Page 28 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

At the end of the main hallway, I find a door that looks different from the others. The wood is darker, the handle reinforced. There’s no keypad, no biometric scanner, just a heavy physical lock.

His office.

I try the handle. It’s locked. Of course.

Jiggling it does nothing. It’s solid, immovable. Stepping back, I glare at it, wishing I had a bobby pin or a crowbar.

Then, I look up.

A small black dome is mounted in the corner of the ceiling, right above the door. A camera.

I freeze. My heart skips a beat, then settles into a faster rhythm. He’s watching. Or someone is. He probably has an entire security team monitoring his fortress, making sure the little wifey doesn’t blow the place up.

Instead of ducking or hiding, I stand my ground. I lift my head and look straight into the lens.

I roll my eyes.

I make sure the gesture is obvious, exaggerated. Then, I turn on my heel and walk away, flipping my hair over my shoulder. Let him watch. Let him see that I’m not scared of his cameras. I’m not some timid mouse he can trap.

The penthouse feels larger when I’m alone. My footsteps echo on the marble floors as I make my way to the kitchen. I need coffee. I need caffeine to fuel the hunt.

The kitchen is a chef’s dream—stainless steel, double ovens, an island that could seat ten. And it smells amazing. Bacon, coffee, something yeasty and sweet.

“Mrs. Gromov?”

The voice is soft, heavily accented. I jump slightly, spinning around.

An older woman stands by the stove. She’s compact, with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and an apron tied over a simple black dress. Her face is a map of wrinkles, but her eyes are sharp and clear.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say, trying to regain my composure.

“I move quietly,” she says, offering me a small, polite smile. “I’m Anna. I take care of the house.”

“Freya,” I correct. “Please, just call me Freya.”

“Mrs. Gromov,” she repeats firmly. “Is tradition.”

“Right. Tradition.”

I walk over to the island, needing something to do with my hands. “You don’t have to cook for me. I can get my own breakfast.”

“Nonsense.” She turns back to the stove, flipping a pancake with a practiced flick of her wrist. “You are the wife of the master. You shouldn’t be cooking.”

“The master?” I scoff, pulling a stool out and sitting down. “He has a name.”

“Of course. In this house, there is order. Hierarchy.” She brings a plate of pancakes and bacon over to me, setting it down with a clink. “Eat.”

I stare at the food. It looks delicious, but my stomach is in knots. “Anna, can I ask you something?”

She wipes her hands on her apron, looking at me expectantly.

“How long have you worked for Nikita?”

“Twenty years,” she says without hesitation. “Since he was a boy.”

Twenty years. She knows the real him, not the mask he puts on for the public.

“He seems…” I struggle for the right word. “Intense.”