Page 7 of An Arranged Virgin for the Bratva

But still, she maintained that cold exterior.

Giving up on wearing a path in my floor, I drop heavily into the chair behind my desk. My phone sits innocently on the polished wood surface, and I snatch it up, unlocking it with more force than necessary.

The photos Lara sent from the gathering fill the screen. My eyes are immediately drawn to Sofia, standing apart from the crowd. Even in the stillness of the image, her poise is evident. Back straight, chin lifted, those green eyes sharp enough to cut.

"What is it about you?" I murmur, zooming in on her face. The corners of her mouth are turned down slightly, a subtle display of displeasure that shouldn't fascinate me as much as it does.

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking as I shift. "You're not the first woman to play hard to get, Sofia Orlov," I say to the empty room, my voice gruff. "So why can't I get you out of my head?"

The silence offers no answers, and I find myself scrolling through more photos from the event. In each one, Sofia maintains that air of detached elegance. It's infuriating. It's intriguing.

I toss the phone onto the desk with a clatter. "This is ridiculous," I growl, standing abruptly. "You're Vladimir Zolotov. You don't chase after ice princesses."

But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. The memory of her sarcastic quips, delivered with a razor-sharp smile, sends an unexpected thrill through me. It's been a long time since anyone has challenged me like that.

I move to the window, staring out at the city below. My reflection stares back at me, black eyes narrowed in thought. "What are you hiding behind that frosty exterior, Sofia?" I muse. "And why do I suddenly want to find out?"

I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my own uncharacteristic fascination. "This isn't like you, Vladimir," I mutter to myself, turning away from the window. "Since when do you care about getting to know a woman beyond the surface?"

But the urge to unravel Sofia's mysteries persists, gnawing at me like an itch I can't scratch. I find myself grabbing my keys, my feet carrying me toward the door before I can think better of it. It’s something I’ve never done, so unlike me, but ever since she disappeared from the party like a ghost, I’ve been wondering what she’s up to.

On the way to my car, I call my intel team, demanding a location for Sofia Orlov. Even though I had never laid eyes on her before the party, my team knows every member of our alliance. It’s their job to keep a tab on each one, to come to me should something sketchy surface. She’s never come to my radar before, and now, she’s the only one I want on it.

An hour later, I'm parked across the street from a dimly lit bar, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I watch Sofia through the grimy windows. She's seated at a corner table, surrounded by a group of rough-looking men. The tension in my shoulders ratchets up a notch.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sofia?" I growl under my breath, leaning forward to get a better view.

Her face is composed, that familiar icy mask firmly in place. But there's something in the set of her shoulders, a barely perceptible tension that speaks volumes to my trained eye.

One of the men leans in, his tattooed hand gesturing emphatically. Sofia's response is surprisingly warm, her mouth opening into a laugh.

"Careful, Printsessa," I murmur, my jaw clenching. "You're playing with fire."

I watch as she navigates the conversation with practiced ease, her ability to hold attention evident even from this distance. Just then, another man comes up to the table. I watchas he pulls out three guns and hands them to the man with the tattooed arm, who pays for the delivery in cash.

“What the hell?” I think to myself, my pulse rising so fast I can feel my veins throb. Sofia laughs and picks up a gun, playfully pretending to fire it, and one of the men takes it from her hand and pockets it, handing her a shot instead.

She pouts flirtatiously and downs the drink. Where the hell is that ice-cold treatment I got, huh? Why is she being so damn friendly with this wretched group of thugs?

"Who are you really, Sofia Orlov?" I ask the empty car, my curiosity burning hotter than ever. "And what kind of trouble are you mixed up in?"

My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel tighter, a wave of unexpected anger washing over me. One of the men, a burly guy with a neck tattoo, leans in close to Sofia. Too close. His meaty hand brushes against her arm, and I feel a growl building in my chest. He glides it down and places it around her waist. I see the way he looks at her—like she’s a piece of meat he plans to have.

My protective instincts flare up, surprising me with their intensity. I've never felt this… possessive before. Not over anyone.

Sofia's response is cool, her body language subtly shifting away from the man's touch. But I can see the flash of rage in her eyes, a crack in that playful facade she has on.

"Damn it," I mutter, my hand hovering over the door handle. Every fiber of my being wants to storm in there, to put myself between Sofia and these thugs. But I hold back, knowing that revealing myself now could make things worse.

She’d never trust me again. And right now, it’s her trust I want most. I need it—to know why she’s running with this grimy crew.

As I drive home, my mind races with thoughts of Sofia. The danger she's clearly involved in. The secrets she's keeping. I park in my driveway, but I can't bring myself to go inside just yet.

"I have to do something," I say to the empty night air, running a hand through my hair. I think of my siblings, of the lengths they've gone to protect their family and alliances.

At this moment, Sofia needs protection. For herself, and from any trouble she may bring our way. A plan begins to form in my mind, bold and potentially reckless.

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