Page 12 of Plus-Size Bride Forced By the Bratva
My brows arched in disbelief. “The Bratva?” My eyes widened in fear and disappointment. “Of all Mafia gangs, you chose the Bratva to deal with.”
“It’s useless crying over spilled milk, Ravyn,” he said quietly.
Before I could say another word, a vehicle pulled up outside, gravel crunching under the tires. Dad got out of his chair and parted the curtains on the window, revealing a black SUV parked beside the fountain.
The backseat door opened, and a tall man stepped out of the vehicle, fingers fastening the button of his suit jacket. I looked outside the window, wondering who the Bratva had sent over to the house. The second the man turned in our direction, my face flattened.
It was Lev Tarasov himself.
My jaw tightened, and my body stiffened in an attempt to mask my fear.
He looked around the compound, his pale eyes sweeping over the estate as if cataloging its worth. His diamond watchgleamed faintly around his wrist, his charcoal outfit catching the last of the sun.
I watched him walk with slow, confident steps toward the front door, flanked by two huge men. Dad turned around and faced me, fear dancing in his eyes.
“Ravyn, can you please excuse—”
He was still talking when I cut him off. “No, Dad. I’m not going anywhere.”
He wiped his face with a white handkerchief, a hint of frustration lacing his tone. “Now isn’t the time to be stubborn. This man is dangerous.”
“That’s exactly why I’m not going anywhere.” I folded my arms across my chest. “There’s no way in hell I’ll leave you and that lunatic alone in one room.”
He combed his fingers through his hair and shook his head, knowing I meant every word.
About a minute later, the door opened, and Lev barged in with two of his men. Dad rose to his feet almost reflexively, his chest heaving with slow breaths.
The housekeeper rushed in after the intruders. “I’m sorry, sir, I tried to stop them—”
“It’s okay, Penelope,” Dad said to her. “You can leave us now.”
She hesitated, as though she could sense the unease in the room. Her gaze left my father’s face and then settled on me. A second later, she glanced at Lev and his men, then exited the room without a word.
“You don’t knock in your culture?” Dad asked Lev, trying to sound confident.
“Not when I’ve to collect,” he replied, his voice cold and husky. “Robert Jensen.” He walked further into the study, his footsteps measured and deliberate. “You owe my organization 25.8 million dollars….”
What?
My eyebrows shot up in disbelief, my heart pounding like a galloping horse. Lev’s presence in the study was oppressive, draining the air from the room. And now this figure he mentioned hit me harder than a slap across the face.
He continued, “Interest compounding monthly. Late fees stacking by the week. Deadlines ignored, payments missed.” The words tumbled out of his mouth calmly, each syllable gentle yet menacing.
I glanced at my father, but he wouldn’t look in my direction.
“You signed the papers,” Lev said, his eyes pinned on my dad. “You know what happens when numbers like that are unaccounted for.”
“Listen, I intend to pay you your money. I just need more time.” Dad swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling hard.
Lev reached for the Rubik’s Cube sitting on Dad’s table and picked it up. “Intentions don’t pay debts, Robert. Money does. Or blood.” His eyes flicked in my direction on the last statement.
“Three weeks. That’s all I’m asking for. I swear, I’ll get your money by then.”
Lev paused, a mocking smirk lining the corners of his lips. “Three weeks?”
“Ye-yes.”
A scoff of disbelief escaped his lips. “You, Robert Jensen, are already two months late. No more extensions.” He reached into his jacket, withdrew a folded sheet of paper, and placed it on the table. “This is everything you owe the Bratva—broken down by principal, interest, and penalties.”
