Page 30 of Used Bratva Bride

“Good.”

He continues, listing off smaller business matters, the kind that keep everything running smoothly but don’t requiremy direct involvement. I listen, nodding where necessary, giving orders when needed.

The work keeps my mind occupied. Until it doesn’t. Until, despite myself, my thoughts drift back to her.

Julie Spade is a problem, and I don’t let problems go unresolved.

I push back from the table, grabbing the empty cup and heading toward the coffeepot on the far counter. Leonard watches me, arms still crossed, his expression unreadable.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, though there’s no real concern in his tone. Just observation.

I pour the coffee, taking a sip so quickly it burns my tongue. I barely feel it. “Sleep is a luxury,” I mutter, finishing the rest in a few quick swallows before setting the cup down with a sharpclink.

Leonard snorts. “You say that like we’re not drowning in luxury.” He gestures around the room—the polished floors, the grand fixtures, the wealth that seeps into every corner of our world.

I glance at him, unimpressed. “The reason we live like this is because I don’t rest. Money and rest don’t go together.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Sure, but it makes exhaustion a little easier to tolerate.”

I don’t respond, already striding toward the door.

He doesn’t follow, doesn’t press the conversation further. He knows when I’m done talking.

Once I reach my office, the weight of responsibility crashes over me, a familiar pressure settling into my bones.

The business of the Bratva never stops.

For the next several hours, I deal with all of it—the constant flood of decisions, the ceaseless demands for my time.

My phone rings almost constantly. Supply chain issues with our shipping routes. A dispute between two lieutenants over territory encroachment. Payment delays from a European partner who suddenly seems to be having trouble moving our product through customs.

The usual headaches of running an empire built on blood and business.

Meetings blur together, one after another, as I navigate conversations with men who think they can waste my time.

Some require reminders of their obligations. Others need reassurance that our power is still absolute.

By midday, I almost wish for the violence.

The talking, the negotiations, the endless diplomacy—it’s necessary, but it grates on me. I’ve never had much patience for the bureaucratic side of this world, but power isn’t just about force. It’s about control.

Control requires strategy. Still, as the day drags on, I find myself craving something simpler—something more primal. The clean finality of a bullet.

The weight of a knife in my hand.

The kind of violence that doesn’t require endless discussions or drawn-out threats.

Not today. Today, I sit through the meetings. I sign off on shipments. I approve decisions that keep the machine running.

By the time the last meeting ends, the sun has started to dip beyond the skyline, casting the room in shades of deep orange and shadow.

I exhale slowly, rubbing my temple as the quiet settles in. For the first time all day, no one is demanding my attention. No ringing phones. No waiting men. No business.

Yet, my mind still refuses to be quiet.

Because despite everything—despite the endless stream of work, despite the calls, the deals, the meetings—Julie Spade still lingers in the back of my mind.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms above my head as the tension coils tighter in my muscles. The room is quiet now, just the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall, the dim glow of the evening sky casting long shadows across my desk.

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