Page 32 of Plus-Size Curves for the Bratva

It’s familiar. Nice.

He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. "Uneventful. Yours?"

I take a deep breath. "Denis, I want to see your operations. Tomorrow morning."

His brows shoot up with genuine surprise, those green flecks in his eyes becoming more pronounced. "Why the sudden interest?"

I square my shoulders, lifting my chin defiantly. "Because I can't keep pretending I don't know what you do. I want to understand, to… to help if I can."

Denis cups my face in his large hands, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Natalia, you know I’d love nothing more than to show you my world. I’ve always wanted that, but you don't need to concern yourself with—"

"But I do," I interrupt, my stubbornness flaring. "I want you to be able to talk to me. I’ve been worried for you ever since you came back that night, and I don’t want you to feel like nothing happened when you come back home. Please, Denis, I can no longer pretend like our life isn’t what it is."

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but I can see his mind working overtime. Finally, he sighs with a small smile then, as though I’ve passed whatever assessment he had going on in his mind. "Very well. Tomorrow morning, I'll show you."

I nod, a mix of excitement and trepidation coursing through me.

As Denis leads me to the dining room for dinner, I can't help but wonder: am I ready for what I'll see?

Well, no going back now.

***

The next morning, I stand beside Denis at the edge of a sprawling private shipping dock, my eyes wide with astonishment. The sheer scale of the operation before me is staggering. A dozen massive ships, their hulls gleaming in the early sunlight, line the dock like silent sentinels. Behind them, an acre of storage space stretches as far as I can see, filled with towering stacks of colorful shipping containers.

"This is… incredible," I breathe, my gaze darting from one enormous vessel to another. "I had no idea it was so… big. And that too, in New York. Wait," I look at him with a playful frown. “Just how rich are you?”

Denis chuckles softly at my question, his arm casually draped around my shoulders as he guides me further into the dockyard. “Ever asked your brothers that?”

“No,” I laugh.

“Well, let’s just say you’d never have to worry about money,” he gives me a small smile.

I nod and look up at his face. In this moment, with the sun coming in strong from the other side, he literally glows.

“You know,” I say, in a near-whisper, “the money never mattered right? I’ve always wanted to make it on my own. That’s why I work so hard on my designs. For some reason, it’s always felt sweeter when earned.”

Denis's gaze softens as he listens, a hint of pride glinting in his eyes. “I know. And I respect that about you, Natalia. Now, let’s show you all the ropes around here, shall we?”

I look around, nodding enthusiastically. There’s an energy in the air here, a busyness, a sense of pursuit and productivity that already excites me.

Denis's hand now rests on the small of my back, a comforting warmth against the cool morning air. "This is just one part of our operations," he explains. "My brothers handle the actual shipments. I oversee maintenance and personnel."

I turn to look up at him, noting the way the breeze ruffles his black hair. "What does that mean, exactly?"

He gestures toward a fleet of trucks parked nearby. "I make sure all our equipment is in top condition—trucks, forklifts, cranes. And I manage the workers, ensure they're taken care of."

As we walk along the dock, the bustle of activity surrounds us. Workers in hard hats and reflective vests scurry about, their voices a cacophony of different languages. I can't help but feel a swell of admiration for Denis, seeing how he navigates this huge operation with such ease.

"And what's that?" I ask, pointing to an enormous piece of machinery being unloaded from a nearby ship.

Denis's lips quirk into a small smile. "That's new equipment from China. It's for loading—"

Suddenly, a group of workers approaches us, their faces alight with something that confuses me for a second—gratitude. One of them, a middle-aged man with weathered hands, speaks up. "Mr. Zolotov, we wanted to thank you again for saving us. We owe you everything."

I blink in surprise, looking between Denis and the workers. What could they be talking about? Denis's expression remains calm, but I notice a tightness around his eyes.

"There's no need for thanks," he says softly. "You're safe now. That's what matters."

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