Page 33 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

One hand slips into his pocket.

The other rests loosely at his side, completely unbothered.

“Your apology for stepping onto the pavement without care has been accepted,” he says finally.

My mouth opens slightly.

What?

“But that’s not why you’re here.” A pause. Then, as if he’s stating something as simple as the weather: “I brought you here to discuss our impending marriage.”

Silence hits the room so hard it feels physical.

For a second, I forget how to sit, stand, or breathe properly.

My legs give out on instinct before I can even decide what I’m doing, and I sink onto the couch behind me just to stop myself from collapsing completely.

Marriage.

The word doesn’t land correctly in my brain at first.

“Um—excuse me?” I shriek, heat flooding my face. “This must be some kind of mad joke. I’m sure. What did you just say?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Do you know anyone named Karl Jonathan?”

I frown. The name means nothing to me. “No.”

“He knew your father,” he says calmly. “And he believes you’re in danger.”

The room tilts. Something in my chest drops through the floor. Sixteen years. It’s been sixteen years since my father was murdered in front of me. Sixteen years since I hid between bookshelves, trying not to breathe as blood spread across the floor.

And I’ve never told anyone what really happened that night.

Not even Valeria.

The memory hits so fast I almost stop hearing the room around me.

After the strange man left the apartment that night—after the front door hung broken open and freezing air drifted through the house—I had finally crawled out from hiding.

I still don’t know how I managed it.

I was seven.

Too young to understand death properly, and old enough to recognize it anyway.

I remember my father lying still.

I remember the blood.

I remember the books scattered across the floor.

And somehow—

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t panic.

My father and I had lived alone for years. I barely knew anything about his life outside of us. No family visits. No close friends. Just books. Rules. Patterns.