Page 26 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

I’m curled up on the couch with my phone pressed to my ear, one leg tucked beneath me, the other stretched out lazily under a blanket I’ve had for too long.

Valeria’s voice fills the space on the other end of the call.

“So anyway,” she says, way too cheerful for someone currently planning logistics, “we’re having the picnic this weekend. The wives are coming, too. You’re coming, right?”

I smile faintly. “Of course I’m coming.”

“Good,” she says, like she’s been waiting for that answer. “Because it’s always a vibe when you’re there.”

“I don’t do vibes,” I reply automatically.

“You absolutely do vibes,” she counters. “You just don’t know it.”

I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me.

The blanket slips off my shoulder as I shift on the couch.

“I’m excited, though,” I admit. “It’ll be nice to get out.”

There’s a soft pause on the line, then Valeria laughs. “Who knew I’d enjoy being married to a Rusnak like this?”

I chuckle. “Not me. I thought you’d fight him and his family every step of the way.”

“I guess it’s easy to love them, you know? They’re not what people think. They’re very… family-oriented. Weirdly normal, considering everything.”

I don’t respond right away.

Because I don’t know what part of that sentence I’m supposed to take seriously.

Family-oriented, yes. I’ve attended a few family gatherings, and I’ve seen how they relate to each other. There’s love and happiness there.

But normal? The Rusnaks? That’s where I draw the line. The Rusnaks are the most powerful mafia family here in the United States, and now in Russia, thanks to Valeria’s role as the ruler of the Petrov family.

So the Rusnaks and normal people don’t naturally belong in the same universe.

“I think your definition of normal is broken,” I say finally.

She scoffs. “How do I make you believe me?”

A small smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.

I open my mouth to respond when—a sudden, sharp cry cuts through the end of the call. High-pitched. Immediate. A baby crying. Definitely Valeria’s fifteen-month-old son.

Valeria groans loudly.

“No,” she mutters. “You literally just went to sleep.”

I laugh under my breath.

“Alexei is undefeated,” I say.

“He’s a terrorist,” she replies flatly.

The sound of her moving around fills the line—soft rustling, a sigh, then her voice again, closer to the phone.

“I swear, Sofia,” she says, “he waits for me to relax, and then boom! Like he senses peace and decides to destroy it.”

I smile properly now.