Page 30 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

Out.

Panic is noise. Noise gets you killed.

So I stay quiet.

I shift slightly, just enough to feel where I’m seated. Leather. Expensive. Clean smell beneath the fabric of the bag—something faintly metallic mixed with cologne I don’t recognize.

My hands are still restrained.

My wrists ache slightly.

I test the tension again, but there’s no give.

This isn’t a robbery. Robbery is messy.

The thought lands cold in my chest.

I swallow.

The city outside is reduced to muffled motion—distant sirens, tires on wet roads, faint echoes of life I can no longer see.

Where are they taking me?

The question forms slowly in my mind, careful not to spiral into fear.

Where? And why?Another thought follows immediately after:Is this how I die?

The car slows eventually. My body stiffens as the vehicle comes to a stop. Doors open. Cold air brushes against my skin for barely a second before hands are on me again.

Firm, controlled hands. I’m pulled from the car, my feet scraping against pavement before I regain balance. No one speaks to me. That somehow makes it worse.

The bag remains over my head as they guide me forward. I force myself to pay attention. One… two… three steps. Smooth flooring beneath my feet. A brief pause. Then an elevator.

I hear the soft chime. Feel the shift in pressure as we rise. High. Very high. My pulse beats harder once. Then steadies again. The elevator stops. Doors slide open. More footsteps. Then stairs. Not many. One flight, maybe two. A door opens somewhere ahead.

Warm air spills against my face. Different from outside. Cleaner. Expensive. I’m guided forward again before hands press against my shoulders, easing me down into a seat. The bag is finally pulled off my head.

Light floods my vision so suddenly I blink. For a second, everything blurs. Then slowly sharpens. And my breath catches slightly. It’s a penthouse. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Manhattan glowing gold against the night. Dark marble floors. Soft recessed lighting. Furniture so expensive it almost looks untouched. No signs of humanity.

I look around.

The armed men are gone. Completely. The only evidence they were ever here is the lingering tension still crawling beneath my skin.

My wrists are no longer restrained. I’m free to move. Technically. But not really. I know there are people outside that door. Probably armed. Probably watching. Probably waiting for instructions.

I rise from the chair, heart pounding hard enough now that I can feel it in my throat. No immediate danger. That realization settles first. No blood. No threats. No violence. It unsettles me more. Because this feels organized. Intentional.

Like I was brought here for a reason.

I turn slowly, taking in more of the apartment. Bookshelves line one wall. Perfectly arranged. The sight almost calms me before I stop myself.

No.

Don’t get comfortable.

I wrap my arms around myself.

My sweater still smells faintly like rain and outside air. My apartment feels very far away.