Dark Seduction (Chicago Bratva)

Chapter 1

Dalia

" C aught my husband screwing his secretary. In our bed."

The words spill out like word vomit.

The tow truck driver, a grizzled man whose face maps out a life of hardship, glances over, his expression a mix of shock and morbid curiosity.

For a moment, I worry the poor old man might keel over right there.

"Damn," he mutters, his voice heavy with empathy. "That's... quite a story. You wanna talk about it?"

I chuckle, the sound more of a scoff than anything joyful. "Trust me, you're better off if I don't."

He flashes a half-smile, the kind that’s seen too much to be surprised anymore. "I've got time, Miss. Try me."

I sigh, surrendering to the odd comfort of confessing to a stranger. "Where do I start? Well, for starters, I’m broke because my husband cleared our bank accounts. So that’s fun. Turns out our marriage wasn’t even legal. Half a decade, living a lie. And then, catching him in the act with his secretary in our own bed? The rotten cherry on top."

The driver remains silent, a respectful audience to my calamity.

“And if that wasn’t enough,” I continue, my voice as sharp as broken glass, “I lost my job today. Fired by my boss, who happens to be my ex’s best friend. Betrayal seems to be a common theme in my life right now.”

He lets out a low chuckle, not mocking, but understanding.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, my irritation evident.

“Sounds like when it rains, it pours. Been there myself.”

I snort, a humorless sound. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“At least you’re free of him now. Things could’ve been worse—you could still be stuck with that man, living with all that nonsense. Now you’ve got your freedom.”

“Freedom with about fifty dollars to my name,” I reply flatly, my voice hollow from exhaustion.

He winces slightly, but there’s no pity in his eyes.

Just understanding.

He doesn’t press, sensing I’ve had enough of the pep talk. Silence falls between us for the rest of the ride, comfortable in its own way, like he knows there’s not always a need to fill the quiet with words.

We pull into the mechanic’s lot, and I hand him the last of my cash. “Thanks for the ride… and for listening.”

“No trouble at all, Miss,” he says, his voice as steady as ever as he hops out to unhook my pitiful excuse of a car. Just as he’s about to leave, he pauses and turns back toward me, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

“Life’s funny, you know,” he begins, his voice soft but firm. “Sometimes it helps to believe everything happens for a reason. Never know what’s around the corner. You’ll bounce back from this. You’ve got strength—I can tell.”

I manage a faint smile, the warmth of his words cutting through my exhaustion. “I appreciate that. Really .”

With a small nod and a final smile, we say our goodbyes.

As he drives off, his words stay with me, lingering like an unexpected comfort on this otherwise shit show of a day.

I step into the garage, only to be greeted by a mechanic who looks like he’s allergic to soap.

His greasy hair, stained clothes, and overall demeanor scream this day isn’t getting any better.

“Hello. I’m having car trouble,” I say, trying not to sound as defeated as I feel.

“No kidding.” His voice, thick with a Russian accent, doesn’t exactly ooze sympathy.

“Do you offer payment plans?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

He laughs, but it’s not a pleasant sound. More like someone revving an engine too hard. Then he mutters something in Russian that I’m pretty sure wasn’t “Welcome to our fine establishment.”

Great, I think.

Another fucking winner.

This day just keeps getting better.

The man calls over his shoulder. “Take a seat. I’ll take a look.”

I hand him my keys as he walks by, watching him disappear into the garage. With a heavy sigh, I plop into a chair in the dingy waiting area, feeling totally defeated. The seat feels as broken as my bank account.

If this guy rips me off, I have no idea what I’ll do. My stomach churns with anxiety.

I thank my stars for the interview my friend lined up for me tomorrow.

It’s truly my last lifeline.

I sit there, fidgeting and biting my nails, trying to ignore the rising tide of dread. An hour drags by, then finally, the mechanic returns.

He wipes his greasy hands on an even greasier rag. He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Your car’s a mess,” he snaps. “Come out and look.”

My legs shake and anxiety takes hold as I get up and follow him out to the shop floor. My car—a non-descript little Nissan—sits there, the hood open. The sounds of power tools and the smell of oil are thick in the air. Some of the other mechanics glance in my direction. I can’t help but wonder if I appear more like a money sack to them than a woman.

The mechanic starts throwing a barrage of jargon at me—something about a busted transmission, worn-out brake pads, and a failing alternator.

I can barely keep up with the onslaught of technical terms.

“You haven’t been taking care of it,” he scolds, his tone dripping with disdain. “Typical woman driver. You probably don’t even know how to check the oil.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Excuse me? Just tell me the cost without the condescension, alright?”

He sneers, tossing the rag aside. “Fine. It’s gonna run you about fifteen hundred. Maybe more, depending on how bad the transmission is.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “Fifteen hundred? That’s insane. I’ll take it somewhere else.”

His laugh slices through the tense air, harsh and mocking, tinted with the unmistakable edge of a Russian accent. "Good luck with that. All the mechanic shops around here are controlled by the same family. You'll get the same price—or worse—anywhere else."

My temper ignites like a flare. "Are you kidding me? This is highway robbery!"

He crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter with a smug grin that seems all too common among the tough, cynical men of his heritage. "Call it what you want, sweetheart. That’s the price. Take it or leave it."

I stammer, scrambling for a solution, "I... I’ll find somewhere else. I’m not paying that much."

His sneer widens, his eyes cold and mocking. "You’re not going to find anywhere else. You’re stuck, just like all the other clueless idiots who wander in here."

My blood simmers with fury.

"I’m not clueless, and I’m certainly not an idiot. I’ll figure something out."

He rolls his eyes dismissively, a gesture so characteristically disdainful it's almost a caricature. "Yeah, good luck with that. Maybe next time you’ll learn to take care of your car. Or better yet, find a man who can do it for you."

My fists clench at my sides, the urge to retaliate growing stronger. “I don’t need a man to take care of my car, or anything else for that matter. You can take your sexist attitude and shove it.”

He straightens up, his face contorting with anger. “Watch your mouth, lady. You’re lucky I even agreed to look at that piece of junk.”

I glare at him, my resolve steeling. “And you’re lucky I don’t report you for this shakedown. Now, give me my keys. I’m done here.”

He smirks again, shaking his head as he carelessly tosses the keys my way.

“Bitch,” he mutters under his breath in a low growl.

I'm about to unleash a torrent of anger when a booming voice cuts through the cacophony of the shop, the words sharp and commanding in Russian.

The mechanic stiffens, his previous arrogance evaporating as he turns toward the source of the voice.

A man strides out from the shadows, an imposing figure whose very presence seems to command respect and fear. He's dressed impeccably in a tailored dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos that whisper tales of his roots—vivid, intricate designs possibly symbolic of Russian folklore or military service. His pleated slacks and polished shoes speak of a life that straddles worlds both rough and refined. An expensive watch clings to his wrist, a beacon of his status.

"What is going on here?" His voice booms, thick with a Russian accent, firm and cold as the Siberian winter, echoing through the garage with undeniable authority.

As he steps into the light, his features come into sharp focus—rugged yet strikingly handsome, with a jawline chiseled from stone and eyes that burn with a fierce intelligence. His presence is not only magnetic but also slightly intimidating, embodying the fierce pride and resilience of his heritage.

Holy shit, is he hot.