Page 65 of Untamed

Bookbabe

Do you think something is wrong???

Oh god.

Ohgod.

Why the hell has it never occurred to me that whatever he does for his family isn’t just dangerous, it’s probablylife-threatening?

It’s like I’ve never read any of the books that go into great detail about the risks and dangers, for crying out loud. This is partly my fault for dwelling so much in my fantasyland happy endings that I’ve forgotten his job is high-risk.

I do a quick search online.Bratva jobs.

What the hell am I doing? Like they’re going to be listed in a classified section online or something.

But the hits come hard and fast, and I can’t help but read them.

I hesitate for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, like a reckless idiot, I type the words into the search bar:Bratva deaths.

The screen fills almost instantly. Headlines, articles, grim photos. It’s a deluge of violence, and I should stop scrolling, but I can’t. Each click pulls me deeper, the stories blurring together.

"High-ranking Bratva member found dead in Moscow alley."

"Explosive car bombing tied to Russian organized crime."

"Federal crackdown on Bratva operations leaves dozens arrested."

I click one article. Then another. And another. Each one I read is more gruesome than the last.

A politician found shot execution-style in broad daylight. A businessman’s body discovered weighted at the bottom of a river. A nightclub leveled in a firebombing.

Oh my fucking god.

Each story tightens the knot in my stomach. This isn’t just some romanticized, book-boyfriend fantasy.

This is… this is his world.

Rodion’s world.

I dig deeper. The arrests. Some of them make the news—sleek photos of men in tailored suits being led away in cuffs. Others… don’t. They disappear, swallowed up by the system or somethingworse. The price of getting caught is isolation, surrendering any possibility of a relationship.

And the deaths? From what I’m reading? Those are the lucky ones.

My chest tightens as I read about men vanishing without a trace, rumors swirling that they were taken, interrogated, tortured for weeks. Families left to guess, their silence bought with fear.

I click off the screen.

What am I doing?

I sit back, pressing my hands against my face, trying to steady my breathing. He’s reckless. Impulsive. Wild. And yet, somehow, he’s survived this long. But how much longer can anyone survive in a life like this? What if a single mistake could bring it all crashing down?

And yet, here I am, tangled in the web he’s spun aroundme.

I’m not usually neurotic or this nervous, but…

That’s it. At the risk of playing the role of needy, wannabe girlfriend, I go to text himagain.

Hey. It’s me. Remember me? The girl you were obsessed with and now you haven’t even said good morning to??

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