Page 41 of Forced Innocent Bride By the Bratva

“You’ll see,” he replied, getting out of bed with his signature smirk on his lips.

Clearly, I didn’t have a say in the matter. It had already been decided that today, I was going out with him to God-knows-where.

In no time, I freshened up and slipped into the green gown, its cool fabric whispering over my skin, molding to my body in all the right ways. The deep V-neck plunged lower that I would’ve preferred, exposing more of my collarbone and cleavage. I was uncomfortable, especially with the daring slit that ran up my thigh, making me hyper aware of how much skin it revealed. The silky fabric clung to my curves and contour, leaving little room to breathe.

Daniel’s gaze was watchful, his eyes sparkling with pride as he stared at me, making me feel as though I was wearing nothing at all. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, the dark fabric stretching taut at his broad shoulders and tapering down his rigid frame with precision. No tie, yet he looked so ravishing and even hotter. The top three buttons of his white undershirt were left undone, adding a sense of allure to his overall look.

The drive was quiet and tense—for me, at least. I could feel his gaze darting toward me every now and then, his lips curling into a faint smile. His eyes seemed to study every shift of my posture and every movement of my hands. He loved keeping me guessing, wondering what he was up to, as though seeing me confused gave him some sort of satisfaction.

When the car finally rolled to a stop, he turned to me. “We’re here,” he said, his voice deep and husky and his smirk broadening.

I looked out the window, my breath hitching as I realized where he’d brought me. The eerie alley, the distant roar of a wild crowd beneath the ground, and the flickering neon sign above a nondescript entrance all gave it away. It was a club. But not just any club…an underground fight club, the kind where blood stained the floors, where men bet fortunes on brutality, where the very air was thick with sweat, smoke, the stench of blood, and the thrill of violence.

Daniel looked me dead in the eyes and said, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine, “Time to see what kind of man owns you.”

I felt my heart plummet into my stomach, my pulse quickening. This wasn’t fear. No. It was something far more unsettling. A dark thrill curled in my chest, a twisted sense of anticipation. I wasn’t just bracing for brutality—I was eager to witness it, to see something raw, ruthless, and undeniably spectacular.

Was this me, or was this the version of the woman he was turning me into—a woman drawn to the darkness?

Chapter 23 – Daniel

She should be afraid—terrified or disgusted by this place, to say the least. But Scarlett wasn’t. If anything, she seemed rather…intrigued.

It was wild down here, the air thick with sweat, blood, and the electric charge of the crowd. A ring of bodies pressed close, their jeers and cheers bouncing off the high walls as they roared in anticipation. Above, the dim flickering lights cast long, eerie shadows across the blood-stained floor as the suffocating scent of iron filled the space.

I held her by the hand, leading the way through the dense crowd with my men before and behind us, making sure no one came close to touching her. We headed toward an elevated structure at the east side of the building, a private lounge that overlooked the chaos below like a throne above a battlefield.

Surrounded by tinted glass and dark metal railings, the lounge provided the perfect view of the bloodshed without the risk of being caught in it. What better vantage point for myprintsessato observe the game than this?

Once inside, our eyes narrowed, adjusting to the bright light that illuminated the opulent space. Plush leather seats adorned the room, a stark contrast to the grimy violence beneath. The scent of expensive whiskey and Cuban cigars wafted through the air as soft classical music played in the background.

A large desk dominated the center of the room, behind which Vincent Moretti sat in his leather armchair, a thread of smoke swirling around him. His men, armed to the teeth, stood sentinel at strategic points in the room, their watchful eyes pinned on me and my associates.

Vincent Moretti, the man who owned this underground empire, was a former fighter turned kingpin. The old man, in his late fifties, still had a build like a war machine—broad shoulders, thick neck, a face mapped with deep scars, and a bear’s broad stance. His sharp blue eyes held a glint of amusement and danger, always assessing—watching like a hawk.

He sat behind his desk, dressed in a black suit with the top buttons undone, his aura exuding confidence and power without needing to flaunt it. Vincent locked eyes with me, and a deadly smirk flashed across his face as he drew one last puff of smoke. He plucked the cigar from his lips, tapped off the ash, and then casually flicked the smoldering stub into the glass of whiskey perched on his mahogany table.

Vincent combed his fingers through his gray hair, a symbol of his old age. “Ha! Danny Boy,” he greeted me, rising to his feet, arms across apart.

“Hello, Vince,” I replied, watching him walk over to me, his shoes clicking against the floor.

He chuckled and embraced me, his palm tapping my back in a welcome gesture. “Been a while since we saw you around these parts, son.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy,” I replied, tucking a hand in my pocket.

His gaze shifted to the hot woman beside me—Scarlett. “Busy, indeed.” He laughed lightly. “And you are, honey?” he asked her, eyes boring into hers with a soft expression.

With a straight face and an unwavering gaze, she replied, her voice firm and confident, “Scarlett.”

Vince paused for a moment, his head subtly cocking to the side. “You’re the O’Sullivan girl,” he said, his voice laced with skepticism.

“I am,” she answered, her gaze still locked to him, unafraid.

Usually, people trembled in Vincent’s presence, unable to look him in the eyes, intimidated by his infamous stare—rumored to inflict the fear of God in anyone. Only a few people could stand his gaze; I was one of them, and clearly, so was Scarlett.

Vince’s eyes narrowed, boring deeper into her soul, but she wouldn’t look away. No. She held his gaze, staring right back at him.

A moment later, Vincent burst out laughing, his voice deep and husky. “I like this one. She has fire in her eyes,” he said, returning his gaze to me. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Danny Boy.”

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