Page 15 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
She’s currency. A symbol. A message in red stone and silver metal. She becomes valuable only because I decide she is. Her name on my ledger means power. Because taking her sends a signal that the Ortegas belong to us now.
If she plays the part, she’ll live comfortably. I’ll give her clothes, protection, a title. She’ll sit where I put her, speak when spoken to, and sleep in a house with more security than most diplomats dream of.
If she resists? I won’t waste time explaining myself twice.
I return to the mirror, shoulders square, voice calm. “This isn’t love,” I say. “It’s ownership.”
The tailor finishes in silence, pins gathered, hands unsteady.
I don’t thank him. I barely notice him leave. There’s still work to do. A wedding to arrange. A message to solidify.
A girl to collect.
***
When I step outside an hour later, the city air hits dull against my skin, less a relief and more a shift in pressure. The inside of that tailor’s studio had its own gravity—stitchedfrom thread and expectation. Out here, at least, the noise is familiar. Traffic hums in the distance. A siren wails three streets over. Somewhere close, someone’s yelling into their phone. Manhattan’s version of background music.
I light a cigarette, cupping the flame against the wind. The first drag burns a little, settles easier. Smoke clears my head in ways conversation never could. Inhale, exhale, and the edge dulls without disappearing.
My driver waits by the curb, the black car sleek and motionless. The engine’s already running. He gives a nod when I approach but says nothing. We don’t need to talk. I value silence more than loyalty. Silence is harder to fake.
Behind me, Platon walks at an even pace. No footsteps rushed, no shift in posture. He never gives anything away unless he chooses to. He’s still chewing on what I said upstairs. That much I can tell. He’s not ready to challenge me.
The moment stretches. One drag, then another.
Then the quiet breaks.
Kion’s voice cuts through it with the same reckless ease he brings into every room. “Weekend!” he calls, hopping out of a low black coupe parked two cars down. “Be ready. I’ve got something planned.”
He grins as he approaches, the top buttons of his shirt undone, sunglasses still on despite the dusk. Every inch of him looks like he belongs on a magazine cover, not a kill list. That’s the thing with Kion, he makes everything look like a joke. Charm draped over menace. The teeth beneath the smile.
He claps a hand against my shoulder like we’re still twenty, like we didn’t bury four bodies together last summer.
Platon raises an eyebrow. That’s as close as he gets to commentary. I glance at him. We both smirk.
Kion notices. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say.
He spreads his hands in mock offense. “You two wound me.”
“You plan a weekend,” Platon replies dryly, “we brace for casualties.”
Kion laughs, unbothered. “Have some faith.”
My cigarette’s almost done. I flick the ash away, watching it scatter across the concrete.
“What is it this time?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Details, details. You’ll see.”
Which means it’s already in motion. Whatever it is, it won’t be small. Kion never does small.
I flick the ash from the end of my cigarette, watching it scatter down into the puddle near the curb. It hisses as it hits the surface, barely audible over the noise of the city. The water’s slick with oil—rainbow-streaked and filmy, like even the pavement here’s been corrupted by what lives above it.
Kion doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.
He talks fast, words tumbling over each other with that same too-smooth rhythm he uses when he’s hiding something.
