Page 17 of Plus-Size Curves for the Bratva

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A sharp ring of the bell at the door startles me from my reverie. I head out to open it, knowing Denis will be working, to find a delivery man holding several large boxes.

"Delivery for Natalia Orlov," he announces.

"That's me," I reply, my curiosity piqued.

As I sign for the packages, I can't help but wonder what these packages are. The boxes are surprisingly heavy as I drag them into my new workroom. My fingers tremble slightly as I tear into the first one.

"Oh my god," I gasp, pulling out bolt after bolt of exquisite fabrics. Silks, velvets, delicate laces—each more beautiful than the last. The second box reveals an array of threads, buttons, and trimmings in every color imaginable. The third contains state-of-the-art sewing tools I've only dreamed of owning.

"This is too much," I whisper, overwhelmed by the generosity. My heart swells with gratitude, pushing aside my earlier doubts.

I have to thank him properly.

Impulsively, I decide to seek Denis out.

I approach Denis's office, my heart quickening with each step. The door, as always, is ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the dim hallway. I pause, my hand hovering inches from the polished wood.

Should I knock?

Yes. I should.

Three swift tapes. I hear wood scraping against wood. Footsteps coming my way and I part the door just as it swings open by force not my own.

"Denis!" I gasp, stumbling back.

He fills the doorway, his imposing frame blocking the light from within. But it's not his presence that makes my blood run cold. It's the sight of him—disheveled, shirt torn, and unmistakably splattered with blood.

"Oh my God," I breathe, rushing forward without thinking. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

My hands flutter uselessly, wanting to check him for injuries but hesitant to touch, to hurt. His eyes widen with surprise.

"Natalia—” he tries to say something, his voice rough, but my mind is running in circles trying to comprehend what I’m seeing, to remember why I’m here.

"I was looking for you, I wanted to thank—" I shake my head, pushing aside my original purpose. It’s like my brain is on overdrive, refusing to work, unable to prioritize. I’m in shock, I think. "Never mind that. Are you okay? Do you need a doctor? What happened?"

There’s just so much blood. His collar, his entire chest, the sleeves of his arm—all rust over pristine white.

Denis catches my wrist gently as I reach for him. His touch sends a jolt through me.

"I'm fine," he says, his tone softening.

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I swallow hard, a chill racing down my spine despite the warmth of his hand on my skin.

"How did—" I start to ask, but then his phone rings. He walks back, puts it on loud as he takes a seat, and settles into it.

He looks utterly exhausted, and for some reason, I’m worried sick for him.

A gravelly voice cuts through the tension, emanating from the speakerphone on Denis's desk.

"Excellent work, Denis. That kill was clean and efficient. The message has been sent loud and clear."

My eyes widen, shock coursing through my body like an electric current on hearing Abram’s voice. I stumble backward, my gaze locked on Denis's face. His expression hardens, those mesmerizing gray-green eyes now unreadable.

"A… kill?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. The word feels wrong on my tongue, alien and horrifying.

My mind races, desperately trying to make sense of what I've just heard. I take another step back, my heart pounding so hard I fear it might burst from my chest.

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