Page 60 of Plus-Sized Bratva Prisoner

“I just quit my editing job.”

“What?” His eyes flare wide and his head tilts back in astonishment. “I thought you’d never quit.”

“Me too, but it turns out I was ready,” I shrug. Stepping into his open arms, I lean my face against his chest and breathe in. He smells amazing. He feels amazing.

He is starting to really feel like home to me.

“Come on, baby girl. Dinner is almost ready. Let’s open a bottle of champagne and celebrate.” He pulls me inside thehouse, keeping his arm wrapped around me as we walk towards the dining room.

He definitely feels like home.

Chapter 18 - Yefim

I’m so happy that Tia finally quit her other job.

Now the only work she has is with me, at my business. The family business—a family that she is already a part of.

I haven’t really told her this yet, but I know that it means a lot more than just leaving a job. She’s let go of something a lot bigger than that. She gave up that control over her life. That security. She let it go.

She’s put her trust in me in a huge way, and I am fully aware of it.

I won’t let her down. So, I want to show her how much it means to me, and that I can take care of her in the ways she needs.

The driver stops outside the restaurant bar where I was told the debt collector she owes the most money to likes to hang out. He’s the asshole who I got into a fight with, so I thought I should try and resolve that one first. Pay him everything he’s owed, plus some interest, and get rid of him for good. I don’t want to leave room for error, so I’d rather pay a little more. I know how these guys work. They’re assholes.

Of course I also want to warn him that if he ever comes near my wife again it will be his life on the line, so I plan to have a word with him about that as well. He knows who I am. He knows my family name. It should be enough to scare him into understanding.

I climb out of the car and head into the bar at the side of the restaurant. He’s more likely to be in there than eating at this time of day. The bar is smokey and noisy. It smells of body odor and old leather jackets. Not my style, definitely not the type ofplace I would hang out. But, I remind myself, these guys are debt collectors. They aren’t on the same level as I am.

I glance around the room, searching for his face amidst the sea of strangers.

He’s easy to spot, a tall guy with a broken nose, dark patches beneath his eyes where the bruises are starting to heal. He looks up as though he can feel my eyes on him.

He recognizes me as soon as I walk in as well. I guess I stand out in my own way, too clean for this place. I chuckle as I head in his direction, the duffel bag swinging in my grip.

I walk straight over to him, perhaps not being aware enough of my surroundings—that was my first mistake. My second mistake was coming alone.

I underestimated them.

Odd, because I tend to overthink things and never underestimate anyone. But I definitely underestimated this asshole.

“Yefim Dubrov. We’ve been expecting you,” the asshole says, egotistical and sure of himself. His deep voice sounds rough from years of chain-smoking the cheapest, strongest cigarettes on the market.

“We?” I say, dumping a bag of money on the top of the bar. “This is everything she owes—plus extra. I think we can both agree that you’ve hounded her for herdeadmother’s debts for too long now and it’s time to—"

The blinding pain that cracks against the back of my head catches me completely off guard. Who the fuck hits someone from behind?

I drop to my knees as the world starts spinning wildly. Blinking, I lift my arm to touch the back of my head, to feel thewarmth of the bright red blood I know is oozing over my skull, but I don’t get that far. Before my fingers touch my skull, a heavy leather boot slams into my ribcage, and all the air is punched from my body.

I gasp and slump forward as new pain rolls through me. Broken. My rib is definitely broken. It hurts so much I could easily believe that it’s cracked in half and pierced my lung. I can’t seem to get a breath of air into my body.

No. No. It’s okay. I can breathe.

I’m about to make some smart-ass remark about being too chicken to face me when they fight me when two men lift me from behind. I feel their hands wrap beneath my armpits as they drag me to my feet, letting me stand unsteady and struggling to breathe.

The asshole stands in front of me, grinning, his dark bruised eyes filled with hate.

“So, we aren’t going to talk, then?” I mumble, eyeing him through narrowed lids.

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