Kidnapped by the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #5)

Chapter Twenty-Four - Sophia

The darkness presses in around me, thick and suffocating, and the only sound I can hear is the frantic pounding of my heart. My wrists ache from being tied up for so long, and my hands are starting to go numb. I can barely see anything in this dimly lit room, but I refuse to give up. I have to get out of here.

Chiara left me alone, probably thinking I’m too weak to escape, but I’m not giving up. I’ve been feeling around the floor for what feels like hours, and finally, I find something—sharp and small. A broken shard of glass or metal, I can’t tell. It’s jagged enough to cut through the ropes binding my wrists.

I grit my teeth, sawing at the ropes with trembling hands. Every second feels like an eternity, the fear gnawing at my insides as I work as quickly as I can. My hands shake from the effort, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

Finally, I feel the ropes give way. My hands come free, and I pull them forward, rubbing my sore wrists. Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived.

Just as I’m about to stand, the door creaks open.

A man steps into the room, tall and menacing. His face is shadowed, but I can feel the malice radiating off him. I scramble backward, my heart racing as he approaches. His eyes lock on me, and I see the dark intent in them. He’s not here to talk. He’s here to kill me.

Without warning, he lunges toward me, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me forward. I scream in pain, struggling to break free, but he’s too strong. His grip tightens, and my scalp burns as he drags me across the floor.

“Let go of me!” I shout, but he only laughs, his breath hot against my skin.

My fingers scramble for the sharp object I used earlier. My mind races, my instincts kicking in. I know I won’t get another chance.

The man pulls me closer, his hand squeezing my throat, and that’s when I act. I grip the shard of metal tightly in my hand and thrust it forward with all the strength I have left.

I don’t even realize where I’m aiming until I feel it sink into his neck.

He lets out a guttural sound, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbles backward. Blood spurts from the wound, dark and thick, and he clutches at his throat, his body collapsing to the floor. I stare in horror, my hands slick with his blood, as he gurgles and chokes, his life slipping away.

The sight of it is nauseating, the sheer amount of blood overwhelming. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

I killed him.

The realization hits me like a freight train, and I feel the bile rise in my throat. My hands shake, covered in his blood, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the pool of red spreading across the floor.

Suddenly, the door bursts open again, and more men flood into the room. Among them is Don Fernando, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene—the body on the floor, the blood staining my clothes, and the weapon still clutched in my trembling hand.

The other men remove their hats as they stand around the dead body, their faces solemn. It’s some kind of Italian tradition, honoring their fallen men, even in the middle of this chaos.

Don Fernando steps forward, his gaze cold and calculating as he looks at me. “You fought well,” he says, almost as if he’s impressed. “Now it’s time for you to go.”

He pulls out a gun, leveling it at my head. The metallic click of the safety being disengaged echoes in the room, and for a moment, everything slows down. My breath catches in my throat, and all I can think is this is it. This is how it ends.

The barrel of the gun feels like an extension of his cruelty, and I close my eyes, bracing myself for the inevitable.

Then, suddenly, the sound of gunfire shatters the silence. It’s loud and relentless, and I flinch as the air fills with the deafening crack of bullets. I open my eyes just in time to see Don Fernando stagger backward, his expression one of shock as a dark stain blooms across his chest. He falls to the floor, his gun clattering from his hand, lifeless.

One by one, the rest of his men are shot down. Chaos erupts, but I’m frozen in place, too stunned to move.

I barely register the moment when the shooting stops. Slowly, cautiously, I turn my head toward the door, and that’s when I see them.

Maxim stands there, flanked by Artem and Timur, guns still in hand. Their expressions are hard, cold, and unyielding, but Maxim’s eyes lock on to mine. His face is tense, but the moment he sees me, something flickers behind his gaze.

I exhale shakily, relief flooding through me as the realization hits.

The room falls into a tense silence, the sound of gunfire replaced by the eerie stillness of death. I stand there, frozen, watching the bodies of Don Fernando and his men slump lifelessly to the floor. My breath is ragged, my heart pounding in my chest as I process what just happened. My hands are still trembling, covered in the blood of the man I killed.

He came for me.

A part of me didn’t believe he would. After everything—after the coldness, the distance, the way he treated me like nothing more than a pawn—I doubted he’d care enough to come. Maybe he’d think I was just another complication to deal with. Now, seeing him here, his gaze full of something I can’t quite place, I realize how wrong I was.

As he gets closer, I notice the shift in his eyes. Genuine concern flickers in the depths of his usually guarded expression, his sharp, calculating demeanor softened by something I never expected to see from him.

Worry.

He stops just in front of me, his broad figure towering over mine, and for a moment, I think I’m going to collapse right there. My knees feel weak, my body trembling as the adrenaline begins to fade. Without saying a word, Maxim lifts a hand to my cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle as his fingers brush away the blood and grime from my skin. The warmth of his hand seeps into me, and for the first time since I was taken, I feel like I can breathe again.

“Are you hurt?” he asks quietly, his voice steady but laced with an underlying tension.

I shake my head, though the tears are already welling up in my eyes. “It’s not my blood,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I… I killed him. I didn’t mean to, but I did, and there was so much blood—” My words falter, and before I can stop myself, I break down, the weight of everything crashing down on me all at once.

The fear. The helplessness. The guilt.

Maxim doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest, and for the first time in days, I let myself fall apart. I cry into his shoulder, the sobs wracking my body as the horror of what I’ve been through finally catches up with me. I killed a man. I took a life, and now I have to live with that.

“I’m sorry,” I sob, gripping his shirt with trembling hands. “I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t want any of this.”

Maxim’s hold on me tightens, his hand resting on the back of my head as he strokes my hair soothingly. “You did what you had to do,” he murmurs, his voice low and comforting. “It wasn’t your fault. You’re safe now.”

Safe. The word feels foreign, almost impossible to grasp after everything I’ve been through. I never thought I’d feel safe again. Not in this world, where danger lurks around every corner, where trust is a luxury no one can afford.

Here, in Maxim’s arms, I feel it. Even if it’s just for a fleeting moment.

I pull back slightly, my tear-streaked face meeting his intense gaze. His hand is still on my cheek, his thumb brushing away the last of my tears. He looks at me like I’m something fragile, something he needs to protect, and it’s confusing. This isn’t the man I thought he was.

“You saved my life,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

His eyes flicker, and for a moment, I see the faintest hint of vulnerability in his expression. “Of course, I did,” he replies softly, like it was never even a question.

And that’s when it hits me. I had spent my time in captivity wondering if he would even bother. I thought I was just a pawn in his game of revenge, that he saw me as nothing more than a means to an end. Seeing the way he looks at me, feeling the way he holds me, I realize I was wrong.

Maybe Maxim does care. Maybe he always did, and I just couldn’t see it through the layers of anger and mistrust.

As much as that thought comforts me, it also terrifies me. Caring means I can get hurt. I’ve already been hurt more than I ever thought possible.

“I didn’t think….” I trail off, swallowing hard. “I didn’t think you cared.”

Maxim’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull away. But he doesn’t. Instead, he cups my face with both hands, forcing me to look at him.

“I’m not a man who shows it easily,” he admits, his voice low and gravelly. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care. I do.”

His words send a jolt through me, and I feel my heart twist painfully in my chest. I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. Instead, I just nod, the weight of everything too much to process.

We stand there in silence for what feels like forever, his thumb gently stroking my cheek as he holds me in place. His eyes, always so guarded, seem to soften for just a moment, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

Does he feel what I’m feeling? Does he understand how confusing this all is for me?

Eventually, he pulls away, his hand slipping from my face as he takes a step back. “You need to rest,” he says quietly, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Maxim pulls me closer once again, his hands steady against my trembling body, and for a brief moment, I let myself sink into the warmth of his embrace. It’s a strange feeling, this sense of comfort coming from someone I thought I should hate. Someone who kidnapped me, someone who forced me into this life.

But as his fingers trace down my arm in a soothing gesture, the world outside fades away, and I find myself gripping on to him like he’s my lifeline. My tears have slowed, but the weight of everything still lingers heavily on my chest.

“You’re safe with me now,” he murmurs, his voice a low promise that makes something inside me stir.

I want to believe him. More than anything, I want to trust that I really am safe with him, despite everything we’ve been through. The fear, the uncertainty—it clings to me like a shadow.

He steps back slightly, his hand resting on the small of my back as he guides me toward the door. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

As we walk past Fernando’s lifeless body, I glance at Maxim, still feeling the conflicting emotions swirling inside me.

He isn’t the monster I thought he was.