Page 4 of Married to the Bratva

My phone buzzes—Evan’s name flashing on the screen yet again. I cancel it, my fingers trembling with a fresh wave of anger. I don’t want to hear his voice, his lies. I start typing out a message to him.

It’s ov-

I step into the crosswalk, eyes glued to my phone. I don’t notice that the lights have changed until a horn blares, loud and shrill. I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs. I look up in time to see a black SUV skidding to a halt inches from where I’m standing, the tires splashing water onto my legs.

“Watch it!” I shout, flipping the driver off before I can stop myself, slamming my free hand onto his hood. My voice echoes in the street, sharp and bitter.

The window rolls down, and I storm toward the SUV, my anger boiling over into something reckless, uncontrollable. “Slow the fuck down, asshole, before?—”

The door swings open before I can finish, and a man steps out, his black suit immaculate despite the rain streaking around us. I barely catch a glimpse of him—a blur of sharp angles and chilling intent—before his hands are on me.

Strong. Rough. Unyielding.

“Let go of me!” I shriek, twisting and thrashing, my heart slamming against my ribs. But it’s like fighting a wall of stone, cold and immovable. His grip tightens, crushing my wrists as I claw at his hands, desperate to break free.

The rain slicks my skin, blinding me, making every move harder. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate. There’s no humanity in his touch, only cold efficiency.

Then the bag comes.

The coarse fabric snags against my face as it’s shoved over my head, stealing my sight, my air, my world. My scream is muffled, a raw, panicked sound that dissolves into the downpour.

“Stop!” I gasp, kicking wildly as his arms lock around me like iron. My soaked feet slide against the asphalt, useless against his strength.

I’m dragged backward, my heels scraping the ground as terror coils tighter and tighter in my chest. The roar of the rain fades beneath the pounding of my heart, my breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

“Get the fuck off me!” I scream, swinging my fists, my elbows—anything to make him let go. But my blows bounce off him like I’m punching solid steel, his grip unrelenting as he hauls me closer to the open SUV.

The door slams shut behind me as I’m shoved onto the cold, leather seat. I barely have time to struggle before he’s leaning in, his breath hot against my ear, carrying words that turn my blood to ice.

“You’re mine now.”

3

MAXIM

Ten minutes earlier…

Iguide the car through the slick streets with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. Every movement is deliberate, controlled, unlike the chaos of the city outside. There’s no risk of me losing control. Ever.

The phone buzzes on the dash, and I hit the button on the steering wheel to answer. Victor’s name flashes across the screen.

“Maxim,” he greets, his voice gravelly from all those decades of whiskey and cigarettes. “You killed that cunt yet?”

“He wasn’t at his office. I’m heading to his apartment.”

“That prick thinks he can steal from us and live? Make it hurt.”

My eyes flick to the gun lying on the passenger seat, the cold, black extension of my will. “You’re retired, Victor. Go relax, will you?”

“When your father died, you weren’t old enough to take over, Maxim. I ran this business until you came of age and I ran it well.”

“What’s your point?”

“I taught you that power is what matters in this life. Why do you think that asshole thought he could steal from you?”

“Why don’t you enlighten me.”

“Because he sensed a weakness. The deal with Andrei is coming up and he thought he could get away with theft while you were distracted.”

---