Page 3 of The Bratva's Forced Bride

“Judging by the look on your face, I'm one hundred percent sure that whatever that was, concerns me.” The dopey smile on his lips remained and I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you going to tell me? Or do you want me to fucking beg, Yuri?”

“Never ever.” Clearing his throat, he shifted on the chair, throwing one leg over the other. “We’ve located Logan.”

I scrutinized the expression on Yuri’s face. “Logan ...?”

“Logan Mercer.”

The second the name crossed his lips, all thoughts of blood on the carpet, disloyal employees, and Malik evaporated like gas into thin air. I felt the hairs on my skin stand up and my ears perk up like antennae. “Mercer? You fucking found him?”

Yuri nodded, like a proud hunter gloating, and new rage seized me, traveling through every nerve in my body until I saw red. A sharp ringing sounded in my ears and my blood steamed. It steamed so fucking hot that I clenched my teeth to keep my thoughts under control. When it came to Mercer, I'd take bloodlust over logic any day.

Ruslan Volkov’s offense was pale in comparison to the crime Logan committed years ago. Against me. Against the Varkov Bratva. Against blood. And to make matters worse, he fled. Cut and erased all lines and traces, anything that could lead back to him.

The fucker owed me big time, and I had sworn to myself that he would wish he had never been born.

Yuri hummed, bobbed his crossed leg, and drummed his fingers on the desk. I glanced at him because I knew what it was: the thrill, the excitement, the anticipation. He was just as ready as I was to continue the chase, but it didn’t mean as much to him as it did to me.

“He’s back ... the motherfucker slimy bastard is back,” I repeated, still reeling in the euphoria of the moment.

Yuri nodded his head. “He’s back, boss. He was spotted in Chicago fifteen hours ago.”

I kicked my chair back and he jumped to his feet just as quickly. We exchanged a look, and I grabbed my cell phone from my desk.

For me, this was a triumph. It didn’t matter that Mercer’s head hadn’t been served on a platter yet; I knew it was just a matter of time. And if I had to ruin another hundred carpets to do it, I'd do it with pleasure.

“Tell Lev to get the plane ready. We shall pay a visit to our old friend.”

Chapter 2 – Addison

“All that glitters is not gold.” – Williams Shakespeare.

The little silver bells above the door jingled and I looked up from my cell phone for the umpteenth time in a flash. A blonde with crazy blue highlights walked in and her eyes met mine before she stomped over to the counter. My head lowered.

Still not her.

Where the hell is she?

I didn’t even bother to look outside. The clouds had thickened, growing grayer by the minute, and promising a rainstorm that surely no one wanted to be caught under. And when a raindrop hit the window, the frown on my lips deepened.

I buttoned up my black sweater, opened our chat, and sent a text message to join the twenty others.

Me: Maria!!! Where are you???

Me: I’m tired of counting the number of customers that troop in here per hour. Although, if I should say, it’s a pretty decent figure. Enough to keep the place open if the numbers are steady.

Me: But that is to point out that it’s been over an hour already! *pout* Come on, it’s so not funny anymore.

Me: Some blonde chick with bright blue highlights walked in like a minute ago. Wouldn’t you have loved to see that?

A glimmer of hope flickered as the ticks turned blue. She had read the messages and a speech bubble appeared, indicating she was typing. Then it fell flat. My heart sank. The bell above the door jingled again, but I paid no attention. Not anymore. She had stood me up, and in my heart, I knew that the next time I looked up, I would be marching outside with my little purse slung over my shoulder.

Just then, the bubble flashed, and her message appeared.

Maria: Oh, I did. Caught sight of her when the taxi stopped on the curb. And right now, if you look up, she’s flirting with the barista.

There she was, finally—after a million years—shining like a ray of sunshine. Just like me, she was wearing a sweater and jeans. She twirled the tip of her brown ponytail, on which the raindrops shimmered, and flashed what I call the ’I-know-you'll-forgive-me’ smile.

I scoffed and rolled my eyes, and she dared to consider herself forgiven.

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