Page 5 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
They’re sending me in like I’m a gift wrapped in silk and good posture. I don’t know if that’s what I am—but I know how to play the part.
I square my shoulders. My hands tremble once, then still. Then I turn toward the door.
Every step I take from here will be watched. Judged. I don’t have the luxury of nerves anymore.
I don’t get to be just Kiera, not tonight.
The hall stretches longer than it should. Every step I take feels heavier than the last, the soft sweep of silk against my thighs doing nothing to ease the pressure curling at the base of my spine. The marble floors gleam under the chandeliers, polished and cold, like everything else in this house.
Tiago waits at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in black-on-black—shirt crisp, jacket sharp, no tie. His expression gives nothing away. He doesn’t offer a compliment. Doesn’t even really look at me.
He doesn’t need to. I’m not here to be admired; I’m here to be handed over.
He steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder. The weight of it lands deep, pressing through bone.
His voice is low, barely louder than a breath. “This is for the empire our father built.”
The words linger in the air between us, sour and too familiar. I nod, slow and obedient, but something inside me twists.
Our father. Matías Ortega.
He never liked being called father. Said it made him sound old. I think about what he’d say if he saw me now. Would he recognize me like this? Dressed up and silent, stepping into a role shaped by his legacy?
Maybe, and maybe that’s the worst part.
Outside, the air is cool and damp. The driver opens the door without a word. I slide into the backseat. Tiago follows. The door closes, sealing us inside.
The silence is immediate. Thick. It pushes into my chest, curls around my throat.
The driver doesn’t speak. Tiago doesn’t speak. Neither do I.
I focus on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The rhythm doesn’t help. My hands remain clenched in my lap, knuckles pale beneath the weight of my grip.
The city flickers past the window. Lights blur. Rain streaks across the glass in long, crooked lines. People move in hurried clusters, heads down, umbrellas snapping open.
They look free.
I wonder what it would feel like to be one of them. To step out into the street, walk fast and far until I disappeared into the noise. No name. No dress. No bloodline binding me to this car, this night, this man waiting for me behind a polished door.
A quiet, selfish thought drifts into my mind like smoke.
Maybe he’ll reject me. Maybe that’ll be enough to end this.
The car slows to a stop outside a restaurant that doesn’t announce itself. No sign above the entrance, no host lingering outside to welcome guests. There’s a sleek black awning and dark-paneled windows that give nothing away. It’s discreet. Upscale. Silent in the way that expensive things always are.
My eyes scan the scene before the door opens. One guard stands near the entrance, earpiece in, posture rigid. Another lingers by a side exit that leads toward the kitchen, casually pretending to check his phone. The driver doesn’t move from the car once Tiago and I step out.
Even the shadows feel rehearsed.
Inside, the air changes. The lighting is soft, almost warm, but every corner feels watched. A man in a tailored vest greets us, not quite a host, not quite a bodyguard. He doesn’t ask for our name. Doesn’t need to. His eyes flick from Tiago to me, pausing just long enough to weigh us.
The man gestures toward a side corridor, murmurs something polite. Tiago takes a step, his hand brushing the small of my back—but it’s me who reaches for the door first. The handle is cool under my palm. I push it open.
My stomach flips.
Inside, the restaurant is hushed and dim, polished wood and velvet-lined booths. It smells like citrus and something more expensive—burnt sugar, maybe. I don’t really register the scent. I’m too aware of my own heartbeat.
I have to seem quiet. Obedient. Meek, but not stupid. Innocent without being naive.
