Page 58 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

There’s no trace of preparation. No subtle signs of movement. No vehicles hidden in the surrounding space. No tension in the air that usually comes before a meeting like this. Karl always leaves fingerprints in a room, even when he tries not to. This place has none of them.

Which means he didn’t intend to be found here.

I signal the men to hold back and step in alone with Ben close behind me.

The air inside is stale and unmoving, heavy with dust and silence. My footsteps echo too cleanly against the concrete floor,as if the building itself is reminding me that nothing has passed through here in a long time.

That realization tightens something in my chest.

I move deeper into the warehouse, scanning every corner, every shadow, every elevated beam where someone might be waiting. There’s nothing. No sound. No movement. Just emptiness stretched too carefully across space.

Then I see the chair.

It’s placed deliberately in the center of the room, as if someone wanted to make sure I would not miss it. On it rests a single folded sheet of paper.

I approach it slowly, because I already know whatever is written on it will not be what I came for.

I take the note and unfold it.

The first line is enough to change the entire weight of the room.

I don’t have the code.

My jaw tightens almost immediately, but I keep reading.

You were never meant to get it from me. Find it yourself.

The words settle in a way that feels intentionally painful, like they were placed there to land at the exact right angle to break something in me.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the page, replaying every step that led me here. Every conversation with Karl. Every condition. Every delay. Every piece of controlled manipulation that I mistook for progress. Marriage! Fucking marriage!

Behind me, I hear Ben enter the warehouse, but I don’t turn.

It clicks slowly at first, then all at once with infuriating clarity.

He was never offering answers.

He was redirecting me. Using Sofia. Using me. Using all of it.

Something in my grip tightens around the paper until it crumples completely.

The sound I make is an animalistic growl.

I throw the paper down and move without thinking, kicking the chair hard enough that it slams into the far wall. The impact echoes through the warehouse, but it does nothing to settle what’s building inside me.

My hand strikes a nearby metal table next, sending it crashing onto its side. The noise is louder this time, more violent, and still it is not enough. I can feel the edge of something breaking loose in me, something I have spent years keeping contained through discipline alone.

Sixteen years.

Sixteen years of tracking this network, of building control around every variable, of refusing to let anything pull me off course.

And Karl has reduced all of it to a loop I’ve been walking inside without realizing it.

I turn sharply, shoving another crate aside. It splinters against the floor, wood cracking under the force. Somewhere above, loose glass shifts and falls in small fragments, scattering across concrete like rain I do not bother to avoid.

Ben says my name once, steady and low, but I don’t respond.

Eventually, I stop moving.