Page 3 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

Words likeriverappear again and again. I circle them, tongue peeking out in concentration. Papa watches me withoutinterrupting, his presence steady beside me like a wall I can lean against.

“There,” I say proudly, pointing. “It’s the same word again.”

“Yes,” he says. “Why do you think it keeps appearing?”

I tilt my head. “Because it’s important?”

A small pause.

Then he nods. “Yes. Very good.”

Something warm blooms in my chest at his approval.

He turns the page for me. “Now this one.”

The game deepens.

He asks me to underline certain letters. Then count the spaces between repeated phrases. Then compare one page to another like they’re talking to each other.

It feels like solving something no one else can see.

I laugh when I get things right. I frown hard when I miss something and immediately try again. My father never tells me I’m wrong in a harsh way—only guides me back gently, like I’m already close and just need to look a little harder.

“You don’t rush stories,” he tells me softly. “You listen to them.”

I nod, even though I don’t fully understand what that means.

But I like the way it sounds.

So I listen harder.

Minutes stretch into hours. The world outside fades.

There’s only the rustle of pages, the scratch of a pencil, and Papa’s voice when he speaks—low and patient, like he has all the time in the world for me.

“You’re seeing it faster now,” he says after a while.

I glance up, cheeks slightly flushed with excitement. “Seeing what?”

“The way things connect.”

I look back down at the page again.

The circles I’ve made start to look less random now.

Like they’re pointing somewhere.

Like they’re… leading.

My small brow furrows.

“Papa,” I say slowly, “why do the words feel like they’re talking to each other?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches just a little too long.

Then his hand rests lightly on my head.