Page 2 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva
She wasn’t okay at all. She looked so fragile, like she could shatter any minute and erupt into an ocean of tears.
I could see through the tough mask. Her mother must’ve prepared her for this. I’d heard a lot of women in the mafia telling their daughters that men in our world could have as many women as they wanted, and it was their duty as wives to not ask any questions and provide him with a son to continue the legacy.
That was some bullshit if you asked me.
We weren’t in the sixties, and I had no respect for men who had no freaking self-control, though I admit I would respect them more depending on how far they could swing a knife and bury it in a man’s heart.
“Yulia, I—”
“Don’t!” she cut in sharply, her eyes pleading. “Don’t say it.”
I nodded, unsure of what else to do.
She took one last look at the door, her lips curving into a bittersweet smile, then she walked past me without saying a word. No apology, not even a backward glance, and she left only the scent of peonies and the lingering echo of every word she wanted to say but couldn’t.
I stood there, hearing the noises behind the door, sickness churning in my stomach like rot.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, I hated my brother.
***
Dinner had long been a performance in my family with all the silver forks, pointed smiles, and banter layered like fine linen.
By the time I arrived, they were midway through the meal.
Crystal glasses sparkled under the obscene chandelier light overhead. Laughter echoed the length of the table like it was well rehearsed, and servants hovered like shadows behind chairs, topping up wine, clearing away empty dishes, and serving more food.
It was a typical Yezhov family gathering.
I slipped into my seat, greeting no one specifically, although my entrance earned me a few looks.
Rurik didn’t even look up. He was too busy charming the older relatives with stories about men he’d killed, his hand resting casually on Yulia’s shoulder as if he hadn’t just slept with another woman a few hours earlier.
Yulia smiled, pretending the man sitting next to her hadn’t just shattered her heart.
I wondered if anyone else at the table noticed the way her shoulders and jaw tensed each time she had to fake a smile while she was broken inside.
My fists clenched in annoyance, but it wasn’t my place to meddle in their business, so I glanced to the end of the table to shift my focus onto something less annoying, although I doubted I could find anything else worth my attention.
Surprisingly, something else caught my interest—or someone.
Zoella.
She was sitting on the other side of the table, not exactly hidden, but not in the middle either. She was Yulia’s little sister, and, in my opinion, far more beautiful.
She wore a pale purple dress, something simple and light, with thin sleeves that fell just above her elbows. Her brunette hair was parted down the middle, drawn back by a black ribbon that made her appear almost innocent.
But there was something about her that wasn’t quite simple, and I struggled to wrap my head around it. Although there were some resemblances between her and her sister, her aura was quite different.
It was not how she sat, erect, composed, but not stiff, but the tilt of her chin, the quiet defiance of not bowing to anyone in a room full of individuals who demanded obedience.
She did not speak much, merely nodding now and then, making gentle comments when asked to, and maintaining eye contact as if she feared no one. But every now and then, someone would draw her into the conversation, and when she spoke, she sounded almost too clever for someone so young.
Her blue eyes flickered in my direction a couple of times, and although she maintained her smile, I couldn’t help but notice the way she avoided actually looking at me.
Tonight, it was my distant cousin, Mila, who pulled her in for a discussion.
“Zoella,” Mila drawled, swirling wine in her glass. “Say, if you had the option, which would you choose? A man who has too much power or one who has too much money?”
