Page 9 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Carter doesn’t answer. He’s shaking.

The lights in the foyer are dimmed now, throwing long shadows across the floor. The fire in the hearth has gone out. No warmth. No sound except the quiet rasp of his breath.

I step back and look at him—really look. The powerful Richard Carter, stripped of everything but pain. He’s not even pleading. Just existing. Barely.

“Leave one man with him,” I say without taking my eyes off him. “He makes a noise, you make him regret it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The guard closest to the wall steps forward, nods once, and takes position near the banister, leaning against the post with his arms crossed. He’s a quiet one—Yakov. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Perfect for this.

The others disappear down the hallway. I turn and head into a little side room where Dima waits.

He glances up when I enter. “That was quick.”

“Wasn’t meant to be slow.”

“He looks worse than I remember,” he says, setting the glass aside. “Didn’t think age would chew through him so fast.” Dima hums. “So now what?”

That’s the question.

He pours a second drink and offers it to me. At the very least, Carter has good taste in spirits.

I take it, the burn welcome, sharp enough to draw me back into focus.

“Do we kill him?” Dima asks after a beat. “Make it clean. Or at least final.”

I stare into the glass. The answer should be easy. Kill him. Dispose of the body. Bury the last loose end.

Something itches beneath my skin. “He dies,” I say slowly, “and it’s over.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“No.” I take another sip. “The point is suffering.”

Dima leans back, eyes narrowing. “He’s already broken.”

“Not enough.”

He waits, watching me. The silence stretches. He doesn’t push. He knows better too.

“I want him to see it unravel,” I say. “Everything he built—his businesses, his name, the people who called him friend. I want him to watch it all fall. Piece by piece. While he rots in a chair somewhere with nothing left but the sound of his own breath and the weight of what he did.”

Dima nods slowly. “Base, then?”

I pause. Consider it.

The base is further inland, deeper in the woods, fortified, hidden. There’s a room there—concrete walls, no windows, a drain in the center of the floor. It’s built for ghosts.

“No,” I say. “Not yet. We’ll keep him here tonight. I’ll decide what to do in the morning.”

Dima smirks. “You always did have a taste for theater.”

“He deserves it.”

“He deserves worse.”

I finish the drink and set the glass down. “Keep the security locked tight. No movement. No calls out. If his people come sniffing—cut them down.”

---