Page 3 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“She’s something. Nobody’s clean in this game.”
“Neither are we.”
He goes quiet for a second too long. Then his voice drops, quieter. “You sure you’re doing this for the right reasons?”
I glance at the phone, then back to the road. “No, but I’m doing it for the necessary ones.”
Andrei doesn’t argue. He never does when I sound like this. When the cold settles into my voice and I start thinkingin pieces—strategic, surgical. That part of me doesn’t sleep anymore. It stopped sleeping the day Matías Ortega raised a gun to my back.
“Call me when it’s done,” he says finally.
The line goes dead.
I drop the phone into the cupholder, the screen winking off like it’s tired of listening. My hand hovers over the ignition, then pulls back. I don’t want to drive. Not yet.
Instead, I sit in the dark. Rain tapping on the windshield. The memory of Mateo’s face—tight, concerned—lingering.
“She didn’t even know who her father was until he was already dead,”he said.“You won’t find a cartel brat in her.”
I don’t trust the sentiment. That kind of naivety is dangerous. Maybe she didn’t grow up around blood, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t in her. And if Tiago’s desperate enough to offer her up like a bargaining chip, then she’s already a part of this. Whether she knows it or not.
What kind of man signs his sister away to the man who executed their father?
Either a fool, or someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
I lean back in my seat, jaw tight. The leather squeaks under my shoulders, and the cold from the window breathes against my skin.
The truth is, I haven’t stopped thinking about her since Tiago said the word.
Marriage.
Bratva law doesn’t need paperwork. It needs blood. Consummation. Control. They want to bury the past in silk sheets and a ceremony.
If she’s the price of peace, then I’ll collect her. If she’s a trap, I’ll see it coming. If she’s as innocent as they say… then she’s already in more danger than she knows.
I turn the key, engine rumbling to life. The wipers kick in, sweeping the city back into focus.
Let them bring her to me.
Let me see what the daughter of a dead man looks like when she’s handed over to the one who put him in the ground.
I want to see her face. I want to see if she flinches.
The rain eases as I pull out onto the street, but the city’s still washed in gray. Traffic crawls through lower Manhattan, headlights cutting through the mist. I drive without thinking, muscle memory taking over, until the car eases to a stop outside one of our safehouses.
Platon is already waiting.
He leans against the brick wall near the entrance, smoking like always, collar popped against the drizzle. His eyes flick to mine as I kill the engine and step out.
“Well?” he asks, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. “Did they kiss your boots or spit in them?”
“Neither. They offered a girl.”
He snorts. “A virgin sacrifice. Old-school.” Then, when I don’t reply: “You taking her?”
I walk past him and unlock the door. “She’s not mine yet.”
Inside, the place is warm: barebones but functional. Security feeds loop on the far wall, and a stack of folders sits unopened on the desk. Platon trails after me, still waiting for more.
