Page 11 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
He doesn’t answer.
I set the teacup down. Carefully. So carefully.
“I won’t apologize,” I say.
He frowns. “No one’s asking you to—”
“Yes, you are. You want me to say I messed it up. That I should’ve smiled more. Should’ve acted like I wanted it.”
Silence.
I stand, the chair scraping gently against the floor. I don’t look at him. “I won’t be sorry for telling the truth.”
Then I turn to leave the room, breakfast untouched, and heart heavier than I’ll admit.
Mateo enters with the same quiet precision he brings to everything. No fanfare, no rushed steps. He moves like someone who never needs to announce himself. He sits beside Tiago without a word, folding his hands on the table. His suit is dark, tailored without flash. Always neat, always calm.
He glances at the untouched breakfast, then at the tension thick between us. His eyes land on Tiago briefly—reading him, assessing—before he exhales through his nose and speaks.
“It was always a long shot,” he says.
The words aren’t dismissive. They’re steady. Almost kind.
Tiago doesn’t answer right away. His shoulders tense, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the center of the table.
Mateo continues, tone even. “Expecting peace from a marriage built on bloodshed… it was a fantasy. One we bought into because we didn’t have better options.”
I look at him. He doesn’t look back.
He never does when he says things meant to help. It’s his way—never singling me out, never offering comfort that feels like pity, but I hear it anyway. The defense tucked beneath his logic. The way he shifts blame from me to the circumstances. He doesn’t say I did well. He doesn’t have to.
He’s one of the few in Tiago’s world who treats me like I’m real. Not a bargaining chip. Not a liability. A person. Not with affection—Mateo doesn’t do warmth—but with fairness. With quiet, constant dignity.
Tiago bristles beside him. I see the twitch in his jaw, the way his hands flex once before going still. He doesn’t argue. Maybe because he knows Mateo’s right. Or maybe because arguing now would make it too obvious who he blames.
I take my seat again and pick up my teacup. The heat is long gone. The liquid inside is bitter now, flat.
I sip anyway.
Across the table, Tiago shifts in his seat. There’s disappointment in the way he moves, in the silence that follows. Not explosive. Not loud. Just tired. Worn.
I feel it pressing at the edge of me, trying to seep in.
Maybe the silence from the Bratva is a gift.
Maybe Maxim saw me and thought:No. Not worth it. Not strong enough. Not bold enough. Not anything enough.
I think that’s mercy.
I won’t be some bird in a cage, forced to share a bed with a stranger who’s killed more men than I’ve spoken to. No living like a shadow in someone else’s empire. Maybe being passed over is the closest thing to freedom I’ll ever get.
I don’t say any of that. I don’t give voice to the mess in my chest. I keep my eyes on the tea. I sit still, and I endure my brother’s disappointment in silence.
Like I’ve done before. Like I’ve learned to do.
The knock that follows comes sharp and sudden—two short raps, clipped and decisive. It cuts straight through the fog of silence that’s settled over the house. I straighten, teacup still half raised. Tiago’s head jerks toward the sound, mouth set in a line.
Footsteps follow. One of the guards steps into the doorway, his stance rigid, voice flat.
