You're fucking obsessed!

Vladislav pov

The heavy clang of the metallic prison doors followed by the brutal clank of the lock into place reverberates through the corridor—a sound that reminds me of the cage that I called home for the past three months. Long enough that I had started to lose my shit.

But I knew better, I had to make my enemies think that they had won this time, but they were wrong.

I have men everywhere, even in the fucking government, men loyal to me, bound by their royal hearts to me. And, of course, some are not loyal to me; many want to take me down and take my place as the pakhan, but for them to succeed, they will have to eliminate each and every one of my men first.

And this….this was just a facade I had put on as my men hunted the rat that dared infiltrate my Bratva.

I run my hands through my dark hair; my jaw clench as I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension crack down my spine as I step forward with the pristine Italian shoes that I have paired with my black suit—custom-tailored, freshly pressed.

My look is completed by my Cartier limited edition gold watch that weighs on my wrist in a familiar yet nostalgic feel. The rings on my fingers feel just as familiar.

A thick silver band on my right hand, engraved with a double-headed eagle—my family crest, and another—a heavier one, gold, with a dark sapphire—on my left passed down through the Mikhailov bloodline.

“Your ride will be here in a few,” the guard who had escorted me out here mutters in a stiff voice avoiding my gaze.

Yes, fear is what I exude and he knows better than to look me in the eye. One wrong move—one mistaken word—and his family will be collecting ashes instead of his corpse.

Outside, the night air is cold, but the faint scent of rain smells more like victory. A familiar blacked-out Mercedes Benz pulls over and Leonid, my right-hand man, my brother in everything but blood, pops his head out.

“About fucking time!” he yells out loud, to which I flash him with one of my signature smirks as I slide into the car.

“Anything for me?”

“No. How is my brother doing when I was away?” Leo asks, dramatically clutching his chest before mashing his foot on the gas pedal like he was in a Fast & Furious movie.

“I believe you wouldn’t dare show your damned face to me if you didn’t have the information I asked you,” I ask in a more calm businesslike tone that doesn't match the chaos brewing deep inside me.

“Fine fine,” he retorts, and immediately he hands me, more like tosses me a thick black binder like it is nothing but a dinner menu in some cheap restaurants down the Street.

I flip it open, my eyes zeroing in on the name at the top.

Caitlyn Clark.

She who came to clear me for my release—not that my freedom depended on it that much, and instead, she left that cell wrecked for me.

Even after giving me a mind-blowing release from her amateur blowjob, I couldn't bring myself to erase her from my fucking mind. She proved to be an enigma shrouded in mystery and intrigue, and I made it my mission to unravel it.

I skimmed over the page quickly, my eyes devouring the details about her—Caitlyn Mae Clark is a boring typical. She comes from a boring middle-class family in Florida with a single stepdad and a mother who took the L before she could hit her early teen years- sad, but I did not care.

She is a licensed psychological therapist in a small but struggling mental clinic. She has a dull, meticulous routine that she repeats every damn day like a fucking clock. That includes the coffee shop she visits every morning and those early morning runs she indulges in daily.

That's why I trust Leo; he is competent and always comes through with any needed information.

Leonid chuckles beside me, shaking his head as he pulls a cigarette from his coat.

"You're fucking obsessed," he mutters, lighting a cigarette, exhaling a slow drag of smoke. "Three months in a cell, and the first thing you want isn’t revenge, isn’t your empire—it’s some random girl you met… Remind me again where you saw her?"

He’s right. I should be torturing the mole who dared to infiltrate my organization, tearing through my enemies like I always have. Instead, I’m here, thinking about her—about relishing in memories of her jasmine scent and a mouth that ruined me in ways I don’t want to admit.

I should let it go. It was a mistake. A distraction. A fucking amateur blowjob, and yet—I want more than I can admit.

I’ll find her. I’ll drag her back into my world and make her wish she never met me. And once I’ve had my fill—once I’ve fed this obsession clawing through my veins—I’ll forget her.

Go back to being who I was before she touched me.

The ruthless Pakhan of the American Bratva. Untouchable. Feared. The man no one dares to cross.