Page 80 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

This isn’t about reclaiming property. It isn’t about pride. It isn’t even about the threat Jackson poses to my organization, to my reputation.

It’s about her.

About the unbearable thought of losing the only thing I have started to care about in years. The only thing that slipped past every defense I built, every wall I reinforced with blood and brutality.

If she’s gone, I admit to myself with brutal clarity, I’m already lost.

The thought roots itself deep, sickening and unmovable.

I close my eyes, letting the old steel of my heart crack open just long enough to feel it—the raw, staggering fear.

Not fear for myself. Not fear of failure.

Fear for her.

For what could be happening to her right now. For the possibility that I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, ruthless enough to keep her safe.

The emotion is foreign, jagged, unwelcome.

It has no place in the life I built. In the man I became, so I crush it.

I slam the door shut on it with the same merciless precision I use to eliminate weakness in others.

There’s no room for hesitation. No room for doubt.

I have a job to do.

I will find her, and I will bring her back.

I will make Jackson Waters—and anyone else foolish enough to think they could take what’s mine—regret the day they first drew breath.

***

Night has fallen fully, cloaking the city in a shroud of misty rain.

Through the tall windows of the mansion, the neon lights of Moscow flicker and blur, distorted by the fine, relentless drizzle. Reds, blues, yellows—colors pulse weakly against the darkness, painting the world in sickly hues. The rain slicks the marble steps outside, puddling in cracks, turning the driveway into a mirror reflecting back the storm.

Inside, the mansion feels different now.

Alive. Tense.

I move through the corridors like a blade being drawn from its sheath. Silent. Focused. Sharp enough to cut through anything foolish enough to get in my way.

My top men gather without needing to be summoned. They know.

They feel it too—the shift, the storm about to break. They’re already armed, faces grim, eyes hard. No jokes. No bravado. Only the cold, professional readiness of men who have seen blood spilled and know they will see it again before the night is over.

They stand by the main doors, weapons checked, engines running outside.

Waiting for my command.

The network hums in my ear, my phone alive with updates from men scattered across the city.

One in particular grabs my attention. “Sighted heading west,” the voice crackles. “Black Audi. Plates match Jackson’s. Speeding toward the outskirts.”

Away from the city, away from the safety of the crowds and the eyes of the Bratva.

Coward. It fits.

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