Page 41 of The Bratva's Plus-Size Bride

“Not yet. We need to do some research first.”

I shoot off a few texts and wait for the responses to roll in before I direct the driver to a more precise location than the city. Ella’s fingers tighten on my leg and I smooth my hand over hers, twining our fingers together. Hers are cold.

“What sort of research?” She pulls out her notepad and a pen from her purse and flips it open, poised to take notes. Always in business mode.

The city is alive in the sunshine. There’s something fresh about it, from the high rises to the shops lining its streets, and it’s hard to imagine a place like this having the sort of underbelly we have back home. But it does. They all do. It’s just a matter of knowing where to look, even in the middle of the day.

This is where our arrangement becomes difficult to manage. When she came back, we’d agreed that she’d only work on the business side of things and stay well away from the Bratva side. In this case, the two are entwined in a way that makes keeping out of the Bratva side impossible. No matter how legitimate a business she and I might try to run together, the Milov last name comes with certain associations. And difficulties.

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth before responding. “We need to get an understanding of the groups working in this territory. That means—"

“Bratva,” she finishes for me, pressing her lips between her teeth.

The car rolls to a stop, and I hop out first, scanning the street for signs of a threat. It's not easy in a place like this, where tourists crowd the sidewalks and there are about a hundred shops where someone could be hiding. I take her hand and help her out of the car, studying her features. Any hesitancy, and we’ll get right back in the car.

“Tell me now if you want to bail,” I say, catching her chin when she ducks her head. I search her eyes for the truth. “There are so many other places to buy.”

“This is the spot.” She stands on her toes and presses a quick kiss to my lips that has me instantly wanting more, right here in the street.

We make our way down the street toward new construction, and I double-check the address on my phone. The building is white stucco with a bright red door, bordered by pots of climbing roses. Two sets of tables and chairs are pushed up against the nearest wall, and the door is open to let in the late afternoon heat.

Before we reach it, I pull her to a stop and lower my voice. “This is Bratva business. When we step through that door, I need you to always do as I tell you. I’m not trying to be controlling; I’m trying to keep you safe. The only way this works is if I know you can do what I need you to.”

Her eyes drop to the place on my hip where I keep my gun. “You mean like, shoot someone?”

“No,” I say. A firefight in that place would be a nightmare, and I haven’t had the chance to convince Ella she needs to get to the firing range or to carry at all times. Kind of went against the promise to keep her out of Bratva shit. “Just know everyone in there is dangerous. It won’t come to violence if we play it right.”

“In the end, it’s just business.” She says it like a mantra she’s been repeating to herself. “I can do business.”

I kiss the top of her head. “I know you can.”

We step from the brilliant sunshine into the café's shade, immediately greeted by the smell of strong coffee and sweet baked goods. Her hand tightens around mine as every head in the place swivels to face us. I quickly identify the biggest threats: a young, brawny guy behind the counter, an older man with a carefully relaxed posture at the corner table, and a sharp-eyed woman at the till. Russians.

“This place?” Ella leans in, her voice for my ears only. “It’s just a coffee shop.”

“And we’re just a casino,” I remind her, leading her up to the register.

We order two coffees and a morning bun, feeling the stares of everyone burning into my back as we make our way to a table against the far wall. The tension in the place makes my skin prickle. One wrong move and this could get ugly, but I’m banking on the time of day and half of the crowd in here being tourists saving us from that.

“What do we do?” Ella asks, picking at the bun.

I drink my coffee and relax in my chair with an ease I don’t feel. “We wait. Give it a minute.”

It takes five. The old man in the corner gets up, and I set my coffee down, freeing my hand to reach for my gun if necessary. He has a whispered conversation with the woman at the till, then takes her place as she heads toward us, wiping her hands on her apron.

She addresses Ella, which makes my skin crawl, but I fight the urge to jump in because I have to trust her, even in a situation like this. “Husband?”

Ella flushes pink and shakes her head from side to side. “No, he’s my…”

“I’m hers,” I supply, and get rewarded with one of Ella’s glorious smiles. “And you must be Kira. I’ve heard so much about you.” Like how she’s the ruthless second in command of her family with as much blood on her hands as any mafia boss.

She switches her gaze to me and gives me a once-over. “Come with me. Both of you.”

Ella waits for me to nod before getting to her feet. We follow Kira through a door into the kitchen, where workers roll and cut dough, and into a surprisingly large back room. Two men rise from a couch at the center of the room, setting their cups down on the coffee table in front of them. Kira waves them off.

“Make it quick. What’s this about?” Kira asks. Despite the fact that we’re surrounded by chairs and couches, she doesn’t ask us to sit, and she and the two men remain standing.

We’re outnumbered, which I hate, but our relationship with this family is, at this point, neutral. I wouldn’t call on them for support or anything, but they’re not actively trying to stick a knife in our back, either.

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