Page 80 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I flinch, his words a physical blow. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair is a concept for children, Freya. In our world, there are only assets and liabilities.”

“So I’m a liability?”

“You were with him for five minutes. In five minutes, he learned that you’re my weak spot.”

“I’m not your weak spot.”

“Aren’t you?” He turns to me, his eyes burning. “He touched you. He spoke to you, and I wanted to kill him for it. If that’s not a weak spot, I don’t know what is.”

I stare at him, stunned. He’s never admitted it before. Never admitted that I affect him.

“Who is he?” I ask, my voice soft.

“Antonio Moretti. Lorenzo’s second. His attack dog.”

“That’s not what I mean.” I pause, brows furrowed. “He’s here for me?”

“He’s here for information. He thinks you know something about Ayaan, and that he can use you to get to me.”

“Can he?”

“No.”

The certainty in his voice is both terrifying and reassuring.

“Pavel,” I say, changing the subject. “The man from the club. Was he working for Lorenzo?”

Nikita nods. “For months. He was feeding them information. Shipments. Routes. Security details.”

“Why?”

“Money,” he says simply. “It’s always about money.”

“So you killed him.”

I look out the window, my reflection a pale, ghostly face in the dark glass. All I can think about is the way Nikita moved in the gallery, the way he shielded me with his body, the raw, possessive fury in his eyes.

The danger is real. Lorenzo is out there, watching, waiting. And I’m caught in the middle.

The danger is also… exhilarating.

***

I’m in the office, trying to work, but my mind is a mess. I can’t focus on the designs, can’t lose myself in the familiar comfort of fabric and form.

All I can think about is Nikita. The way he looked at me in the car. The way he admitted I was his weakness.

The office door opens. I look up, expecting Anna or one of the security guards, but it’s Nikita.

He closes the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. “You’re still up,” he says, his voice low.

“It’s quiet at night. I like the peace.”

He walks toward the desk, his movements slow. He’s in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare. He looks… domestic. Relaxed.

I know better. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the coiled energy in his stride. He stops in front of the desk, his hands braced on the back of my chair.