Page 1 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

Chapter 1 – Aria

Lightning streaked the skies, accompanied by rolls of thunder, as I drove down the road at one in the afternoon. Dark clouds hovered above, hinting at the impending downpour. But even that wasn’t enough to keep me back in my place.

I had an appointment with one of my sources, a guy named Frank who worked at an industrial site called Meridian Solutions. I’d been trying for weeks to get him to set up a meeting with me, but he’d been busy.

Today, he finally reached out, and according to him, if I didn’t make it today, he couldn’t guarantee another meeting at the site. I’d abandoned my lunch and taken off as soon as I got the text about an hour ago.

This meeting was a field research assignment that would count for 70 percent of my semester grade. I wasn’t about to joke about it. The paper was about financial corruption, and for some reason, Meridian Solutions was the first company that came to mind.

I glanced at the digital map on my dashboard console, and the GPS said to turn right. Slowly, I did. The road was narrow and paved with concrete, with a seam running down the middle where two separate sections had settled unevenly over time.

On my right, there was a building under construction with a handful of workers getting the job done. On my left was a lonely sidewalk, almost abandoned—ghostly.

Lightning streaked the skies again, and yet another thunderclap followed.

“Hurry up! We gotta get these things inside before the rain!” someone shouted, his voice echoing down the street.

I drove to the sign at the end of the road, with the company’s name written in bold all caps. The text at the bottom of the sign read that only authorized personnel or scheduled visitors were allowed in.

Luckily, I was a scheduled visitor.

I pulled up and stopped before a red-and-white barrier arm that stretched across the entrance. Beside it, there was a security booth holding a portly man in his mid-fifties or late forties. Dressed in a gray uniform, he sat behind the small counter in that cramped space.

“Hi,” I said, wearing a courteous grin as I wound down my window.

“This is a restricted area,” he replied with a neutral expression. “If you’re not authorized personnel or a scheduled visitor, I suggest you turn back.”

Rude, I thought to myself, struggling to keep that grin on my lips.

“My name is Aria Bennett,” I said. “I have a one-thirty with Frank Donovan.” A pause. “He works here.”

The man in the booth stared at me in silence, not suspiciously but thoroughly. “Can I see an ID?” It sounded more like a command than a request.

“Sure.” I reached into my blouse, where the identification card was hanging around my neck.

He glanced at it when I showed it to him, my hand stretched out the window. “You a student?”

No, I’m a marine engineer. Of course, I’m a student. It’s a fuckin’ student ID. These were the exact words I wanted to blurt out. But in the end, I simply replied, “Yes. Journalism.”

He held my gaze for a moment before picking up the phone from his counter. “Hey, I got a Bennett here,” he said, his eyes scanning the surroundings. “Says she’s got a one-thirty with Frank Donovan.”

I broadened my smile when his gaze fell on me again.

“All right. Got it.” He hung up the phone.

I watched him reach under the counter and withdraw two items. One was a visitor’s badge, and the other was a clipboard.

He stepped out of his booth, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he made his way toward my vehicle.

“Sign here.” He handed me the clipboard with a pen.

I did as he instructed, and he handed me the badge.

The man bent over my window as if to examine the contents of my car’s cabin. After about three seconds, he asked, “What’s in the trunk?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”