Page 2 of Lobanov Bratva Obsession
There was no shouting. No chaos. Just controlled, surgical precision.
A second man appeared in my peripheral vision, moving with the same practiced silence. He bent to retrieve my briefcase while a third man secured my wrists with a zip tie that bit into my skin. The whole operation took less than thirty seconds.
I forced myself to breathe through my nose, counting the inhales, cataloging details. Three men. Professional. Coordinated. The one holding me smelled faintly of expensive cologne and gunpowder residue. His grip was deliberate—restraining without bruising, controlling without cruelty.
I became acutely, unwillingly aware of him. The heat of his body against my back. The controlled strength in his forearms. The way his breathing remained steady while mine threatened to spiral. Fear collided with something I refused toname, and I hated myself for noticing the difference between violence and precision.
A black SUV materialized from the shadows, its door already open. They lifted me and placed me inside with the same clinical efficiency. A blindfold came next, blocking out the garage's harsh lights and replacing them with velvet darkness.
The door slammed shut.
The engine purred to life, and we were moving.
I sat perfectly still, listening. Two men in the front seats—driver and passenger. One beside me in the back. The same one who'd restrained me. I could feel his presence like a physical weight. I could smell that same cologne mixed with something darker I couldn't identify.
My legal mind kicked into overdrive, overriding the panic trying to claw its way up my throat. Kidnapping. Federal crime. Crossing state lines elevated it further. If they'd harmed me, assault. If they searched my briefcase without a warrant, illegal seizure of attorney-client privileged material.
Well, if they killed me, none of it would matter.
I tested the zip tie experimentally, shifting my wrists. It didn't budge, but the movement made the man beside me shift slightly. Not touching me, but close enough that I could track his position.
"I wouldn't," he said.
His voice was low, controlled, with the faintest trace of an accent buried beneath perfect English. Russian. Of course it was Russian.
I turned my head toward the sound, even though the blindfold made it pointless. "So, under whose authority am I being taken?"
Silence.
But the way the man beside me tightened his hold, I knew my words landed.
I sighed loudly.
“You have suddenly grabbed me and are now taking me to God-knows-where. I demand to know who sent you,” I went on, my voice low but not friendly in the least.
More silence.
Okay, then.
The SUV made a series of turns—left, right, another left. I tried to track them, to build a mental map, but after the fifth turn, I lost orientation. We could be anywhere in Manhattan, or even out of it entirely.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere quiet."
"To kill me?"
"To talk."
"People who want to talk don't usually start with kidnapping."
"People who file lawsuits like yours don't usually survive long enough for conversation."
There it was. Confirmation.
I'd known the lawsuit would provoke a response. But sitting here, blindfolded and bound, the abstract threat crystallized into something visceral and immediate. Never did I expect it to come so soon.
"Then why am I still breathing?"
