Page 43 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Subject: Smith, Ayaan.

The words blur before my eyes. I have to blink to clear them, forcing myself to focus.

Action: Asset seizure initiated.

Disposition: Transferred under external handling.

Transferred. The word echoes in my head, loud and deafening. He might not be dead.

I flip to the next page, desperate for more.

Note: Subject requires specialized containment. Psychological evaluation indicates high resistance. Authorization for Level 5 protocol approved.

Level 5. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds ominous. It sounds permanent.

I keep going, my heart in my throat. I see a signature at the bottom of the authorization form. It’s not Nikita’s. The names are P. Solokov and L. Colombo.

Lorenzo Colombo. I know that name.

Then I see another note, scribbled in the margin in handwriting I recognize instantly. Sharp, slashing, arrogant.

The initials are N.G.

Nikita Gromov.

He knew.

The realization hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air out of my lungs. I grab the edge of the desk to keep from falling over.

He didn’t just know about Ayaan. He oversaw the operation. He signed off on the transfer. He made sure there were no loose ends.

I think about the ring he wore at the gala. The silver band with the black stone that belonged to my brother.

Rage, white and hot, floods my veins. I want to scream. I want to tear the room apart. I want to find him and make him tell me where Ayaan is.

Instead, I force myself to breathe. To focus.

I snap photos of the file. Every page. Every note. Every damning signature.

There’s nothing. Just a code number. “Site 4.”

I’m about to dig deeper, to search for other files that might reference the site code, when I hear it.

There are footsteps in the hall. Panic spikes, sharp and sudden.

I slam the file shut and shove it back into the cabinet. I close the drawer, my fingers fumbling with the handle. It slides shut with a soft click.

The footsteps are getting closer.

I turn and scan the room. Did I leave anything out of place? Is the chair at the right angle? Are the files disorganized?

Everything looks… normal.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the racing of my heart. I straighten my shirt, smooth my hair. I walk to the door, opening it just as the footsteps reach the threshold.

Nikita stands there.

He’s wearing a long coat, the collar turned up against the chill. He looks imposing, dangerous, and utterly in control.