Page 1 of Scarred Bratva King

1

VERONICA

There are two things I hoped I’d never see again.

One’s my ex-boyfriend, who is currently blocking the only way out of this room. The other is the gun in his hand.

Fear twists through me like barbed wire, the taste of bile sharp on my tongue. He leans against the locked boardroom door, waving the gun my way, a gold toothpick sticking from his mouth.

This was supposed to be a job interview. A fresh start, far from the bruises he painted on my skin and the scars he left gouged into my soul.

But the interview was fake, bait for a trap. And Marco Gorlami, the man who once swore he’d never hurt me, stands like he still owns every shattered piece of me.

He nods at the briefcase on the table. “Open it, Veronica.”

I don’t move. My feet are rooted in place, my hands trembling at my sides.

He levels the gun at me, his sadistic expression horrifyingly familiar.

I shudder, remembering the time he pressed the pistol to my head, calmly telling me he could end my life in an instant and noone would ever know. I knew sheer terror in that moment, and it never fully dissipated.

“You didn’t think you could walk away from me, did you?” he says. “I let you play your little game, but it’s been going on long enough.”

“We broke up,” I say, my words faltering.

He shakes his head. “We both knew how this was going to end. Don’t look so surprised. Actions, meet consequences. Isn’t that what you said when you walked out?”

“What are you going to do?” I ask, trying to sound like the woman who left him six months ago, not the one who wakes up sweating from nightmares about his twisted face and merciless, bruising knuckles. “Shoot me in the middle of Manhattan?”

“You thought I’d let your insult go?” he says, taking a step closer. “But we’re not done, honey. I decide when we’re done, not you.”

My eyes flick to the door again. Locked. It’s me, Marco, and the briefcase.

“Open the case, Vee. I’ll be pissed if I have to ask again.”

My fingers tremble as I snap open the latches. Inside, nestled in a velvet lining, is a plain brown envelope, innocuous, unmarked, yet radiating danger like a live wire.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Take a look inside, honey.”

My mouth moves too fast, the words out before I can swallow them down. “Don’t call me honey, Marco. You know I hate that.”

He rolls the gold toothpick between his teeth.“That’s what I love about you,” he says, barking out a laugh. “You’re locked in here with me, and you’re still trying to give me orders. You’ve got balls,” he pauses to sneer at me, “honey.”

My mouth opens, another smartass comment on the tip of my tongue, but the look in his eyes silences me.I reach for the envelope, my pulse hammering in my throat.

If Elena were here, her new Bratva husband would snap Marco’s puny neck with one snap of her fingers. But to alert her to what’s happening, I need to get my phone out of my pocket, which seems insanely risky.

I rip open the envelope. When I see what’s inside, I stop thinking about making a call.

Photos. Dozens of them. My body, my privacy, violated in Marco’s apartment. Asleep. In the shower. Getting dressed. Having sex. Moments stolen, twisted, frozen in time without my consent.

Beneath the photos is a slim black tracker paired with a printed log. My movements. Every place I’ve been for the last few weeks, detailed with chilling precision. Emails I’ve sent and received. Every single one.

There’s more—a stack of cash, thick and crisp, like the kind gangsters throw around in rap videos. An engagement ring that screams stolen. Two plane tickets to the resort in Fiji he always promised to take me.

Last of all, a death certificate, my name stamped at the top. Dated today.

I back away from the briefcase like it’s on fire. “Romantic,” I manage, my voice thin and shaky. “Real romantic.”

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