Page 71 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
He shrugs. “Offshore development deal. Canary Islands. Fronted by a shell, but even those leave fingerprints.”
I give nothing away. “And?”
He grins, but the edge is there now. Thin, silver-sharp. “It got me thinking. About how much reach you still have, even after disappearing for a decade. Impressive, really.”
My jaw works once, briefly. “If you’ve got something to say, Gregory, say it.”
“Not at all,” he says, almost too quickly. “Just admiration. A man like you knows how to keep things close. How to keep leverage in all the right places.”
The word lands harder than it should.
Leverage. He’s baiting me. Testing. He’s not supposed to know about Obelisk. None of them are.
I nod slowly, giving the illusion of consideration, but inside my mind clicks into motion. Volkov’s name was near the top of the file—one of the more fragile links in the chain. History of embezzlement. A mistress with ties to a foreign agency. A very carefully buried trail of blood money funneled into weapons that were never supposed to surface.
He should be sweating. Instead, he looks relaxed. Confident. Like someone handed him a shield I didn’t approve.
“I don’t like vague conversations,” I say evenly.
“Neither do I,” he replies. “Lately it seems a man can’t afford to be too direct.”
He glances toward the dance floor, toward Kiera. Just for a second.
My spine straightens, instincts flaring hot and immediate. “Enjoy your evening,” I say, voice chilled now.
He inclines his head. “You too.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing back into the crowd like smoke curling through silk.
I stand there a moment longer, watching the space he left behind. Something’s wrong.
Volkov’s tone, his posture, the calm that shouldn’t be there—none of it fits. And that look toward Kiera…
It wasn’t random. Either he suspects something, or worse—he knows.
My gaze drags back across the room, landing on her again. She’s laughing at something someone said, her body turned just enough to suggest ease, but I know her better than that now. There’s tension in the set of her shoulders. She’s performing again.
I should be angry. Should storm across the floor and demand answers, but all I feel is cold.
I down the rest of my drink and set the glass aside. It’s time to find out which of my monsters has stopped fearing the dark.
***
The laughter lingers in my ears long after the doors close behind us. Hollow. Forced. All the same masks reshuffled across different faces. I’ve lived long enough in this world to know thesound of rotting civility, and tonight the stench was worse than usual.
Kiera slips into the car without a word. Her silence doesn’t comfort me.
She’s still wearing that red dress—the one that made men forget their own allegiances—but now the effect is muted, dulled by something heavy in the air between us. Her arms are crossed. Her gaze locked out the window. I don’t speak.
I don’t trust myself to.
My jaw aches from how tightly it’s been clenched all night. I pull my phone from my pocket once we’re on the highway, thumb moving over contacts without needing to look. Platon answers on the second ring, no greeting—just the sound of wind and shifting gravel on his end. He’s working late. Good.
“Volkov,” I say. “Start digging.”
There’s a pause. “What am I looking for?”
“Everything,” I answer. “Quietly. I want to know who he’s been speaking to. What deals he’s nosing around in. Who he’s fucking, who he’s borrowing from, who he’s trying to impress. If he’s shifted any assets, touched any accounts, or made contact with anyone from the old network.”
