Page 3 of Forbidden Bratva Virgin

The look of shock on his face was all the confirmation I needed to know the bastard accepted the offer to team up with the Italians—for a hefty price, of course. He would provide them with information on the Bratva’s business, open new channels for them to expand their reach, and they’d protect him and help quell the pressure from the media, erasing the problem as if it didn’t exist.

The legs of my chair noisily scraped the floor, dragging some attention as I rose to my feet.

Never had I been more pleased that I towered over someone with an intimidating height, and I relished in the sick satisfaction of knowing I was about to pass judgment on another man.

“You thought you could be the pro and play on two fields? Function under the Familiga and Bratva coverage, and I wouldn’t fucking find out?”

Jeffery opened his mouth, no doubt ready to spit some flimsy excuse I wasn’t ready to hear.

But before a word could form on his tongue, I swung hard and didn’t flinch when I felt the base of the bottle connect with hard skull.

Two women close by released earsplitting screams at the sight of the politician’s bloodied head dropping on the table and the rest of his body growing limp.

Slowly, starting from a teasing trickle, a thick flow of crimson rolled from his head, matting the gray strands of hair to his scalp, and seeped between the fancy gold tablecloths. He lay there, eyes closed, unmoving, unconscious. And yet, I thought I didn’t hit hard enough to knock him out of his body for the rest of eternity.

Damir rubbed between his eyes and sagged his shoulders, more exhausted with putting up with me than anything. But I didn’t care. Not about him, the mass hysteria that suddenly erupted in the room, or the number of multiple people screaming for security at once.

Unscrewing the cap on the bottle, I tipped it over and watched the red liquid slosh over his face, creating a fine mix with the dark hue of red that pooled underneath his cheeks.

“Hypocrites irritate me, Jeffery, and I hate fucking traitors.”

Chapter 2 – Hazel

“Oh, bless your heart, dear. You’re so pure and innocent and beautiful. These things happen, I’m telling you, and I’m not…I’m not crazy. My family can’t stand me. They say it’s all cooked up in my head, but it’s really not.”

Slowly, I nodded. “Right. Uh-huh.” Then, I lowered my eyes to take more notes on my iPad. “Sure, these things happen.”

An internal battle waged inside me. The thinnest thread that held me back from breaking out in a full ear-to-ear grin was the respect of my profession. One slip-up and an emotionally hurt client would ensure I received more queries than recommendation letters. I had worked too hard to let that happen. Plus, he had thirty minutes left on the clock—which wasn’t a lot of time—so I gave myself a mental scolding and regained my composure.

Client (Mr. Harold Plumley) reports feeling anxious and fearful, stating, “My cat is conspiring against me.” His voice was raised, and he exhibited agitated body language. He believes that his cat watches him closely and plots to harm him. Further exploration of these thoughts and feelings is needed.

Crossing one leg over the other, I looked up, replacing my enthused smile with a warm and genuine one. “And you’renotcrazy, Harold. We’ve been through this already.”

That was always the first step after commencing the session:Reign in their sanity while you still can.

The old man shook his head worriedly, the doubt clear on his face when he said, “But deep down, I know you don’t believe me, Ms. Sinclair.”

But it was hard, was it not?

Who would instantly believe that a cat’s conspiring to kill its owner?

However, behind the backdrop of the bizarre, the sadness in Harold’s eyes when he spoke, his restless and fidgety fingers constantly picking at the buttons on his old charcoal black coat, and the subtle hint of resignation laced in his tone fully expressed the depth of emotional turmoil he was going through.

There was a deep fear and anxiety rooted in the very core of this man, and that fear drove him here, to me. Like his family, he felt I didn’t believe him. He thought he was going crazy but still fiercely esteemed his cat as his enemy.

And above all, this man was still seated on that dull velvet green settee for one thing: help.

In the midst of the absurdity, Mr. Harold Plumley wanted help, and he’d paid my professional fees because he thought I could do something about it, even if that meant suggesting an option of exorcising the kitty.

I massaged my temple and heaved a sigh. Now, I was no miracle worker, but….

“Let’s start again, shall we, Harold?” And again, for the hundredth time in less than an hour, I offered a smile. “Tell me everything. I want to know what cards your cat has got up its sleeves.”

Harold visibly brightened, like a child who’d been gifted a lollipop. Life flowed through his eyes, and he narrated his story with more vibrancy than I’d seen in a sixty-year-old man.

While he dramatically fired off tales featuring his famous cat knocking over his coffee or mysteriously leaving scratch marks on the furniture, I couldn’t help the lurking thought that probed at the back of my mind.

“Uh-huh.” I nodded, maintaining the plastic smile. For the next twenty minutes, it wasn’t allowed to falter.

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