Page 50 of The Bratva's Forced Bride

My curiosity had gotten the best of me, and I wanted to see how Yaro ran his end of the business. He was in charge of the warehouses and the men posted between those locations, and that was a considerable achievement.

With a husband like him, risking his life like he often did, I didn’t want to shy away from the grittier parts. That almost felt like a disservice.

Yaro slowed to fall into step with me as I followed, leaning down to murmur, “The girls don’t normally see this kind of thing. If you want to leave at any point, just go. I understand.”

Nodding, I wanted him to think I would do exactly that. But I couldn’t. I didn’t grow up in his world, and I needed to desensitize myself to it. It was all new to me, and being squeamish about that kind of thing wouldn’t do me any good.

Not only was it his lifestyle, but now mine, too.

We were bound to one another, and that reality belonged to both of us then.

I had felt brave the entire way there, but as that adrenaline began to ebb from my system, I started to feel the slight tendrils of regret creeping in. The closer we were to that interrogation room, the more I started to consider the true weight of what I was about to witness.

But as we rounded the corner and entered the room made of four steel walls, concrete flooring, and a single light, there was no backing out.

The captive was seated in a hard-looking metal chair in the center of the room with a bandage secured around his one leg. A patch of blood seeped through the gauze, but he was nursed enough to keep him from bleeding out, it seemed.

That bright red stain was enough to make my stomach turn.

Elias was already there with a handful of other men, seemingly leading the interrogation. When he noticed us coming in, he glanced at me, and a slight look of surprise crossed his face before he turned his attention to Yaro.

“He hasn’t talked yet, but we’re getting there.”

Yaro nodded, then waved the remaining men away. “Elias, you stay. I want three men posted outside the door, but everyone else out.”

Everyone did as they were told at once until it was only the two of us, Elias, and the captive. Elias moved back to stand near me with his arms crossed as he observed the scene ahead. Once the shuffle of feet quieted down, my attention went completely to the man.

Taking a deep breath in, I tried my best to prepare myself from the back half of the room. To urge myself to not look away no matter what.

Adjusting his gloves, Yaro fixed his gaze on the man whose face was already puffy and discolored from being hit.

“If you tell us what we need to know, then I will make this quick,” he began, looking squarely at him as if they were the only two people in the room. “Understand?”

The man only breathed heavily, sounding strained as if his airflow had been obstructed in some way.

“Who are you?”

The captive didn’t say anything. He only looked back at Yaro with a harsh glare.

He back-handed him without another thought. The sound of his gloved hand colliding with the man’s cheek made me jump slightly from how fast it happened. I hardly had the chance to blink without missing it.

His head recoiled, and the man heaved in those shallow breaths.

“Let’s try that again. Who are you? Who do you work for?” Yaro asked, raising his voice.

Something in me wanted the hostage to just get out with it. To let Yaro hear what needed to be said, then move on to spare him more damage.

But as the man refused to speak, it became clear why Yaro couldn’t be easy on him. If he wouldn’t budge, then he would have to resort to more extreme measures.

Something about the interrogation had me split down the middle. I didn’t enjoy violence, especially not as the skin was broken and blood began to flow, but at the same time, I knew why he had to do it. I understood what he was fighting for.

Yaro wanted to keep his family safe, and there were men out to get them and their business. It was unfortunate that some man had to take the brunt of it in his leader’s stead, but that was apparently how things were done.

The more the captive resisted, the more he was hit. Again and again, Yaro struck him until his face was beaten almost beyond recognition.

It went on for some time, and with each collision of leather against the skin, I flinched less. I told myself not to react, even if the man began to sob from the pain.

Even if the sound of Yaro’s fist meeting his face again and again was sickening to hear, I didn’t let it shake me.

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