Page 100 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I’m not just a doctor anymore. I’m married to a Russian mafia boss. Who knows how many enemies he has?

My head pounds, my thoughts slow and jagged, like splinters of glass shifting beneath my skin.

I spent my life trying to be less in every way. Being a doctor was the only thing that made me feel like I was worth something.

I was furious when Leon forced me to stay in his penthouse, locked away like his property. But it wasn’t respect for myself that made me break out.

It was the thought that I, Dr. Emery Bright, might stop existing. If I failed those dying children, who would I even be?

Leon pushed me to see myself differently. But the second he left, I slid right back into old patterns.

Wandering around his apartment, I felt like a toy—a thing to be played with, then cast aside, left on a shelf to gather dust.

Dante made me feel that way. And I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it happen again.

Jess’s call wasn’t just an emergency; it was a lifeline. A chance to prove Leon wasn’t wrong about me. A chance to reject the voice in my head whispering that he was.

The car slams over a bump, and my head smashes into the roof. White-hot pain explodes behind my eyes.

Desi whimpers but doesn’t wake. I bite down on a cry, my chest heaving.

God damn it.I drew the attention of a bratva boss. Me, the girl who spent her whole life trying to be invisible.

And now, Leon might die trying to get me back.

The image of him, cold and bleeding somewhere, slices through the hazy pain in my head, and a sob wrenches from my throat.

I wouldn’t want my husband to find me if it weren’t for Desi—poor, innocent Desi.

Leon’s the only person who believes I’m worth dying for.

And if that gets him killed… what’s the point?

I swallow the lump in my throat, the tape tight against my lips.

Leave it, Leon. Save Desi. But let me go.

52

One week later…

Leon

I’ve slept on the floor for six nights in a row now.

The first night, I was so drunk that I crashed out, but I haven’t been able to sleep in my bed—our bed—since. Emery’s scent clings to the bedding, sweetly devastating, and although I could change the linen, I can’t bear to do it.

Neither can I stand to wake up and endure a hazy few seconds when I think she’s still beside me, so the lounge rug and I have become best friends.

Roman and Viktor won’t let me search for Emery. They know I’ll be popping heads off like daisies if I think people are holding out on me, leading to chaos.

As I suspected, the cameras in Emery’s apartment were pulled out, and the hospital ones didn’t show anything up either; I watched them a hundred times. Emery came in and went out of shot, and that was that.

Viktor showed the footage to every snitch he could find, and none could pick out a familiar face.

It’s like she evaporated. My beautiful wife, the woman who was always trying to disappear, finally got her wish.

I haul myself upright and bark out a painful laugh. Vodka doesn’t get me drunk, but whisky does, and although I hate it, I drank so much last night that Roman got in a row with me about it and poured the rest down the drain.

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