacing it with the hollow drip of condensation and the hum of ventilation systems. My car sat in its designated spot on sublevel two, a silver Mercedes gleaming under harsh LED strips.
Then I felt it. The silence seemed ominous. Like it wasn’t just normal. I looked to the right, my eyes looking for anything unusual. Then, turned to the left. There was nothing unusual. Still, it didn’t feel right.
My instincts flared three seconds before the world turned violent.
A hand clamped over my mouth from behind, cutting off the scream before it could form. Another arm wrapped around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides with terrifying efficiency. My briefcase clattered to the concrete. I tried to twist, to drive my heel down onto an instep, but whoever held me anticipated the movement and shifted his weight, neutralizing the attempt before I could complete it.
