Page 49 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

It had been six years ago, but I remember it clearly—because men like Matías Ortega don’t forget humiliation. Not when it’s public. Not when it costs them face in front of other syndicates.

That night, the air had been electric. Monaco at midnight—suits, cigars, champagne, the stench of perfume and pride. The race was underground, but not hidden. Everyone who mattered was there. The Bratva. The Italians. French arms dealers. Cartel lieutenants with too much money and not enough discipline.

Matías had arrived like he always did—loud, confident, radiating untouchable swagger. Gold watch, imported car, two women on his arms who looked like they’d been bought to match the paint job.

He raced because he wanted the attention. Because the only thing bigger than his mouth was the chip on his shoulder. He thought the track was his stage.

I didn’t plan to race. I was there to broker a weapons deal: but I changed my mind when I saw him preening in the paddock like a rooster in heat.

It wasn’t about winning. Not for me. It was about shutting him up.

So, we raced.

He pushed too hard on the final curve, showboating for the cameras, tires screeching like a declaration. I passed him just before he lost control. His car slammed into the barricade in a shower of sparks and smoke, spun twice, and came to rest against the rails, engine dead, pride in pieces.

I didn’t gloat. I didn’t speak. I accepted the handshake from the Italian banker and finalized the deal on time. I saw Matías across the track, face red, lip bloodied, trying to laugh it off. Trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

Men like him bleed reputation, and he bled that night in front of every rival he had.

He’s never let it go.

Since then, the retaliations have come in pieces. Never directly. Never boldly. A shipment delayed here. A customs bribe rerouted there. One of my men gutted in a Barcelona nightclub—his body dumped in front of the consulate like an afterthought. Petty slights, calculated provocations, always just under the threshold of war.

There were always layers. Always deniability. The games men like Matías play when they want revenge but aren’t brave enough to ask for it outright. He wanted me off-balance. He wanted to chip away at my house brick by brick, until it sagged under its own weight.

Men like Ortega forget one thing.

I don’t break.

Until tonight, he’d stayed in the shadows. Kept his hands clean. Let his dogs do the dirty work. What happened at the docks wasn’t a whisper. It was a gunshot. A declaration.

Tonight, someone pulled the trigger in my city. In my space. On my man.

No theft. No ransom. No business move.

Just a message.

We can get close.

That means one thing: Matías is done pretending.

***

Back at the estate, the air shifts. The cold outside is gone, but it doesn’t matter. The weight of the night still clings to me like soot. I move through the stone halls in silence, ignoring the flicker of candlelight along the walls. A man doesn’t need light to see when his focus is sharp enough.

I step into my quarters and shut the door behind me with a low, final click.

The scent of smoke and blood is still in my clothes. Not fresh. Just faint enough to linger, to remind. The suit hangs heavy on my frame now, soaked with the weight of another body gone cold. It’s time to shed it. The ritual helps.

First the coat, thick wool, lined with a dusting of ash and dried rain. I remove it carefully, fingers deft. Then the jacket, smooth and tailored, black fabric catching the light. I loosen my tie. Unbutton the collar. Each movement is slow, deliberate—part of something older than routine. The kind of ritual that turns chaos into calm. By the time I slip into a clean black shirt, crisp cotton against my skin, I can feel the shift settling deep.

Armor off. Armor on.

A knock breaks the quiet.

“Come,” I say.

Dima enters, eyes sharp, posture tighter than usual. He doesn’t waste time.

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