Page 25 of The Bratva Betrayal

"No."

He steps just close enough to make me aware of the narrowing space between us.

The shift is subtle but immediate. I can feel the warmth of him now, the faint trace of his cologne cutting through the softer scents of the ballroom. It shouldn't register as much as it does.

"I'm donating you a warning," he says quietly. "And the consequences that come with it."

The threat is impossible to misunderstand.

I tilt my chin, refusing to react the way he expects me to. "I think you're being dramatic," I reply, dismissive on the surface even as my thoughts begin moving faster beneath it.

His gaze stays on mine. "You're not stupid, right? So don't act like it."

There's no bite to it or a raised voice, which somehow makes it worse. That strips away the last of the pretense.

He knows. Not everything, but enough. Enough that Misha's laptop is no longer an option, which means I'll have to find another way in, something quieter, more careful, and far less visible.

"You're in over your head," he continues, "and I don't give second chances. If I find a breach in the Volkov system, I'm going to assume it was you."

His eyes flick briefly to my mouth again. "And when I assume something," he adds, "I follow it until there's nothing left to question."

"I can assure you that won't be necessary,” I say. “In fact, I'm glad you came. I was going to ask you to join Misha and me for dinner this week. I'm cooking."

One of his brows lifts. He doesn't believe that for a second.

Fair. I don't cook.

"At what point do you find the time?" Artem asks. "Between sleeping with my brother and digging through information that doesn't belong to you?”

His hand sweeps the room. “And this, apparently. I wouldn't think you'd have much time left to pretend you care about charity."

"You seem very interested in how I spend my time," I say lightly. "Should I be flattered?"

"No."

"Then I'll assume I've caught your attention."

"I already told you what this is."

"Well, dinner might help with that."

"I doubt it."

"You won't know unless you come."

His expression barely shifts. "I know enough."

"You're making a judgment without all the information," I say. "That doesn't seem like your style."

"I don't need all the information to understand what I'm looking at," he says. "And what I see is a mafia princess trying to play spy for her father."

"Do I look like a spy?"

His gaze drops again, this time slower, tracing downward before lifting back to my face. "No."

His answer catches me off guard.

"It'll be fun," I add.