Page 33 of Forced By the Bratva

“Well, technically, you disrespected him first,” Grigori said to him.

“I did no such thing,” Markov replied.

“You did when you disrespected his woman.”

Silence.

My eyes shifted toward Grigori, shocked by the boldness of his claim.

“His woman?” Yevgeni asked, as confused as the rest of us.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Grigori huffed. “Why do you think he hasn’t eliminated her yet?”

At this point, I wasn’t sure of how I felt, and that uncertainty disturbed me.

“This is why we never get emotionally involved with anyone,” Yevgeni added, his tone laced with mockery. “Now, the almighty Ilya Tarasov has been compromised.”

“What you call compromise, I call opportunity,” Grigori said, his eyes on me. “Room for growth.”

I squinted my eyes, trying to decipher the hidden codes in that statement.

“Ahh, I see,” Ivan said, turning to face me. “Since you will not eliminate her, there’s only one other way to settle this argument once and for all.”

I knew exactly what he was hinting at, and it stirred mixed feelings within me.

“You already see her as your woman,” Grigori said to me. “So, make it formal.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Markov asked him, a frown perched on his face.

Grigori didn’t even look at him; he kept his eyes on me. “Marry her, Ilya.”

Yevgeni and Markov looked pissed, but neither of them said a word.

Formal marriage under Tarasov law was binding, and it would place her under family protection the second the paperwork existed.

Nobody touches what belongs to the family without answering to the family. This would solve the problem cleanly. Being married into the family meant she’d be obligated to protect our organization’s secrets.

It was a win-win situation.

She’d keep her life, and the council wouldn’t have to worry about her spilling the beans.

The room stayed quiet a moment longer, everyone processing the suggestion, waiting to see how I’d respond.

I didn’t give them anything. Just sat there, jaw tight, letting the silence answer for me in whatever way it wanted to.

The meeting ended without resolution, and the suggestion followed me home anyway.

I sat with it the whole drive back, turning it over, hating how much sense it made and how little I wanted to admit it.

Killing her had stopped being an option the second I first set eyes on her.

I’d spent years building discipline around instinct. Violence, when necessary, controlled and deliberate, never personal.

And here was a quiet woman with chestnut hair and a stubborn mouth, disrupting years of that discipline without even trying.

That realization alone felt dangerous.

When I arrived at the mansion, I walked inside, expecting the usual silence, but instead I heard her laughter echoing off the walls. It came from the kitchen. Real. Bubbly. Somehow, that single sound sparked something bright within me.