Page 48 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Dima shifts behind me. I don’t need to look to know his stance—tight, rigid, as if his shoulders alone can hold back the weight of what we’ve walked into. I rise, slow and measured. Letting my body absorb the truth of what I’ve seen before I speak.

He’s already waiting for it.

“Nothing was taken,” he says. “Not even a crate cracked. Inventory’s untouched. No tampering. Nothing missing.”

“This wasn’t about the shipment.”

“No,” he agrees, tone grim. “This was to make a point.”

I finally turn to face him. He doesn’t flinch.

“Who?”

He hesitates. Not out of fear. Dima’s not afraid of me—not the way others are. But he knows what this answer means. What it demands.

“The Mexicans,” he says. “Looks like Ortega’s crew. Tag by the fence matches what we saw in Valencia. Same green line. Same smear.”

Ortega.

The name settles on my tongue.

I adjust the cuffs of my suit, brushing dust and blood from the fabric with a precision that borders on ritual. Everymovement has weight. Deliberate, composed, practiced in the art of not unraveling. The charcoal wool is smooth beneath my fingers, reassuring in its texture. Order. Structure.

I exhale.

He was one of mine.

He didn’t run. He died fast. Quiet. There are worse ways to go.

My gaze lingers on the corpse a moment longer, not out of sentiment, but respect. The cost of loyalty is high. I make sure it’s paid.

“Make sure his family gets compensated,” I say.

Dima nods once. He doesn’t need specifics. He knows what I mean.

No press. No public mourning., but his widow will never want. His children will go to school in Europe. A small estate. Security. Legacy. I take care of my own.

Always.

There’s nothing else to say. No speeches. No orders. The damage has already been done. What matters now is how we respond.

I turn from the scene, leather shoes clicking against the concrete, the sound cutting through the silence like a clean break. Outside, the fog has thickened, swallowing the streetlamps and casting the world into a blur of light and shadow.

I leave the warehouse behind me, but the message stays.

In the car, silence reigns.

The engine hums beneath us, a steady, controlled growl that matches the tension sitting like a weight in my chest. The streets outside pass in a blur of fog-drenched light, headlightsslicing through the haze, refracting off rain-slick pavement. Inside, it’s quiet. No music. No conversation. Just the soft sound of tires rolling over asphalt and the tap of my gloved fingers against the leather seat beside me.

Rhythmic. Slow. Intentional.

I don’t speak, and the driver knows better than to try. He takes the turns I don’t have to tell him to take. He reads the silence the way others read commands.

My thoughts drift—not to the warehouse, not to the blood, not even to the message pinned to concrete like a warning.

They drift to Monaco.

A different battlefield. A different kind of war.

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