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Owned By The Bratva King by Jagger Cole

Read Online Owned By The Bratva King by Jagger Cole Romance Book


Read Online Owned By The Bratva King by Jagger Cole Romance Book
Owned By The Bratva King by Jagger Cole

She’s been mine since the second I saw her.
It would be easy to say I have no business even looking at a girl like River Finn. She’s too young. Too innocent. Too much my daughter’s best friend.

That is, until the gorgeous forbidden fruit becomes my business. A rival bratva kingpin wants her. I want his empire. Kidnapping her as leverage should be an easy, simple business arrangement. Except there’s nothing easy or simply about this. Not when she captures my piercing gaze. Not when she leaves me hungry and wanting. Not when her sassy mouth and dangerous curves make me weak.

But my world is strength and brutality. There’s no place in it for softness like River. There’s no room for the long-forgotten, smoldering feelings she ignites in me. Touching her could destroy my empire. Keeping her could start a war. And yet, possession is nine-tenths of the law. River has no business being in my world. But now, I’m making it my business to make sure she never leaves.
She’s mine—finders, keepers.


 Read Online Owned By The Bratva King by Jagger Cole Book Chapter One


Adrenaline screams in my ears, almost drowning out the thudding whirring of the helicopter blades.
I can barely breathe—fear and the roaring fight-or-flight evolutionary response taking control of my entire body. But there’s no choice here—there’s no fight, and there’s definitely no fleeing. Not with the men who’ve just taken me—bound, terrified, and dragged onto a helicopter.
I want to scream. I want to beg. I want to know what the fuck is happening to me, and where I’m going. All I know is, roughly twelve minutes ago my entire world went upside-down and sideways.
Twelve minutes ago, I was still me; fashion-model me, shooting a spread for the Vanessa’s Dream summer swimsuit line. Which, for a model, even someone like me at my level, is like winning the fucking Grammys. I’ve spent weeks preparing for this—taking my already absurdly restrictive diet to extreme levels. Starving myself on a diet exclusively of spinach and fish-oil shakes.
Twelve minutes ago, I was doing what I do. Ethan, our Elle-renowned photographer, was clicking away as I gave “the look”—a mix of “come hither” and “bright-eyed innocence” that I’ve practiced to the point of it being second nature. It’s kind of my “thing”—as in, the thing that’s put me on dozens of magazine covers and twice as many fashion runways since I was fifteen.
Eleven minutes ago, we were racing the clock to get those perfect sunset shots—me in the final bikini of the shoot, and Ethan’s army of assistants madly running around trying to get the perfect light and shade on me. I was ignoring the aching gurgling in my stomach, powering through the final shoot on the rented yacht moored off the coast of Odesa, Ukraine.
Ten and a half minutes ago, Ethan was barking for a lighter for the French cigarette hanging from his lips in preparation of being finished. I was shoving my hair back, giving my best possible version of “the look.” And then suddenly, something was wrong.
One of the assistants was yelling about a boat approaching. A military looking skiff was roaring up to the rear of the yacht. Men with guns were jumping on board yelling in some sort of Baltic language. Ethan was screaming that this was a private boat, and one of his assistants was running up to show who we thought were Ukranian Coast Guard our passports and clearance papers.
And then ten minutes ago, that assistant got shot through the head, splattering blood across the deck of the yacht. After that, my world went sideways, and all hell broke loose.
I remember screaming and running for the front of the boat, as if there was any escape off of a fucking boat. I remember crying, and thinking I was going to die. There were more shots, more screams And then, suddenly, a helicopter was dropping out of the purple sunset sky.
At first, I thought I was being rescued. Here were the actual Coast Guard to save us from the pirates or whoever the hell was shooting at us. Men on ropes dropped to the deck. Machine gun fire cut down the other men from the skiff in seconds. I remember Ethan sobbing in relief and jumping up from his hiding place by the door to the lower cabin. Except when the grim-faced man in black with a machine gun slammed the butt of his gun into Ethan stomach, doubling him over, I realized just how fucked we actually were.
Nine and a half minutes ago, two huge, rough-looking men grabbed me, ignoring my screams as they dragged me, bikini-clad, towards the ladder hanging down from the hovering helicopter. One of them cuffed me to it and raised an arm. And suddenly, I was being pulled up off the deck of the yacht.
Now, nine mines later, I’m paralyzed by fear. I’m freezing, wearing just a bikini with the wind roaring through the open door of the military helicopter. My wrists are handcuffed in front of me. There’s a bag over my head. All I know is, I’m somewhere over the Black Sea; at least, I think I am. And I’m scared out of my fucking mind.
Around me, I can hear the sounds of men speaking roughly to each other in what might be Russian or Ukrainian. Someone says something, and a few of the men sitting next to me chuckle. This is a joke to them.
I smell cigarette smoke. Someone says something else, and there’s another round of dark chuckles. I’m trembling. I want to cry, but I’m too scared to. I’m almost too scared to even breathe.
The pressure and the terror mounts and builds, until finally, it feels like I’m going to explode. Even still, I can’t seem to scream. All I manage is the world’s softest “where are we going.”
The man next to me grunts something loudly. I can hear him turn to me, and I gasp as I feel him lean close to me.
“What?” He growls in a heavily accented voice.
I’m about to say it again. But I gasp sharply as if feel the helicopter bank and start to drop. I lurch, fumbling for anything to hold onto. The men chuckle again, and a heavy hand grabs my arm tightly, steadying me. The man leans in again.
“What?” He snarls once more.
“Where are we going?” I gasp
He chuckles darkly. “Korol,” he grunts. “We go to Korol.”
I swallow, my mind racing. I’ve learned all of a whopping three phrases in Ukrainian in preparation for my photoshoot here: “thank you,” “where is the bathroom,” and “do you speak English.”
“Korol?” I whisper. “Where—”
“No where,” he growls. “Who. Korol is King.”
I balk. “King?” I blurt. “What king?! Please! I—I have money!”
He laughs. “Nyet.”
“I can get you whatever you want!” I sob. “Please… please don’t hurt—”
The man says something gruff in response in whatever the language is he’s speaking. I frown beneath the dark fabric covering my head. But then I gasp when another man leans close to my other side.
“He says,” this new man growls thickly. “You’re are not his to hurt.”
My face pales. Fear sinks it’s claws into me.
“You belong to the King now, little one,” the second man snarls.
My stomach wrenches.
The helicopter drops sharply, and I realize we’re landing. The men begin to speak around us, and I gasp when the chopper touches down with a thunk. So we’re on land, I guess.
Rough hands grab me—firmly, but gently. They usher me out of the door, and I gasp at the sea breeze that blows across my bare skin. I’m guided down stairs, my pulse racing and my entire body trembling. I can hear the sound of the helicopter engines turning off. And then suddenly, a hand grabs the top of the sack over my head. It’s yanked away from me, and I gasp as my eyes suddenly adjust.
It’s night. I whirl, but when all I see is ocean in every direction, my mind turns into knots. I blink and whirl again, but then I realize I’m standing on the very top of an enormous boat. A dark black mega-yacht that dwarfs the one I was just taken from.
The men round me suddenly stiffen and step aside. I whirl, and I gasp when the tall, huge silhouette of a man cloaked in shadow suddenly steps up onto the helicopter pad. He turns and barks something in what sounds like Russian. The huge, rough men with guns nod and instantly obey, like his word is law. They quickly file away, until it’s just him and I alone in the dark night, with the wind whipping around us.
My heart is racing, and my legs shake. The man steps closer, and closer still. Until suddenly, he steps into the low light cast from a sidelight on the helicopter pad.
And instantly, relief floods through me. Because I realize that I know him. Like I actually really know him. We’ve only met once, at a dinner in Chicago. But I know him.
His name is Yuri Volkov, and he’s my best friend’s dad. Well, sort of. Her recently rediscovered biological dad who happens to be the head of a vicious and notorious Russian Bratva family.
But even still, relief melts through my core. This has all been a mistake! Obviously, this is a misunderstanding. This is some kind of Russian mob business that I’ve been caught up in. But he knows me! I sigh, smiling in relief as I stagger towards him.
“Oh my God, Mr. Volkov—”
“You will not call me that here.” His accented voice sounds like leather, smoke, and fine scotch. It’s a mix of moneyed and rough-and-tumble. The billionaire CEO meets the bareknuckle street fighter.
I blink, stuttering in surprise. My brows furrow as I look up at him. “Sorry, what?”
“Here,” my friend’s father growls thickly. His eyes narrow into twin piercing blue points of fire on me. “You will not call me. Mr. Volkov.”
I smile nervously. We’ve met once. But it’s not like we’re old friends. Even at that dinner, as my friend Belle’s father, he was… cold. Shrouded in a darkness, not to mention a power.
Not to mention, the man is a stone-cold fox.
I spent most of that dinner absolutely ogling him—the perfectly chiseled features. The thick black hair with the silver at the temples. The absolutely piercing blue eyes. The fact that I could tell even with the three-piece suit that he had a body carved out of marble that most men half his age would kill for.
He’s wearing a similar suit now. Those eyes are still just as soul-quivering as they were that night over fine French cuisine.
But there’s no candles here. No expensive red wine. No salad forks. Just him and I, shivering in the darkness of the Black Sea, on the biggest yacht I’ve ever even heard of.
“What’s going on?” I whisper. “We’ve—we know each other!”
His chiseled jaw clenches tight. His eyes narrow. “A regrettable circumstance,” he growls in his thickly Russian-accented voice.
“Mr. Vol—” I catch myself. “Please, men attacked us on our photoshoot—”
“And my men shot them. Yes, I know.”
I blink, shivering as I hug myself. “Mr. Vo—” I frown, catching myself again before I look at him pleadingly. “Please, why am I—”
“You are here, River,” he grunts thickly. “Because you are mine. Because you belong to me now.”
It’s like the record-player needle to my life suddenly scratches. He says it as easily as you’d order at a takeout window.
I blink, frowning. I must be too hungry. Or too cold. Or too terrified. Because I swear I just heard him say—
“You are mine now,” he hisses again, as if he knows I didn’t hear the first time.
My mouth falls open. “What?” I whisper. “I don’t understand—”
“It is not complicated.” His steely eyes sweep over me fiercely. “You belong to me now. And you will stay here, as mine.”
I swallow, and suddenly, I realize he’s not joking. There’s no prank here. No Ashton fucking Kutcher. I’m literally in a foreign country, without a passport, without any fucking clothes, on a yacht with men with guns, and the leader of one of the most dangerous Russian mafia families in the world.
“Let me go,” I whisper. “Please, Mr.—”
“You will have your freedom.” His voice is like chilled vodka. It’s silky smooth and yet rough and dangerously edged, like a knife. And I hate how it makes me tremble. I hate that it makes my core tighten and my pulse skip.
“You will have your freedom when you have helped me.”
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“When you have help—”
“Why the fuck would I help—”
“Because without it,” he snaps savagely, making me tremble. “Without it, you have no freedom,” He grunts coldly.
I swallow, trembling. “We—we know each other. We’ve met…”
“A regrettable circumstance given what must be done.”
When he says nothing more and offers no other explanation, we just stare at each other across the helicopter pad, with the lights casting ominous shadows across his chiseled face.
“Let me go,” I whisper again.
He says nothing. Just silence.
“Please! Mr. Volk—”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Okay! Fine!” I blurt. “Yuri, please—”
“Here you may call me ‘sir.’”
I blush. And my self-loathing grows as the heat of that word from his mouth touches me.
“I said here you may call me ‘sir,’” he growls without blinking. No smile. No “just kidding.”
“You’re joking.”
He says nothing to me. He just turns and barks something in Russian. Instantly, a man materializes out of the shadows and nods curly at him. When Yuri Volkov barks another order, the man nods again and turns to me.
“Okay! Okay! Please!” I blurt in terror. “Please! Please, sir!”
Yuri turns and smiles thinly. “Good. That is good.”
Hope blooms in me. “Good like I can go?”
His smile thins. “Good like you’re learning.”
And then suddenly, I can scream again. And scream I do. I scream for help until my voice is raw. But when I whirl, I know it’s useless. I’m in the middle of an ocean, on this man’s boat. I’m trapped. I’m caged. I’m…
“You may yell all you want, kiska,” the gorgeous, dangerous man grunts. “But I am the only one who will hear your screams.”
He steps towards me, and I gasp as he suddenly looms over me.
“You have entered my kingdom, little bird,” he purrs. “And here, I am king. Here, all is mine, all under my control.” His lips thin. “Including you.”
My pulse thuds.
“I would begin to make myself used to that idea if I were you,” he growls quietly.
My heart races. The blood thunders in my ears. My thighs are clenching as pure heat from those piercing blue eyes burns through me
And then suddenly, he turns, and without another word, he walks away.
You are mine. You belong to me now.
His words echo like a drum thudding in my very soul as I watch him melt back into the darkness.


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