Page 14 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I adjust the cuff of the jacket myself, pulling it straight before the mirror. The fabric is dark, tightly woven, already heavy with expectation. I watch my own reflection and feel the weight of the moment settling across my shoulders.
It doesn’t feel like a union. It feels like armor. The kind worn to sit across from enemies who pretend to smile. The kind you don’t remove when the doors close.
I’ve never liked being tethered. I don’t trust permanence. It turns sharp men dull, but if I have to wear a chain, I’ll make it gold-plated. Heavy. Unmistakable.
The tailor sighs again. I hold still, eyes fixed on the mirror.
I think about the ring I sent.
I didn’t choose it for beauty. The garnet is red, deep and dark—close enough to blood to make the message clear. The silver band is thick, structured, held by claws. Not delicate. Not romantic.
Steel and stone. Like me.
She’ll wear it soon. Or she won’t; either way, she’ll understand what it means.
Platon stands in the corner, silent until now. Arms crossed, one foot braced against the wall, he’s been watching without speaking—his version of patience. The line of his jaw is tight, expression unreadable, but I know him too well to miss the tension in his stance.
He lets the silence stretch another few seconds. Then he says, “Why’d you say yes?”
I don’t look at him. My eyes stay fixed on the mirror. The jacket fits better now, though the tailor’s still fussing with the hem, muttering to himself in frustration.
“She’s delicate,” I say. The words come flat, matter-of-fact. I speak them the way I speak most things—quiet, steady, controlled. “Pretty.”
I lift one hand to adjust the collar, watching my reflection move. “Her brother’s throwing her to me like she’s nothing. That’s enough reason.”
Behind me, the room holds still.
Then I add, almost conversationally, “I’ll take her. Whether she likes it or not.”
Platon doesn’t answer right away. I see his reflection shift slightly in the mirror—shoulders straightening, mouth drawing into a firmer line. He’s not a man who startles easily, but something in my tone makes him take notice.
“Right,” he says, slower now. “And if she tries something?”
I turn.
The tailor stills the moment I move. His fingers go rigid on the sleeve, breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask questions. He knows better. He’s worked for us before.
“If she tries something,” I say, looking at Platon directly, “then I kill her myself.”
The words hang in the air, not loud but absolute. Final.
The tailor’s hand trembles once before he steps back, pretending to adjust a cuff that doesn’t need fixing. He doesn’t meet my eye. He knows this isn’t theatre.
I don’t blink.
This is the world I come from. One where decisions carry weight. Where power isn’t suggested—it’s enforced. Where hesitation looks like weakness, and weakness invites ruin.
She’s part of this now. That means she’s under my control; if she forgets that, there’s a price.
Platon shifts his weight, pushing off the wall, but he doesn’t approach. His voice drops slightly, a warning woven into curiosity.
“Cold, even for you.”
“No,” I say. “Efficient.”
Marriage. Murder. Money. None of it is sacred. None of it separate.
It’s all negotiation.
