Page 3 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
“It’s called setting a mood.”
“It’s called dragging it out so they can stretch the episode to an hour.”
I laugh and pass her a glass of water, and we sit in silence for a while, the banana bread half gone between us. It always disappears faster than we think.
The doorbell rings then, just as I start to doze off from a full stomach. Violet turns to the door with a frown.
“I’m shocked your doorbell is ringing. When did you start having callers? Zoe isn’t around, and I’m right here. Wait—” She gasps. “Have you made new friends?”
“Shut up!” I shake my head. “And you’re the only one who ever shows up without texting first. It’s probably someone who needs directions.”
Cautiously, I walk toward the door and peek through the side blinds. The hallway is dim, lit by the yellow-tinted bulb that’s always flickering—but even in that light, I can see them.
Two men.
Standing still.
Dressed in tailored black suits, the kind that don’t wrinkle and don’t come off the rack. Shoulders like walls. Expressions carved in stone. They’re the kind of men who never have to introduce themselves, because their presence says enough.
And I’ve seen men like this before.
At Zoe’s parties.
When I follow Maria to her family’s nightclubs, lingering in corners like shadows that breathe.
They don’t flirt. They don’t dance.
They just watch.
Bratva.
My stomach knots. Not because I’m unfamiliar with them—on the contrary, I’ve always had a brush of their world against mine, soft and cold and sharp. Especially because of Logan.
My brother has a way of dancing too close to fire.
I hesitate at the door, hoping—praying—that maybe Zoe sent them. Maybe it’s something simple. A party. A favor. An errand. But even as I crack the door open, I know better.
“Can I help you?” My voice is steadier than I feel.
One of them steps forward. He’s broad, bald, and silent. No smile. No greeting. He simply extends his gloved hand and offers me an envelope—thick, heavy, sealed with a black wax emblem I recognize instantly.
A falcon. Head turned to the side. Spread wings.
The seal of the Rusnak Bratva.
My blood turns to slush.
I take it slowly, trying not to let my fingers tremble. The man gives a single nod, then turns. The other follows. Neither looks back. Their footsteps vanish down the stairs as I break the wax seal and pull out the single sheet inside. Thick, expensive paper. Black ink. No room for misunderstanding.
Jennifer Elise Whitlock,
Your half-brother, Logan Cartel, is accused of embezzling $3.7 million from the Rusnak Cleaning Consortium, a legitimate business under the Rusnak Bratva.
The punishment for this crime is death.
As his only living blood relative, you are being informed of his imminent execution.
Logan Cartel will be eliminated very soon.
