Page 28 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“You can’t trust those bloody Mexicans.”
The room goes dead.
It isn’t shock that spreads through the men; it’s something heavier. Men shift in place. A few look away. Others stare down into their glasses, their silence an answer in itself.
Her mask has slipped, and what’s beneath is raw.
The grief, the loyalty, the fear—it’s all real, but so is the hate. The quiet, long-buried bile passed through whispered warnings and tightened smiles. It drips now from the mouth of a woman who once ruled this empire with a gaze alone.
No one moves.
I watch her, my throat tight. Darya is unraveling, and the room knows it.
I say nothing, because if I speak again, I won’t be able to keep the heat from my voice, the blade from my tone.
I can’t bury two parents in one lifetime.
My jaw is locked tight, pulse steady despite the heat building in my chest. I watch her unravel, standing there like a relic of another age—iron-bound, war-hardened, utterly undone by the choices I’ve made. I don’t speak yet. I want to. I want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s seeing ghosts where there aren’t any.
Part of me understands.
She thought I was gone. Ten years, she buried a coffin with no body. Ten years, she lived with the memory of blood on her hands, the silence of not knowing if I’d died alone, if I’d suffered. And when I came back, she didn’t cry. She didn’t crumble. She stood taller, harder, colder.
Until now.
Chapter Nine - Kiera
The ballroom opens before me in a flood of gold and reflection—candlelight flickering from mirrored walls, chandeliers dripping with crystal, the floor gleaming like it’s never seen dirt. Everything is immaculate. Purposefully so. Nothing here is accidental.
I wear black. Sleek. Tasteful. The neckline modest, but the thigh-high slit makes me feel exposed in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It looked elegant in the mirror. Now it feels like bait.
The room is full. Waitstaff float past with silent precision. Voices murmur across the expanse, trailing laughter and politics like perfume. I take one step forward and feel the weight of the room shift. Not toward me entirely—but enough.
My eyes meet an elderly woman’s. She stands near the far end of the room, surrounded by men who make space for her like instinct. Her silver hair is swept back, lips painted with surgical precision. Her eyes land on me without blinking.
Cool. Unreadable. Judgment rolls off her like heat.
I look away.
Every step toward the table feels rehearsed. I smooth my hand along the side of my dress, though it doesn’t need adjusting. I know how to carry myself. I’ve walked into crowded rooms before. But tonight, the air feels thinner. My skin prickles with the sense of being watched—dissected, measured.
Too young. Too curvy. Too exposed.
I reach the table, and the chair beside Maxim is pulled out for me by a man in black. I thank him softly and sit, spine straight, napkin draped neatly in my lap. My palm sticks against the fabric.
Maxim doesn’t look at me, not right away.
His presence is grounding—solid, inescapable—but it presses against my ribs, too heavy. Every inch of him feels controlled, as if he’s holding a leash I can’t see. His hand rests on the table, ring catching the light. Mine stay folded around my napkin, beneath the edge of the cloth.
Around us, the table buzzes. Conversations overlap: trade routes, offshore accounts, the recent shift in loyalty from some family I’ve only heard mentioned in whispers. Deals made over oysters and fine wine, spoken with the ease of people who never have to wonder if they belong here.
I keep my smile fixed, small and polite. Inoffensive. Decorative.
Across the table, the old woman—Darya, his mother—says something to the man on her left. She doesn’t look at me, but I feel her voice slide toward my direction like smoke curling under a door.
She hasn’t spoken to me, not once, but I feel her disdain with every sip of her drink. Every word she doesn’t say is louder than the ones she might.
Glasses clink in a ripple of ceremony, silver ringing against crystal. One of the older men, his face like aged leather, stands with the slow gravity of someone who’s used to being heard.
