Page 4 of Plus-Size Bride Forced By the Bratva
Good guys by day, evil motherfuckers by night, making deals with devils in suits.
Personally, it was the deception and self-righteousness that I loathed so much. At least I owned my shit—I was evil, and the rest of the world knew where I stood. They were cowards, hiding their monstrosities behind smiles and waves.
The people of Chicago didn’t understand that my kind and I weren’t the real problem—their leaders were. Those sneakybastards pretending to be what they weren’t were who they should be worried about. Not us.
If they knew just how many bombings, human trafficking, and drug smuggling their favorite philanthropists and humanitarians were involved in, they’d turn the city upside down trying to hunt them.
However, as much as their deception pissed me off, I knew it was the natural order of things. Those bastards didn’t get to the top of the food chain without staining their hands with blood.
Those power-hungry sons of bitches only gained that much wealth and influence because they made deals with devils like me. They didn’t give a rat’s ass about the people they swore to protect, and although we worked together in the dark, I knew they were never to be trusted.
They claimed to be honest, but they were the greediest and most dishonest people I’d ever worked with. Not to mention dubious, always trying to cut corners and outsmart everyone else in the room.
Unfortunately for them, they never got their way with us. We dictated the tune, and they danced to it because they merely adopted the game, whereas we were born in it.
I lifted the glass of whiskey to my lips, my watchful eyes scanning the surroundings, taking in every little detail. In a quiet, secluded corner of the garden below, a senator was busy making out with one of his mistresses.
She had her back pressed against a tree as he lifted her leg, thrusting into her with relentless strokes. His pants pooled at his feet, his hips moving a little too quickly for a man his age. His hands were still, squeezing her breasts as she wrapped her arms around him.
To my right, a certain Mr. Oscar White, a well-known philanthropist in the city, was chatting with two of Chicago’s most wanted drug lords.
Laurel Hilton from the DA’s office stood at a corner, cigarette between her lips, a champagne flute in her hand. She was talking with my lawyers and two other Bratva leaders.
Hilton was my little puppet. I had her in the palm of my hand. The dirt we had on her was enough to put her away for good. She knew this, and that was why she did exactly as I told her. She was my eyes and ears in the legal system, with just one job: to shift the attention of the law from my business.
She’d been reluctant at first, saying that if she got caught, her career would be over. But after I showed her how much dirt I had on her, she realized that the career she was trying so hard to protect was in my hands.
If I released the evidence of her money laundering—amongst other crimes—to her superiors, her career would be the last thing she needed to worry about.
Others might call it blackmail, but I preferred to see it as insurance. If she stayed in line, nobody would get hurt.
While I took a mental note of everything and everyone around me, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. Her long, honey-blonde waves, styled to perfection, caught the light as her blue eyes, rimmed with thick lashes, darted across the space.
She stood tall on her heels, poised and elegant, manicured fingers wrapped around her designer purse. It was the same girl from the fundraiser two months ago. Viktor’s girlfriend.
My younger brother, the charming and carefree soul, worked the crowd, proud and arrogant with the girl by his side. She wore a beautiful smile that lit up her face. However, the tension in her shoulders told of a different story, a feeling suppressed beneath the surface.
I recognized that look; I’d seen it too often in women caught in Viktor’s orbit. Eyes glazed with devotion but flickering with suspicion of something they couldn’t prove. I wasn’t sure how he did it, but that unfaithful son of a gun somehow knew how to keep the good girls tethered.
I’d overheard her talking to a friend once before at another gathering like this one. When she opened her mouth to speak, she spilled wisdom, displaying her intellectual prowess.
The girl was different from the other bimbos that Viktor associated himself with. She was smart, enlightened, and independent. She was leagues above him in every way, which made me wonder why she was with him in the first place.
As the night unfolded, Viktor disappeared without a trace, leaving his girl all by herself. I watched from a distance as she sat at her table outside, discreetly scouring the surroundings for him. Every now and then, she’d glance at her watch, sip from her glass, and then look around for her boyfriend.
When she couldn’t take it anymore, she rose to her feet and walked into the main hall. I set my empty glass on the nearest table and followed after her.
Waiters weaved through the crowd, trays of champagne and canapes balanced in their hands. Guests dressed in tailored suits and elegant gowns lingered in small groups, the soft hum of their conversations filling the air.
I stood by the champagne tower, watching her walk through the hallway across from me, her hips swaying as she moved. Her phone was clutched to her ear, a clear indication that she was trying his line.
She paused at the end of the corridor—a balcony—her black dress shimmering in the moon’s ethereal glow. Her head was bowed, eyes glued to her phone’s glowing screen as her fingers hurried across the keyboard.
About two minutes later, a door opened on one side of the hallway, and Viktor stepped outside. His fly was down, his tie loose around his neck, with red lipstick smudges on his collar.
He was giggling as he staggered out of the room, an arm slung around another woman’s waist.
The girl on the balcony froze when she saw him. Her shoulders dropped, but her expression remained blank. Unreadable.
