Page 8 of The Bratva's Plus-Size Bride

What I don’t see are vacation photos or party shots—her feed is entirely empty of fruity cocktails on the beach and little black dresses in poorly lit clubs. Maybe they’re locked behind some privacy barrier I don’t have access to, but my gut tells me otherwise. Either Ella isn’t the relaxing sort, and that night out where we met was a fluke, or she doesn’t have the means to take that time for herself, which doesn’t sit right with me.

My girl works hard. She’s a total professional in the office, no matter how much I try to break her down and trust me, I’ve been trying. I’ve been doing everything in my power to bring out the woman I danced with at the club and took home that night, but Ella’s got her locked down, hard. I can’t shake her.

I growl in frustration and toss the phone away, but thoughts of Ella fill my mind, whether or not I’m looking at her pictures. It’s Friday night, and I should be out partying, blowingoff steam after a long week, and maybe finding a few girls who could help me forget Ella. But I know that’s pointless. The moment she walked into that club, she became the only woman I cared about. But to her, I’m just the boss.

As big as it is, my apartment feels like a cage tonight. I get up from my desk and pace the room. Her work ethic and lack of a social life make me think she’s living a frugal existence, the kind that doesn’t allow for any fun. Suddenly, I picture her in a rat-infested apartment on the edge of town, eating soup from a can. Vulnerable. Desperate.

She can’t live like that. I won’t allow it. The money she’s making now should be enough to get her a decent place, but I need to know that she’s safe and happy right now, even if she’s not with me.

I grab my laptop and pull up her file, everything that Luka’s got on her. Down at the bottom is the stuff a regular employer wouldn’t dig into—her personal life, close contacts, family history, and connections, and there it is, her address. Got it. It’s a shit neighborhood, like I thought, and the idea of Ella living there has me on edge.

The clock on the wall ticks impatiently behind me. I should call her and… what? Demand that she move? I’m her boss, but that doesn’t extend to her personal life. Outside of work, we’re nothing. I’ve got no power over her.

Anything could happen to her out there. Luka promised she’s safe from Bratva stuff, and that her plain background will protect her, but in that neighborhood, another family could easily arrange a hit. There’s no protection there, and I’m so far away I might as well be in another state. I need to see that she’s safe. Bars on the windows, a good security system, a solid lock.Once I’m sure she’s taken care of as best she can in that dump, I’ll be able to sleep tonight, but until then, not a chance in hell.

My fingers hover over the button to call for my car and driver, but at the last second, I change my mind. I’ll drive myself.

Five minutes later, I’m in my Audi, flying down the road as fast as Friday night traffic allows. I was right, it takes way too long to get there, and my hands are white-knuckling the steering wheel by the time I pull up in front of her place. I double-check the apartment number and count the floors, finding what I suspect is her window. The light is on, and the curtain is open.Dammit, Ella, anyone could look in.

Double parking, I hop out and scan the street. There’s no floodlight, no cameras that I can see, just a dull grey apartment building that looks like it was built about a hundred years ago. Who knows if it’s even up to code? I make a mental note to look into that—if I can get the building condemned, she can’t live here, and I can help her find a much better place that’s closer to where I live, preferably in the building.

A flash of movement catches my eye, and I spot Ella moving past her window. Heat prickles on my skin, and I shove my hands into my pockets to keep from punching something. If I can see her, everyone else can, too. It’s dangerous, and it's completely stupid. She should know better.

I want to charge up to her apartment right now and tell her that, but I settle for making my way toward the front door of the building. Time to find out how secure, or not, this place is. Twisting the knob answers my first question, as it spins with ease and opens. Not even locked. There’s no doorman either, so I can walk right through the dingy lobby to the staircase. A walk-up, of course. No elevator in sight, not that I’d trust it anyway.

Her name is listed right on the directory, E. Matthews, and we’ve officially gone from bad to worse. Zero security. Like, laughably bad. I march up the stairs in the pulsing yellow light, dodging suspicious stains on the carpeting. Fourth floor. The smells of cooking and mildew swirl together into a nauseating haze, and I’m amazed Ella can smell as good as she does, like cotton candy and heaven, living in a place like this.

Her door. It’s made of cheap, thin wood, the kind I can kick down with minimal effort, along with a flimsy doorknob. There’s a deadbolt, at least, but what are the odds it’s locked? Judging by the open curtain, the chances are low. She’s home, and I don’t want to startle her, so I press my ear to the window and listen, holding my breath. Music thumps from the floor above, but Ella’s apartment is quiet—no footsteps.

I twist the doorknob slowly and, to my surprise, meet resistance. It’s actually locked. Thank fuck. I exhale and take a step back into the hallway. No matter how good my intentions are, I can’t be caught here by Ella, so I waste no time heading back down to my car. It’s still there, rims intact.

Before I drive off, I take one last look up at Ella’s window. She’s seated now, must be on something tall like a barstool, and I can only see the back of her head, that long cascade of brown hair I want wrapped around my fist. Whatever it takes, I’m going to get her out of here.

Monday morning rolls around, and I’ve got a plan. A phone call from a friend in Miami on Saturday tipped me off to a business opportunity over there, and it’s the perfect opportunity to get Ella out of the city for a mini-vacation of sorts. Hopefully, while we’re gone, I can pull some strings and get an inspector out to her building, bribe him into condemning the place, and hook her up with a new one. But one thing at a time.

I grab the still-warm paper from the printer and head to Ella’s office. Her door is open, always, and I give a perfunctory knock before stepping inside. She’s working, head down, hair falling forward to veil her face, and when she looks up at me, I forget to breathe. So goddamn beautiful.

“Can I help you, Mr. Milov?” she asks sweetly, as if she doesn’t have my heart in a vise. “I don’t have those numbers for you yet, but I’ve already called Mr. Stevenson.”

There she goes again with the formalities, doing everything in her power to keep this relationship strictly professional. “It’s Anton, and the numbers can wait. This can’t.”

She has this way of crinkling her nose when she’s confused, which makes me want to kiss her, but then, everything she does makes me want to kiss her. More than kiss her. Possess her. Ravish her. I pass her the paper, an itinerary for the upcoming trip, and wait for her response. Instead of the delight I expect, her face begins to take on a distinctly perturbed expression.

“Miami?” Her teeth snag on her lower lip as she straightens in her chair. “I’ve got so much work to do here.”

I plant my feet, ready for a fight. “This is work. It’s a business trip. Surely Luka informed you that travel would be included in this position? It’s a big part of the job, in fact, given that you’remyassistant, and my plan involves opening multiple properties around the world.”

This is the right angle to go in at, I’m sure of it. Make it about work. She wants this job more than anything, more than she wants to avoid me, and she wants to be good at it, too.

Her poor, abused lip is freed, and she smooths her expression back to that professional face I’m so tired of seeing. Iwant the other Ella—the one whose smile is quick and easy, who can’t keep her hands off of me.

“Of course,” she says, with a little shake of her head. “He did mention that. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

“You do have your passport, don’t you?” It’d be a pain in the ass, but I can get her one in time if she doesn’t.

“Yes, I do. This isreallysoon, though. Like, I’ll have to start packing tonight, and that means I won’t be able to get all this,” she says, waving vaguely at her laptop, “done in time.”

“We can work on the plane. Take the afternoon off and get packed, I’ll have a car pick you up and bring you to the airport.” I cross my arms, waiting for her next argument against this trip.

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