Page 12 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

He steps closer. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the stillness of his body coiled like a loaded weapon.

“Leave?” he echoes. “After everything your father’s done? No….” His voice lowers. “I’m just getting started.”

My chest is heaving now. “What did he do?” I demand, even though I already know the answer. I’ve known it for a long time. I just never had proof.

Andrei smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ask him. If he can still talk.”

I turn toward my father. He lifts his head with visible effort, one bloodshot eye barely opening. His lips part.

“Alina…,” he croaks, voice raw.

I take a step forward, but Andrei blocks me with an arm, one hand pressing lightly to my stomach. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop me. To remind me who holds the leash now.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He lets the gesture land, unfazed. “You’re brave. I like that.”

“I’m not here for your approval.”

“No,” he says, voice softening to something darker. “You’re here to witness.”

“To what?”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slightly, nods once at the man on the floor.

For a second, I don’t move. I just stand there, numb, the blood rushing in my ears so loud it drowns out everything else. The chandelier above casts warped reflections on the marble,on the ropes binding my father’s wrists, on the crimson streaks along his shirt.

Then it hits: the panic. A full-body jolt.

I lunge forward, toward him. “Dad—!”

I barely make it three steps before rough hands close around my arms.

“Let me go!” I scream, twisting hard, heels skidding across the slick floor. The guards tighten their grip. My wrist wrenches, sharp and sudden, and I cry out. “He’s hurt, I need to help him!”

The taller one says nothing. His hold digs in harder, pulling me back. My other arm flails—useless—and I kick, managing to catch one of them in the shin. He grunts but doesn’t release me.

“Let me go!”

I thrash against them, eyes wild, lungs burning. I don’t care how strong they are. I don’t care who they work for. My father is bleeding, broken, kneeling in our home like he’s nothing, and they’re holding me like I’m a threat—like I’m part of this.

“Stop it,” I shout, voice cracking. “Get your hands off me!”

The shorter one adjusts his grip, pulling my arms back behind me. I arch forward, trying to shake him off, teeth clenched against the sudden pain in my shoulders.

Andrei doesn’t move.

He stands there, calm, unmoved, a shadow in human form. Not yelling. Not laughing. Just watching me unravel like he expected it. Like this is all part of the show.

“Why are you doing this?” I gasp, struggling again. “He’s my father!”

Still, nothing. Not a word.

“Please!” My voice breaks completely now. I barely recognize it. “He’s my dad—you can’t just—”

“Alina.”

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