Page 34 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

My voice comes out tight. “What does he think I’ll do?”

Dima gives me a slow, strange smile. “He thinks you’ll surprise him.”

I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

He stands, brushing a crumb from his coat. “Eat. Or don’t. I’d recommend eating, though. Big day tomorrow.”

With that, he leaves me in the dim light, the dress heavy around my legs, the scent of warm bread clinging to the air.

I don’t touch the food.

Chapter Ten - Andrei

The scent of roses hangs heavy in the air. Too sweet. Too thick. It clings to the silk-lined walls and marble floor, weeping from the flower-stuffed arrangements that flank the aisle in bloated, suffocating clusters. Everything about this room is polished to perfection—every candle, every chair, every guest in their carefully pressed suits and subtle weapons.

I stand at the front of the hall, still and composed in a tailored black suit, my hands folded behind me, spine straight. I do not shift. I do not blink.

I wait.

The music plays low and rich. Strings.

The doors open, and there she is. Alina.

Draped in white, wrapped in silk that gleams like moonlight against her skin. Her veil is sheer, short, pinned with something silver. Her shoulders are bare. Her back straight. The dress moves like smoke around her legs as she walks, slow and measured, down the aisle.

I watch her.

I watch the way her jaw tightens with each step, the way her eyes flick once—only once—to the crowd before she sets them forward again. Toward me. Her expression isn’t just sadness. It isn’t fear either. There’s something else there.

Guilt.

It lingers in her eyes like a shadow. Her movements are steady, but the guilt is louder than her silence. It’s in the way she breathes. The way she clenches her bouquet just a little too tightly. The way she doesn’t look at me until the very last second.

I smile.

She reaches me, and the music fades.

The priest—bought and armed—begins to speak. I don’t hear him. Not really. I nod when I’m supposed to. My hand finds hers, and she doesn’t flinch, though I feel the tremor that runs through her fingertips like an aftershock.

Then the doors explode open.

Gasps ripple through the room. Not screams. Not chaos. These men are used to the unexpected. They just turn, slow and calm, like wolves sniffing at a shift in wind.

I don’t turn, because I already know who it is.

Footsteps drag across marble. Rough. Uneven. Then a thud. A body hitting the floor. The music has stopped entirely now. All that fills the room is the faint hiss of candles and the sound of broken breath.

I look over.

Richard Carter is being dragged between two guards, his face bloodied and pale, a man hollowed out by his own legacy. He falls to his knees just beyond the aisle, arms limp, chest heaving. His suit is torn at the collar, his shoes scuffed and one missing. There’s blood on his hands.

He tries to speak. Nothing comes.

Then—finally—his voice cracks through the silence, raw and pitiful. “Please… please, Andrei. Not her.”

The room doesn’t move. No one speaks. Not one of them will interfere. They all know what this is.

This is justice.

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