“Then my men will carry you. Either way, you’re coming.”
It’s not a threat. It’s inevitability. She walked into my world and now she lives by my rules.
I watch her process this. Watch her look past me at the guards, consider the odds, recognize the impossibility. Watch her look at the elevator, still fifteen meters away, might as well be on another continent.
Watch her look back at me and understand exactly how trapped she is.
“Your choice, Elena,” I say quietly. “Walk with me voluntarily, or be carried. But you’re not leaving this building without answering my questions.”
Her hands clench into fists. Hiding the tremor. Refusing to show weakness even though we both know she’s already lost.
“I’ll walk.”
Smart girl.
“Good.” I gesture toward the executive hallway. “This way.”
She moves forward because there’s no other choice. I fall into step beside her, close enoughthat our arms almost brush[2]. My guards follow at a distance, giving us privacy while maintaining control.
She’s breathing too fast. Pulse jumping in her throat. Every muscle tense, ready to bolt even though there’s nowhere to run.
I lean closer, just enough that my voice reaches her alone. “Did you really think this would work? That you could walk into my territory, steal my data, and disappear without consequences?”
“I thought it was worth trying.”
“Why?”
“You’re destroying my family. Because someone needs to stop you.”
The honesty surprises me. No games, no deflection. Just raw truth.
“So you thought you’d be the one to stop me,” I say. “Little Elena Lawrence, playing vigilante against the Bratva.”
“Someone has to.”
“No one has to. That’s the point. Your father made his choices, and now he lives with the consequences. You could have walked away. Could have let this play out without putting yourself at risk.”
“They’re my family.”
“The family that barely acknowledges you exist?” I watch her flinch. “Yes, I know about that. The bastard daughter, alwaystrying to prove she belongs. Is that what this was? Proof that you’re worthy?”
“Fuck you.”
The curse comes out raw and furious. No composure left, just anger.
I smile. “There it is. The real Elena Lawrence.”
We reach the conference room I’ve designated for this conversation. I open the door and gesture for her to enter. She hesitates at the threshold, clearly understanding that crossing it changes something.
“Go on,” I prompt. “Unless you’d prefer my men escort you.”
She walks in. I follow, closing the door behind us, cutting off the outside world.
The room is designed for intimidation—long table, leather chairs, windows overlooking the city from three stories up. No warmth. No comfort. Just cold efficiency.
“Sit,” I tell her.
She doesn’t. Just stands there, arms crossed, trying to take up space in a room designed to make people feel small.
