Page 57 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Miami—handle personally.

The Miami situation isn’t just business. It’s an opportunity. A stage.

Matías Ortega thinks he’s reminding the world he still has teeth. His confidence will be his downfall.

I stand, reaching for my jacket where it hangs on the back of the chair. The movement is smooth, practiced—everything I do has purpose. No hesitation, no wasted energy.

Something makes me pause.

My gaze flicks back to the monitor.

Alina’s body is still wrapped in my sheets, small and pale against the dark linens. One arm thrown over her head, her chest rising in slow, shallow breaths. Restless even in sleep. Her brow furrows slightly, like she’s dreaming something she can’t quite wake from.

A flicker of memory sharpens behind my eyes.

The taste of her.

The way her body trembled against mine when I touched her just right. The broken sounds she made when she gave in—not with permission, not with surrender, but with that raw, involuntary need she couldn’t hide. Her hips arching into me,hands clutching at my skin as if she hated herself for needing what I gave her.

She fought herself harder than she ever fought me.

My mouth twists—not into a smile, not quite. Something darker. Deeper. A satisfaction that has nothing to do with victory and everything to do with possession.

She wanted it.

That truth echoes louder than anything else. She’ll deny it. Maybe not out loud, not yet, but inside? She’ll try to drown it. Smother it. Tell herself it was coercion, survival, manipulation. She’ll cling to whatever lie makes her feel clean.

I know better.

I shrug into the jacket. The weight of it is familiar, grounding. Leather molded to my shape, worn smooth along the seams from years of wear. My shoulders settle under it, muscles coiling tight again, ready for war.

Still, her memory clings, and I sit again.

This was never just about conquest. I could’ve taken a dozen women with half her fire and twice her desperation. I’ve had obedience. I’ve had silence. None of it ever mattered. Not like this.

It’s not enough that she fears me.

Not enough that she lies beneath me and obeys.

I want her to need me.

I want her to choose me—even if the choice is built on ruin. Even if it’s a lie she tells herself to survive.

I force my eyes from the screen, dragging my mind back to what matters.

First Miami. Then Alina.

The engines rumble low outside, headlights casting long shadows across the gravel drive. The convoy is ready—three cars, blacked out, armored, humming with contained violence. My men move in silence, waiting only for my signal.

I take one last look at the monitor before I join them.

Alina has shifted again.

She’s curled tighter into herself now, the sheets wrapped around her shoulders like armor. One hand is tucked beneath her cheek, the other clenched loosely near her chest. Her brow is furrowed, her lips parted as if caught in the middle of a dream—or a memory she can’t quite escape.

She looks small like this. Vulnerable.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, watching the slow rise and fall of her breath, the faint movement of her fingers. She gave me her body last night—every gasp, every shudder, every ragged cry. She came apart beneath me, and when I touched her afterward, she didn’t pull away.

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