Page 11 of The Russian's Forced Bride
As well as benefiting the Bratva’s cash flow empire that I oversaw, I figure I could tolerate Matvey’s insolence.
***
A day after his call, I sat across from him. Security had ramped up all over the estate since the explosion—the first daring move anyone had ever made directly on Bratva soil.
I was sure Matvey already had intel on who had been behind the attack. And I was patient enough not to seek the answers from him but watch and observe. I wasn’t desperate, just curious.
Matvey sat in his high chair, wearing his usual tailored black suit that tugged at his biceps, his dark brown hair tousled as he shuffled through some papers in front of me. I lit a cigarette, inhaling its musky aroma while I waited for whatever he had to tell me that was so important he couldn’t say it over the damn phone.
My pocket watch ticked slowly in the breast pocket of my coat. To me, time was always sacred, and I never liked wasting it.
I leaned against the black armchair, carefully scanning Matvey’s form as he finally pulled out a paper from beneath his stack, his eyes now locking onto mine with a steady gaze.
“Oskar and I have decided, Rafael,” Matvey began, his voice steady as he handed me the paper in his hands before leaning against his seat, which dipped slightly under his weight.
A frown appeared on my face as my eyes slowly examined the details on the paper.
On it was a passport of the woman who had been haunting my very essence for the past week. In it, she looked vibrant, a genuine smile on her face—a contrast to the pain-stricken face I had chanced upon at the hospital.
I found myself staring intently at the picture, analyzing every detail of her face like a mosaic painting that held my attention. Her features were sharp yet delicate, and freckles lined her cheeks with a pale reddish hue.
And then, beneath her passport, there was other relevant information about her. Her age—twenty-two—her blood type, among other details.
“You’re going to marry her. So I’d advise you to get used to seeing her face from today. Get a place here in Chicago and settle down with her,” Matvey declared, as if he hadn’t just taken my right to decide away.
My body immediately stiffened, a sudden coldness making it hard to move. It wasn’t long ago that I was the one mocking him for being handed over like a lamb to the slaughter. And here I was, about to live that same fate he was somehow lucky to escape from.
But this—I couldn’t escape from this.
I was a foot soldier—a pawn to the Bratva. There was only so much I could do in defiance of my Pakhan’s orders.
But at the same time, a piercing heat spread into my heart. Arlette Whitmore was one woman I couldn’t allow into my life. She was a force that disrupted the balance of my world—like a curse I couldn’t shake.
She was everywhere, in everything, and it was beginning to sicken me.
My jaws were locked in a steaming anger.
“You didn’t discuss this with me, Matvey. Is this a joke or something?” I asked, taking one last drag of my cigarette and tapping it against a metallic ashtray on Matvey’s table. I then looked right into Matvey’s dark green eyes with a smile, even though I wanted to put a hole in his skull.
“We were going to tell you,” Matvey claimed, “but things became too messy and bloody.” He then sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Good. I wasn’t the only one feeling like a block of lead was resting on my shoulders.
“You remember Jaxon Whitmore stopped right by my office just before he died, don’t you?” Matvey asked, now leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk.
I nodded in reply, wondering if my guesses about why that man came by were true.
I was right, wasn’t I?
“Apparently, Joaquin Saavedra was forcing Jaxon to do some nasty shit for him. He came to ask for protection for his life and his daughter’s from the Bratva, and of course, he signed over a third of his company’s shares to us.”
Hmm.
But, unluckily for him, he didn’t get to enjoy that protection because he was killed afterward.
Matvey then continued, “We were able to track down who had been behind Jaxon’s death from surveillance footage, and it was none other than the man whom Jaxon had run to us for protection against—Joaquin Saavedra.”
Matvey then slid a stack of documents my way, including photos of Joaquin’s men prowling around the Kamarov mansion and other evidence indicating that Joaquin was responsible for Jaxon’s death.
