Page 10 of Married to the Bratva

“What was?”

“He asked me to work on a project for him for his work. Said it was to help him get a promotion. I had no idea he was going to use it to steal from anyone, especially not the fucking Bratva.”

“I’ll paint you a picture,” he replies, his words slicing through my panic. “He plans the robbery using outside funding.

“Only he needs someone with tech skills to help him lock the money away until he gets away. So he hunts for an expert. Finds you. Seduces you. Flatters you with some bullshit about funding your dreams.

“All he asked in return was that you help him build an encryption program. I know he got Federico Bernardi to fund him. He’s either splitting it with Federico or was planning to screw him over and take the lot.

“Either way you get left as the fall guy. Federico kills you if Evan runs with the dough or I get to you first and find your fingerprints all over the coding...” His voice tails off, like he’s suddenly lost in thought.

“Who’s Federico Bernardi?” I ask.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“Should I?”

“He’s my rival. Italian mob. Killed my mother and wants me dead so he can get my empire in his greedy claws. The two of them are going to unlock that file soon. So you need to do it first.”

“I can’t crack that code,” I whisper, clutching the tablet tightly. “No one can.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a gun. “Then it’s time for us to say goodbye.”

Panic courses through me but my eyes move of their own accord, fixing on the bottom of the screen. “Wait,” I say, waving my hands in the air, a smile forming on my lips.

“Be careful what you say next. Your life depends on it, Sophie.”

A hysterical laugh escapes me. “Oh, Evan, you dumb bastard.” I tap the screen. “You see this?”

“I see a bunch of numbers.”

“I taught Evan how to tweak my program but he forgot to take out my kill code.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he can’t get into this file without my help.”

7

MAXIM

The SUV glides into the underground parking garage, the tires hissing on the slick concrete. I pull into the reserved spot, cutting the engine.

The hum of the car dies, leaving behind the faint echo of water dripping from pipes overhead. It’s quiet down here—clean, secure, controlled. Exactly the way I like it.

I glance at the rearview mirror. Sophie sits in the back seat, pale and trembling. Her wet wedding dress clings to her like it’s trying to stop her from falling apart.

“Out,” I say, my voice sharp. Her head snaps up, and for a moment, her wide eyes meet mine. Fear lingers there, but there’s something else, too. Anger. Pride. Stubbornness.

She hesitates. “Please,” she mutters, her voice trembling but firm. “I don’t want to see him again.”

Something about her words tugs at my heart. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to.

This is more important than emotions. This is about money. My money and my reputation. The only things that matter in life.

I don’t bother waiting for her to climb out on her own. Opening the back door, I grab her arm, careful not to hurt her but firm enough to remind her who’s in control. She flinches at the contact but doesn’t fight me.

The elevator ride to the penthouse is silent except for the faint hum of the machinery. She stands stiffly beside me, her hands balled into fists at her sides, as far from me as the space allows.

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