Page 66 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“You care about Ayaan.”

The mention of her brother’s name is a splash of ice water. Her expression shutters, the softness hardening into familiar anger.

“Don’t use him as leverage.”

“I’m using him as context.” I finally release her hand, but I don’t step back. “The Colombos are sniffing around. They’re asking questions about the past. If they find out you’re digging into Ayaan’s disappearance, they’ll use it. They’ll try to turn you against me.”

“They won’t have to try very hard.”

“They won’t succeed.”

“Arrogant.”

“Realistic.”

I reach past her, grabbing a file from the stack. My chest brushes against her shoulder as I lean over. She’s rigid for a second, then she melts. Just a fraction.

I breathe her in. Jasmine and clean soap.

My body reacts instantly, a rush of blood that makes my head swim. I pull back slowly, letting the moment linger, letting the tension stretch.

“Be in the conference room in fifteen minutes,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.

“I need to get dressed.”

“You look beautiful.”

“I look like I just rolled out of bed.”

“Then change.”

I turn and walk out, leaving her standing there, flustered and furious.

I don’t look back, but I can feel her gaze burning a hole in my spine.

***

The meeting is a bore. Logistics is always a bore. Men in ill-fitting suits arguing about shipping containers and fuel costs, their voices a dull drone in the air-conditioned room.

Freya sits beside me. She changed into dark slacks and a cream silk blouse buttoned to the neck. She looks every inch the Bratva wife, severe and untouchable.

She listens more than she speaks. She takes notes on a legal pad, her pen scratching a steady rhythm against the paper.

I watch her from the corner of my eye. She’s not just transcribing. She’s mapping the network. She’s connecting the faces to the names, the names to the routes, the routes to the money.

She’s terrifying.

I lean back in my leather chair, swirling the ice in my glass of water. “As discussed,” I say, cutting through a debate about union fees. “The Jersey route is closed. We’re shifting everything to Staten Island.”

“That’s going to add transit time,” the head of logistics, a man named Oleg, argues.

“It adds security.”

“It adds cost.”

“Cost is irrelevant.”

I glance at Freya. She’s looking at me, her pen hovering over the paper, her expression unreadable.