Page 49 of An Arranged Virgin for the Bratva

"I’m not going to believe a word you say!" Sofia snaps back.

Just as I open my mouth to respond, my phone buzzes insistently in my pocket. I ignore it, focused entirely on the angry woman before me.

"Sofia, please," I try again, "I was only trying to—"

The buzzing intensifies, a specific pattern that sends a chill down my spine. It's the emergency Bratva alert—something that can't be ignored, no matter how much I want to.

I curse under my breath, torn between duty and the desperate need to make things right with Sofia. Her eyes narrow, sensing the shift in my attention.

"What is it?" she demands, her tone still icy but tinged with curiosity.

I meet her gaze, my expression shifting from frustration to urgency. "There's an emergency I need to handle. Bratva business." I hesitate, torn between my responsibilities and my need to protect her. "Sofia, I promise we'll continue this conversation later. For now, I need you to go home where it's safe."

Her green eyes flash dangerously. "Don't you dare try to tell me what to do, Vlad. I'm not some helpless—"

"I know you're not," I interject, my voice softening despite the tension. "But this situation could be volatile."

Sofia's jaw clenches, her anger still palpable. For a moment, I think she might argue further, but then she gives a curt, dismissive nod. "Fine," she says, her voice as cold as a Siberian winter. "Go play your little gangster games. I'm sure they're far more important than anything I have to say."

The sarcasm in her tone cuts deep, but I don't have time to address it. "We're not done," I insist, even as she turns away from me. "This conversation isn't over, Sofia."

She doesn't respond, already striding toward the door, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. As she reaches the threshold, she pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. For a split second, I see something vulnerable beneath her icy exterior—hurt, maybe even fear. But it's gone in an instant, replaced by that mask of cool indifference.

"Isn't it?" she asks quietly, and then she's gone, leaving me with a growing sense of unfinished business and a fierce determination to make things right between us.

I stare at the empty doorway, my fists clenched at my sides. "Damn it," I mutter, already plotting how to fix this mess once the current crisis is handled. One way or another, I'll make her understand. I have to.

***

I rush out of the office, my mind racing between Sofia's anger and the urgent Bratva matter at hand. My brothers have already gathered in our secure meeting room when I burst through the door.

"What's the situation?" I demand, scanning their tense faces.

Abram, ever the strategist, speaks first. "One of our shipments has been intercepted. We believe it's the Petrov clan."

"Fuck," I growl, slamming my fist on the table. "How much did we lose?"

Denis, his eyes hard, answers, "Two million in product, at least. But that's not the worst of it. They took Yuri."

My blood runs cold. Yuri's one of our most loyal. If he talks…

"We need to move. Now," Abram commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Mark, I want you on surveillance. Vlad, gather a strike team. Denis, you're with me."

As we spring into action, Sofia's face flashes in my mind. I push the image away, focusing on the task at hand. There's no room for distraction when lives are on the line.

Hours later, exhausted but victorious and with Yuri and the shipment secure, I finally return home. The house is eerily quiet as I step inside.

"Sofia?" I call out, my voice echoing through the empty rooms. No response.

I climb the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Sofia, we need to talk," I try again, pushing open our bedroom door. The room is untouched, the bed still made from this morning.

A knot forms in my stomach as I move from room to room, each one as silent and empty as the last. "Sofia!" I shout, my worry growing with each passing second.

Where the hell is she?

I yank open her closet door, and my heart sinks. The shelves are half-empty, and her favorite designer dresses are missing. Her suitcase is gone. I run a hand through my hair, pacing the room as the realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

She's left.

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