Page 48 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
His mother’s name. Capitalized, of course.
It works.
My lips twitch, more habit than amusement. One arrogant mistake, Maxim.
The desktop loads, background dark, folders aligned with clinical precision. No clutter. No chaos. Only intention. I scroll fast, skimming file names. The categories are stark: Shipments. Holdings. Contacts. Ledgers. Vault. Each folder is a door, and I don’t have keys for all of them.
I don’t need them. I reach for the landline sitting beside the screen. I dial fast. Two rings.
“I’m in,” I whisper, eyes already scanning the folder marked Accounts. “I’m on his computer.”
My brother’s voice crackles through the line—quiet, sharp-edged, too fast. “Be careful. If there’s a camera in that room—”
“I don’t see one,” I say. “I’m being careful.”
“Kiera—”
I’ve already tuned him out.
My fingers move over the trackpad, opening files in rapid succession. Most of them aren’t encrypted. They don’t need to be—not when no one is supposed to sit where I’m sitting. Shipment logs. Cash flows. Security rotations. Things people kill to hide.Things that could bring down half his operation if I got them into the right hands.
Some folders refuse to open. A few demand a second password.
I take screenshots anyway. File after file.Click.Click.Click.
Every image is saved, duplicated to a small drive I’d tucked beneath my waistband hours earlier. I’ve done this before. I’ll do it again.
My fingers don’t shake. They haven’t in years.
I lean closer, scanning lines of encrypted numbers, dates paired with unfamiliar initials. My brain begins to build the shape of it—routes, transactions, offshore accounts woven into something massive and precise.
He’s more organized than we thought.
More dangerous.
Except every system has a flaw, and I’ve already found one. I could download everything, send it to Tiago right now… but that’s too risky.
I know now that he has the information we need, and tomorrow, it will all be mine.
I walk with steady steps, each one deliberate, measured. I don’t rush. That would draw attention. That would betray something. My robe flows around my ankles, soft and silent, like everything is normal—like I’m just returning from a glass of water or a sleepless stroll.
Halfway down the corridor, a housekeeper rounds the corner ahead.
I lift my chin, nod politely. She dips her head in return, keeps walking. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look back.
I keep going. I don’t let myself breathe—not fully—until I’m out of sight. The moment I round the next corner, my lungs unlock, and a breath tumbles from my chest like a stone falling from height.
I don’t stop. Can’t stop.
My pulse thunders against my ribs, not from exertion but from the sharp edge of adrenaline—part thrill, part fear. I count the seconds between each footfall, forcing calm I don’t feel.
The door to my room waits ahead. I enter without hesitation. Close it quietly behind me. Turn the lock. The silence on the other side is vast.
I lean back against the door, heart still racing, robe clutched in one hand. My body is warm from the inside out—flushed, buzzing, the tension not yet drained from my limbs.
I cross the room to the vanity.
In the low light, my reflection stares back—cheeks pink, eyes bright, pupils blown wide. I look… alive. Too alive. Like someone who’s tasted something sharp and can’t forget the flavor.
