Page 30 of Arranged Marriage By the Bratva

Growing more furious by the minute, slowly, I draw the phone down from my ear, my head pounding with the thick rush of blood. Fuming with the knowledge, I put Yegor on speaker, desperately searching for my pants and underwear, pulling them on as fast as I can.

I didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt, but back at the beginning I felt like I couldn’t. She’s a Mancini, it would have been more believable to me if she were sleeping with him. That’s probably why the fucker drugged her. I swear I’m going to break every single bone in his body and have him watch the process.

He thought he could get away with it. He touched my fucking wife!

“Nikk? Are you there?”

A tight knot forms in my throat as I swallow it down. “I’m here. I’m on my way.”

The shocking revelation is hitting home, and I feel like a fool. She was trying to talk to me, but I wouldn’t listen. “Fuck. Is there anything else I should know? Is the baby, okay?” I ask, panicked and feeling helpless as to how I can help Elena. The only thing I can think to do is rip Matteo limb from limb.

“Yes, the doctor explained she’s having a very normal pregnancy, and her vitals are excellent. He has her on special vitamins, and Elena’s resting.”

Does she know what happened to her? She would have been knocked out and not known about the photos. Puzzled with the rush of jagged details, some things aren’t matching up, but the one thing that matters is—Matteo’s grave is waiting for him.

“That’s why the photos looked funny to me of her walking into the hotel with Matteo. It didn’t look like she was holding his hand or anything, it looked like he was dragging her in, and she was clinging to him,” Yegor explains quickly, probably anticipating me hanging up on him again, but no. This is serious, and now my blood is really boiling.

Matteo took advantage of her. She wasn’t sleeping with him at all. She probably didn’t even think it was his hotel, given the effects of the drug.

She told me the truth.

Chapter Twenty-One

Elena

What can I do? Wiping the blood from the back of my hand, I wash the blood down the sink. I don’t care about it. I’ve gathered a collection of fading bruises on my wrists, courtesy of Matteo. I couldn’t feel the rope at the time. He must have dug it in deeper than I thought he did. When I study my body and look at those covering my front and back, I don’t remember how they got there. I didn’t feel them at the time, but I do today. Wincing as I get dressed, I walk out of the bathroom.

No matter what I look like physically, I have to get back to Italy, and there’s no time to waste, because it’s likely Matteo’s already brainwashing the rest of the Sicilian famiglia, attempting to poison them against me. Stopping to think for a moment, I ask myself what my father would do if he were in my position. He wouldn’t give up that’s for sure, and he wouldn’t want me too either.

I have to get my revenge on him, and the only way to do that is to kill him. Think like a Donna, Elena. The throne is yours. What’s your next move going to be?

Nikk has a guard outside my door, but he knows I’m pregnant. If I tell him I’m sick, it can work. If Nikk were going to kill me regarding the pregnancy, he would have already slit my throat or something.

Knocking on the door, I call out to the guard on the other side. “Hello? Hi, I need some help,” I whine, putting on a performance.

“What do you need help with?” he asks flatly, no budging to open the door.

You need him to open the door, Elena. Make it dramatic.

“I’m having serious stomach pains. Please, I need your help. I might need to go to the hospital. Please,” I wheeze, dialing everything up so he opens the door.

I step back when I hear the knob turning and prepare myself mentally. This is where I’m going to put my judo training to good use. When he opens the door, and he sees that I’m standing upright, he reaches for his phone, not his weapon. Interesting tactic, and I’m guessing if I were male, he would have pulled his gun instead.

“You look okay to me?” he mumbles, but he’s too slow.

I let the opening guide my next steps as I size him up. He’s just over six feet tall, and a step slower than he should be for a guard. Sucks to be him. I’m a woman on a mission, and some guard is not going to get in the way of it.

In judo, the bulkier the person, the better it is, since there’s more body weight to leverage, and that’s what’s used, not sheer physical force. It’s why I always won in junior tournaments back home. There’s no room for bravado, only quick, smart movements to bring your opponent to ground.

Immediately, I jump on his back, startling him for a second. He tries to shake me off, but I angle my position, using what’s left of my strength and the anger I have inside for Matteo to fuel me. Closing down his windpipe, he battles, trying to swing me off his back, bouncing me into the walls, trying to scrape me off.

“Wha-what are you doing?”

He smashes me into the wall behind us one last time, and this gives me enough leverage to bring him down to the floor. Gritting my teeth, I wait until I hear the gurgling sound, putting him to sleep. Panting from exertion and exhaustion, I wait for him to go offline, the hallway clear.

Sliding out from under him, I know he won’t stay unconscious, but it buys me enough time to get my keys from our bedroom suite. There’s no guarantees he doesn’t have them on him, so to make sure, I take his keys and the phone in his pocket.

Jogging down the hallway, I check for any more guards, finding none. Sweeping into our bedroom, I scout around for my purse, time ticking quicker than I care for it to, and I can’t spend another half hour trying to look for them.

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