Page 57 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Inside, I shrug off my jacket, toss it across the arm of the chair without care. The lights are too low, but I don’t turn them up. I cross the floor like I’ve forgotten why I walked in. Like pacing will fix whatever’s clawing under my skin.
I pour a drink. Vodka, clean and cold, the same bottle I always reach for when the night’s too long.
It sits on the table, catching the light from the fireplace, waiting for a hand that never comes. I stare at it, jaw tight, thoughts heavier than the glass.
Why does it matter? Why does she?
She’s not safe. Not to trust. Not to keep. Kiera is a wildcard, unpredictable at best and dangerous at worst. A girl with blood on her name and heat in her stare, who could undo everything I’ve built if I let her too close.
Something about her feels essential. Like she’s already stitched into the seams of this place. Like I’d notice her absence even before I noticed the silence it left behind.
I think about her in the kitchen, mango juice staining her hands. Think about how calm she sounded, how steady her voice was while my mother accused her of planning a murder with a paring knife. That stillness—it wasn’t numb. It was survival.
Then I see Darya again. Her fingers digging into Kiera’s arm. That wild, unhinged fear in her eyes.
“She’s dangerous,”Darya said.
She’s not wrong, but not in the way she thinks.
Kiera’s dangerous because she makes me care.
I tell myself it’s strategy. That I’m only being cautious. That I’m protecting an investment, nothing more. She’s my wife now. A target. A symbol. She’s tied to every decision I’ve made since the alliance began. Keeping her safe is a business move. A necessity.
That’s what I tell myself.
Chapter Nineteen - Kiera
Tiago arrives to pick me up right on schedule.
The visit was pre-approved by Maxim—signed off, logged, documented. Everything about it looks clean. Above board. The real weight of the meeting doesn’t live in any paperwork.
It walks through the door with my brother.
We meet in one of the side parlors, the smaller one Maxim rarely uses. The staff avoid it unless asked. It’s quiet, sun-warmed, and far enough from the heart of the house to give us space to speak.
Mateo stands near the window, arms folded, gaze scanning the room with a steady sweep. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone keeps the shadows honest.
I sit across from Tiago and slide the USB across the table. It’s small. Black. Nothing special to the eye. but Tiago’s mouth curves when he picks it up, like he’s just been handed the keys to the kingdom.
“That fast?” he murmurs, voice low and laced with approval.
“His computer’s more secure than it looks,” I say, tone clipped. “But not impossible.”
He turns the drive in his hand, slow and deliberate, like it’s a gem he’s waiting to weigh. Then he pockets it and leans back, expression sobering.
“We’ve got what we need. Names, trails, proof of leverage. Blackmail so thick it’s practically concrete. The question now is timing.”
I nod. This isn’t a war we’re waging with bullets. This is shadows. Delays. Careful reveals. Every piece of data is a fuse—we only have to choose which one to light first.
“We’ve spent weeks collecting,” Tiago says. “Now we stage reactions. Leak whispers, force hands, test loyalties. Make them shift before they even realize what they’re shifting for.”
My pulse stays steady, but my nails bite into my palm.
“The Bratva will fracture,” he says. “That much is guaranteed. The only question is where the first break should land.”
His eyes cut to mine.
He’s asking again.
