Page 90 of Obsessed Bratva King

The small silver drive spins through the air before landing in Darren’s outstretched palm. He flicks it toward one of his men,who scrambles toward a laptop, plugging it in immediately, the glow of the screen illuminating his face.

Darren watches me, grinning like the fucking devil. “I’ll know if you made a copy.”

“Let her go.”

“You shouldn’t have fallen for her,” he muses, shaking his head as if he’s genuinely disappointed in me. “I thought you were smarter than to let yourself get distracted by a woman.”

I don’t answer.

Because I already know what’s coming.

I can see it in his posture, the way his amusement lingers just a little too long before the truth finally spills from his mouth.

He takes a slow step forward. “You know,” he says, tilting his head, “I used to hate you Russians. The way you carved a path through the Lombardi empire, the way you killed my father like he was nothing.”

Something sharp coils in my gut.

No.

Not possible.

He grins wider, watching the realization sink in.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s right. You didn’t finish the Lombardi line, Bratva boy.” He spreads his arms, mockingly. “I’m still here.”

Silence hangs thick between us.

Behind him, Cora stiffens, her sharp eyes flicking between us.

Darren sees it.

He laughs. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?” He takes another slow step forward, relishing this. “I inherit by right. Might be a bastard kid, but I’m in charge now. You lose.”

I don’t move as he pulls a knife from his belt, twirling it between his fingers, letting the dim light gleam off the honed edge.

“Watch him.” He turns toward the laptop, where his men are hunched over the screen, watching the files load from the flash drive.

I don’t look.

I don’t have to.

I already know what’s happening.

The air shifts.

One of Darren’s men mutters something under his breath. A frustrated click of the keyboard.

Darren’s smirk fades. He steps toward the screen, his brows furrowing.

Then—

The files start to corrupt.

Numbers twist into gibberish. Folders disappear. A low error tone beeps through the speakers, slow at first, then faster, louder. The guy watching me is distracted, glancing at the screen.

The data is falling apart.

Darren’s face darkens. “No, no, no.”

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