Page 46 of The Bratva's Plus-Size Bride

He was the one who set me on the path of journalism in the first place, as he managed to have a successful career in writing. From day one, I thought it was amazing. It put a bug in my ear, and ever since then, I shared that enthusiasm for storytelling with him, and every step of the way, he encouraged me to chase after it.

It was in my apartment—the one that had been abandoned for weeks after Ben decided to make me his wife and hadn't allowed me the chance to go back home and get anything.

The more I thought about the typewriter and its significance, the more I wanted it back.

I imagined it being a sort of centerpiece somewhere—a reminder of my dedication to the craft, and the ambition I let guide me regardless of the obstacles.

Even through the most difficult aspects of the job and life itself, I was still determined to make a career for myself in the field. It didn’t matter who fired me or who decided I wasn’t worth keeping for their newspaper. I was going to keep pushing toward making it work, and that typewriter would be the perfect thing to showcase in my very own office.

Eventually, I couldn’t get it out of my head, and I knew I had to have it. So I pulled my phone out and sent Ben a text asking if I could go get it. While I could picture where I'd left it, there was no telling if I was too late and the landlord had already decided to throw away my things. The thought made my heart clench, but I knew I had to try anyway. It would be worth it in the end.

After sending the message, I waited a few minutes before the notification chimed, and I was quick to click on his reply.

That’s fine. I’ll send Mikhail over to you now. He should be there in twenty.

A moment later, another text came through. I’ll be home in a few hours. In some meetings now.

I smiled at his confirmation and the reminder that he would be home sooner rather than later so we’d get to spend the rest of the evening together. It was easy to get lost in conversations about my research and plans, but I noted to myself how I wanted to ask about those meetings, and how his day went.

I was looking forward to seeing him as I sent him a quick text to thank him before I got up and put on something more suitable.

Excitement coursed through me at the thought of being reunited with my typewriter, and while I didn’t want to get my hopes up just in case my things had been cleared out, it was a nice thing to look forward to anyway.

Eventually, Mikhail, the driver, pulled up to the house and he greeted me as I climbed in.

While I didn’t know much about him, he was the one who carpooled me to work, and he had been nice enough to me every time he came to pick me up. I could tell that while the job could be demanding at times, he seemed to enjoy what he did. Regardless of our very limited interactions, it was still nice to see his familiar face from time to time.

As he drove us through the city and the usual scenes unfolded around me, I found my heart feeling lighter than usual. Even if Ben did his best to hide how worried he was about the Ivanov situation, I knew it was slowly wearing him down. It was hard to ignore that fact at night, but despite that, he was still trying. He was opening up to me and placing his faith in my ability to make the business happen.

Ben had offered me a kind of trust that was new to me, and with his help, I was determined to show him it wouldn’t be for nothing. Regardless of the things happening behind the scenes with the twins, everything was good between me and Ben. It made me hopeful as I looked forward to where it might take us.

As Mikhail pulled up, he also unbuckled his seatbelt and propped his door open. He glanced back at me. “I’ll escort you inside.”

While I had anticipated going in and speaking with the building manager alone, I didn’t mind the backup. If the landlord planned to withhold my things and turn my typewriter into a hostage situation, then I figured having an intimidating man on my side would work in my favor.

“That would be great,” I said with a smile as I got out and found myself on the familiar street. Looking up at the high-rise apartment building—one jam-packed with less-than-desirable units—only the smallest piece of me missed the strange, almost uncomfortable yet rewarding feeling of living there.

Without a doubt, I didn’t like the place, yet it was my first place in New York and the place I returned to at the end of those crazy busy workdays. It was part of my internship indirectly, and it was somewhat difficult to be facing it again, although I knew not to dwell on that idea.

I was in a better place, with the promise of starting my publication ahead of me. I had a marriage that didn’t seem quite so bad anymore, and I was in the beginning stages of beginning a new chapter in my life.

I was nostalgic about the apartment, but I was prepared to let it go once and for all.

Prepared to head inside, I took a few steps across the sidewalk before a commotion to my right startled me. Several loud gasps broke my train of thought as figures moved in a blur in my peripheral vision.

I heard and sensed the quick movement of Mikhail drawing his gun, but before he could even click the safety off, a loud pop rang out. His body jolted backwards from the impact.

It all happened so fast. Far too fast for me to properly process the situation.

With the crackle of recent gunfire hanging thickly in the air, fear shot through me as I glanced over my shoulder at the quiet gurgle that came from Mikhail.

His face was nothing but a mask of surprise and fear as he looked over at me, gun dangling loosely in one hand while the other pressed against his chest. Blood slowly oozed into the crisp white material of his button-down beneath his black suit jacket, coating his fingertips as more blood seeped from his wound than he could hold in.

Eyes wide and terrified, I stared at him for what felt like an eternity as I watched a thin line of blood trickle from his lips.

The driver, vulnerable and in a state of shock, coughed before his fingers tensed around the wound, and with a shaky breath, he dropped.

My skin felt colder than ice as I tried to make sense of it—as I tried to process the brutal murder that just happened outside of my old apartment building.

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