Page 62 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Nikita is at the head of the table, cutting a steak with surgical precision. I’m at his right, pushing risotto around my plate.

There are guests tonight. A man named Viktor and his wife, Elena. Viktor is loud, his face flushed with expensive wine. Elena is quiet, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped bird.

“Expansion, Nikita,” Viktor says, gesturing with his fork. “That’s the future. The docks are good, but the airport? That’s gold.”

“The airport is secured,” Nikita replies. “By people who don’t want to sell.”

“Everyone sells,” Viktor laughs. “Everyone has a price.”

I tune them out, focusing on the subtext. Politics. Territory. Money.

“You’ve got roots in the Colombo syndicate, don’t you?” Viktor asks suddenly.

The silence that follows is instantaneous.

Elena stops eating. The server pauses halfway to pouring more wine.

Nikita doesn’t miss a beat. He spears a piece of steak, lifting it to his mouth.

“The Colombos are a remnant,” he says calmly. “Old blood dying out.”

“They’re still dangerous,” Viktor insists. “I heard they’re moving in on the Bronx.”

“Let them try.”

Nikita’s voice is flat, but I see it. For a split second, his jaw tightens. A micro-tension in his hand where he gripped the fork. He cares. He’s worried, or he’s planning.

“My husband doesn’t concern himself with dying breeds,” I say, speaking for the first time.

Everyone looks at me. I smile, laying a hand on Nikita’s arm. His muscle is hard under my fingertips, tense.

“He focuses on the future,” I continue. “Don’t you, darling?”

Nikita looks at me. His gaze is heavy, searching. He knows I’m fishing. He knows I heard the slip.

“The future,” he agrees, covering my hand with his, “is expensive.”

He squeezes my fingers in warning.

I pull my hand away. “I need more wine,” I say, pushing my chair back.

The night drags on. I play my part—smiling, nodding, the perfect, silent accessory. The whole time, my mind is racing.

After dinner, we move to the lounge for drinks. I find myself standing near the balcony doors, watching the guests mingle.

Nikita appears beside me. “You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m listening.”

“To what?”

“Ghosts.”

He sighs, a sound of long-suffering patience. “Viktor has a big mouth,” he says.

“He mentioned the Colombos.”

“He mentions everyone big. It’s how he feels important.”