Page 6 of Mafia King's Bride

I release her, letting my hand fall away. She stumbles back, but there’s something almost proud in the way she recovers, in the way she stands there, facing me with her chin held high. Almost admirable.

Almost.

I turn my head as Janet’s footsteps echo up the stairs, and she appears with a tray of food in hand.

“Janet went through the trouble of making you dinner,” I say, my voice flat and final. “Don’t let it go to waste.” Without another word, I turn on my heel and leave, heading toward my own room.

As I climb the stairs, I flex my hand, trying to release the tension coiled in my fingers. I didn’t expect her to get under my skin like this. It usually takes more for someone to rile me up.

But Ana managed to do it effortlessly.

Still, I’ve made my point clear. If she tries anything else, I’ll show her exactly who she’s dealing with.

Because when I exact revenge, I leave no one standing.

THREE

ANA

The house feels too quiet as I step out of my room; an oppressive silence seems to press against my ears, making the vastness of this mansion even more suffocating. It’s been less than two weeks since I married Dmitri Orlov, yet it feels like a lifetime, each day stretching endlessly in this cavernous prison. I walk down the long hallway, my footsteps echoing unnaturally loud in the empty space, a reminder that despite the grandness of this house, there’s nothing for me here.

I head downstairs, desperate for a small moment of normalcy—a cup of coffee to start my day. But even that feels hollow, a ritual that no longer brings comfort. As I enter the kitchen, I find Janet busy at the stove. She notices me immediately, turning with a polite nod.

“Good morning, ma’am. What would you like for breakfast?” she asks, her voice as warm as ever, but I can see the concern flickering behind her eyes.

It’s the same concern she’s shown every morning since I moved in, every time I’ve turned down a meal. “Nothing, thank you, Janet. I’ll just make myself some coffee.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t push. She never does, and I feel a pang of guilt. She’s only doing herjob, and yet here I am, punishing her with my cold indifference because I’m trapped in this house—this life—against my will.

“Okay,” she says softly, turning back to the stove.

I brew the coffee in silence, focusing on the task as if it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. The machine is state-of-the-art, of course. Dmitri doesn’t do anything halfway. It’s the one thing I can stand in this place—the only semblance of control I have left. I take a sip, letting the bitterness roll over my tongue, but even that can’t shake the heaviness sitting in my chest.

After finishing the cup, I drop it in the sink and make my way back upstairs, eager to retreat to the one space that feels remotely safe: my room. As I climb the stairs, I hear the faint creak of a door opening on the third floor. My heartbeat spikes, my legs moving faster without conscious thought. Dmitri. I don’t even need to look to know it’s him.

I quicken my pace, hurrying back to my room and closing the door behind me with a soft click. My pulse is still racing, and I press my back against the wood, forcing myself to breathe. I shouldn’t be afraid of him. Dmitri Orlov might be a monster to others, but to me, he’s just… indifferent. Cold. And yet, I find myself avoiding him at every turn, not out of fear, but out of sheer revulsion for the man I’m now tied to.

Every interaction with him feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into a dark abyss. It’s not fear that makes me retreat—it’s the weight of knowing I married him not for love, but because one man’s hatred for my father outmatched even his thirst for revenge.

I sigh heavily, peeling myself away from the door and heading to the bathroom. Today, at least, I have work to keep me occupied. It’s the only thing I have left to cling to, the one thing that reminds me I had a life before all of this. A purpose.

“Mrs. Orlov.”

The sound of the name stops me in my tracks. I turn, realizing with a jolt that the senior partner calling out is addressing me.

Mrs. Orlov.

The name feels like sandpaper in my mouth, rough and unwelcome.

Anastasia Orlov. I mentally repeat it, trying to make sense of the new identity forced upon me. The more I say it, the more it feels like a bad joke. But the man walking toward me doesn’t know the truth. He sees me as Dmitri’s wife, and that means I have to play the part.

“Good morning, sir,” I say, forcing a smile that barely touches my eyes.

He catches up to me, his expression warm. “For a moment, I thought I had the wrong person. Welcome back!” He extends his hand, and I shake it mechanically. “How was your honeymoon?”

Honeymoon.

I almost laugh. The week I spent locked in my room, pretending that none of this was happening? I raise an eyebrow, but he continues, oblivious.

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