Page 59 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
He doesn’t say it like a compliment. Doesn’t offer warmth. He’s not that kind of man.
There’s something in his tone. A rare kind of acknowledgment. “You’re deeper in than anyone else could’ve managed. He trusts you. I don’t think he even knows how much.”
I nod again, because it’s true. I’ve made it true.
I take a slow breath, force it down, and when I look at Tiago again, my expression hasn’t changed.
This is the cost. This was always the cost.
I’m still willing to pay it.
After Tiago leaves, I don’t linger.
I slip out the back way, past the hushed staff and their sideways glances, until I find the door to the balcony. It opens without a sound. The dusk presses cool against my skin.
The city sprawls below me, glittering and golden, unaware—or uncaring—of what’s coming. From up here, the skyline looks soft. Like it could be held in the palm of your hand. Like it doesn’t pulse with crime and power and old blood debts waiting to collect. The lie of it is almost beautiful.
I brace my hands on the railing. It’s cold. Solid.
I need it.
My heart won’t settle. It hasn’t since Tiago said her name—Darya—like she was a chess piece instead of a woman. Since he praised me for being trusted. Since he reminded me this is working.
Because it is. But all I can see when I close my eyes is Maxim’s hand on my face. The way his thumb brushed beneath my lip. The burn in his gaze when he said he only liked when I cried in his bed. Like it wasn’t cruelty. Like it was intimacy.
Worse than that—his restraint.
The way he didn’t kiss me. Didn’t touch more. The way he stepped back when I didn’t.
It didn’t feel like strategy, and I don’t know what to do with that.
I feel him before I hear him. Mateo steps onto the balcony, his movements quiet as always. I don’t turn. Don’t startle. His presence has become familiar—more shadow than man, a constant at the edges of my new life. The one person who looks at me without wanting something.
He leans on the railing beside me, both of us facing the horizon.
He doesn’t speak for a while. He never rushes things. Then: “What’s really going on with you?”
It’s not an accusation. Not even suspicion. Just a question, plain and simple, but I can’t answer it.
Not without unraveling.
My silence stretches between us, thicker than any lie I could craft. He doesn’t push. He never does. Maybe he knows it would break something if he did. Maybe he sees more than he lets on.
I’m grateful for it, even if it makes my guilt worse. I’m not supposed to feel anything. I’m not supposed to lie awakewondering what Maxim’s thinking. I’m not supposed to replay the sound of his voice or the heat in his stare. I’m not supposed to feel safer when he’s near.
The city glows beneath me—sharp and glittering, like it’s been cut from glass and stitched into the earth.
I stare out at it, the wind cool against my skin, and repeat the plan in my head like a prayer.
Obelisk-12. Initiate contact. Plant the seed. Watch the cracks form.
The files gave us leverage. More than I imagined. Names etched in government stone, accounts hidden behind layers of shell corporations, blackmail dressed in velvet and video. Secrets heavy enough to sink kings. Maxim doesn’t command loyalty—he purchases silence. Obedience bought with ruin waiting in digital folders.
We have enough to bring it all down.
The next step is delicate. Tiago was clear; we don’t strike the whole body. We fracture the edge—one of the twelve. That’s all it takes. One name to break. One mouth to waver. The others will follow in fear, confusion, desperation.
Tiago will reach out. He’ll apply the pressure, weigh his words. But it’s me who lives here. Me who listens. Watches. Tracks the shifts in behavior and tone. My role isn’t force anymore—it’s intimacy.
