Page 35 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

And it’s not just the human trafficking—there are plenty of other Allard crimes that I haven’t told Fiona about in the hopes of not upsetting her too much.

If Olive knows anything about those, she’s not the innocent girl she plays.

“Nothing,” Roman says, then he laughs, his face scrunching a bit, “but do you truly think there’s any way Olive isn’t involved in the family business? I mean—think about Anya. Even as much as we try to shelter her from everything, she knows about everything that goes on. She’d have our ass if we even thought about doing half the shit Allard gets up to.”

I let out a sigh, then dropped my head into my hands.

“I know, man,” I say, eventually, when silence has filled the kitchen for a long moment. “But Fiona seems to think Olive isn’t like that. It’s hard to think Fiona failed to read someone—her best friend—like that.”

“Well, she failed to read James Allard like that,” Roman points out, “and besides, when did you start trusting a stranger’s judgment so much?”

“She’s not a stranger,” I mumble.

“Dude,” Roman says, rolling his eyes. “You barely know this girl. You met her what—two weeks ago?”

“I don’t know how to explain it to you, and I don’t have to.”

“You’re right, you don’t have to, but that doesn’t stop you from looking like you’re off your rocker, brother.”

“When I look at Fiona—it’s like looking at myself,” I say, staring at the counter, hating that I’m sharing all this mushy shit. “You weren’t there the night that I kidnapped her—it’s like she allowed me to take her. She wanted to play this game with me, which makes me think she’s interested in joining this world.”

“I mean, yeah, that seems pretty obvious, based on the way she’s been acting,” Roman pauses for a moment. “Not to question your judgment, brother, but you really don’t think it's possible that Fiona is planted? I mean—if she allowed herself to be kidnapped, doesn’t that seem a little suspicious to you?”

“Yes,” I admit, “but it makes sense, given her background.”

“How do you know her background?”

“She told me—” I start before realizing what that sounds like. I clear my throat.

“I just don’t want you to let something like love cloud your judgment.”

“Who said love?” I grumble, running a hand over my chin. “Look into her for me. Anything you can find.”

“Right away,” Roman says, grinning at me. “Even if she’s clean, I can’t wait to dig up embarrassing moments from her past that I can hold over her head.”

I know Fiona won’t like the idea of me looking into her background, but I also know that she’ll understand. I remember what she said about the motorcycles in the shed and the chef’s fear of mice. I picture her creeping through the house, gathering as much information as she can. Fiona would understand my need to have more information about her before moving forward.

Moving forward with what?

I was prepared to marry Olive Allard—just to infuriate her father, change her last name, and make a mess for them to clean up. I had never intended to actually keep her as my wife. I didn’t think we would be compatible. But now, here I am, with a woman living in my house that I feel the desperate need to stay with.

Olive was a play, a strategy. But Fiona is like a suitcase of money that’s fallen in my lap.

“I’m just thinking, brother,” Roman says, and I can already tell from his tone that I’m not going to like what he says next. “That if Fiona is so valuable to the Allards, perhaps we should use her as bait. They might come running if they believe she’s free from us. And it seems like you’ve gained her trust.”

He raises a knowing eyebrow, and I stare back at him, shaking my head.

“No—we’re not putting Fiona in harm’s way. Not anymore.”

Not after the other night, when she was almost stabbed. I know that if she had taken that blow instead of me, it would have been a lot more than two weeks of healing and some physical therapy. She might not be with us anymore.

“I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying. It’s not an option. We’ll just have to find another way.

Roman puts his hands up like I’m holding him at gunpoint.

“All right,” he says, grabbing his keys from the counter and turning to go. “I just thought you should know. By the way, if you’re well enough to come to the kitchen in the middle of the night, does that mean you’re well enough to take your responsibilities back? Because, quite frankly, I’m pretty tired of dealing with them.”

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