Page 71 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

I stare at her. “There’s no clear order.”

“To you.” She chuckles. “But the pattern is clear to me.”

Interesting choice of words.

I glance at the shelves again. “Who taught you?”

The question seems to catch her off guard. She looks up from the book in her hands. “My father.” She turns back to the shelf, unaware of my sudden focus. “He used to organize all our books like this when I was little. Every shelf in our apartment looked like this.”

I watch her carefully. “You understood it?”

She laughs. “Not at first.”

The sound is lighter than I’ve ever heard from her.

“When I was little, I thought he was making things difficult on purpose.” She slides another book into place. “Then he started teaching me.”

“Teaching you what?”

“How to see it.”

I go very still.

Sofia doesn’t notice.

Or if she does, she doesn’t attach any significance to it.

“My father loved puzzles.” She smiles faintly at the memory. “Everything became a game with him. Books. Stories. Numbers. Patterns.” Her fingers trail across a row of worn hardcovers. “He always said people miss things because they only look for obvious answers.”

Something cold settles in my chest.

Sofia continues speaking, completely unaware of what is happening inside my head. “Eventually, I just got used to it. Now I can’t organize books any other way.” She laughs again. “It’s probably strange.”

I don’t answer immediately.

Because all I can hear is Karl’s voice.

He said Sofia’s father died because of the code. Now Sofia was talking about patterns, all hidden in books.

Is there a correlation here?

Clues can be found anywhere, and this feels suspiciously like one.

I study the shelves again. The placement. The spacing. The sequence.

Suddenly, I find myself wondering whether her father arranged all the books this way, or only certain ones. Whether the habit was innocent. Or whether he had been teaching her something without ever telling her what it was.

Sofia places the final book on the shelf and steps back.

A pleased smile spreads across her face as she admires the result.

To her, this is nostalgia. A childhood memory. A way of keeping a piece of her father close.

To me, it might be the first meaningful lead I’ve had since Karl disappeared.

The realization sits heavily in my mind. Because it gives me questions.

And questions are often more dangerous.