Page 47 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

A raw, disoriented need that makes no sense. It terrifies me. I don’t want to want him.

I can’t help myself. It’s not just his touch, but the certainty of it. The way he moves without hesitation, speaks with finality. As much as it unravels me, some part of me—some shameful, quiet part—wants to drown in that force. To let go. To stop resisting and just feel.

I whisper into the silence, “Don’t fall, not for him.”

Chapter Fourteen - Andrei

Night presses down on the docks like a weight, thick and low and damp. Fog curls along the pavement in slow, ghosting tendrils, catching the glint of harbor lights and warping them into halos that flicker in and out of shape.

The water beyond is black and near silent, the surface rippling only slightly under the pull of the tide. The hush is total—unnatural. Only the occasional clank of shifting chains or the distant, rasping cry of gulls cuts through the quiet.

My car rolls to a stop in that silence, tires whispering against slick concrete. The headlights carve twin tunnels through the mist. Inside, the air is warm and still. My driver doesn’t speak. He never does.

I open the door myself.

The cold hits instantly—sharp, wet, briny. My shoes strike the ground with crisp precision, echoing faintly through the empty lot. Leather, tailored. Clean.

The metallic scent reaches me before I take five steps.

Blood. Not old. Fresh.

I don’t flinch, but my jaw tightens as I round the rusted container near the warehouse loading dock.

Another one.

That thought lands cold and clean in my chest. This isn’t just another territorial flare-up. My men have been dying in pieces for weeks, but this… this is too precise. The body’s positioned deliberately. No panic, no mess. Just a message.

Calculated.

Dima’s already there, pacing the edge of the scene, jacket drawn tight over his broad frame. His face is pale, mouth sethard. Dima doesn’t rattle easily. If he’s shaken, something’s wrong.

Really wrong. He turns when he hears me.

“Andrei,” he says quietly. No preamble. No jokes. “It’s bad.”

I don’t respond. I already know.

The warehouse greets me with silence. Not the usual kind. This isn’t the quiet of neglect, the settled hush of an empty building left to dust and time. This is the silence that follows violence—unnatural and complete, a breath held too long. It drips from the high ceilings, pools in the corners, weighs down every step I take.

Overhead, the industrial lights stutter and flicker. The buzz of electricity cuts in and out, casting long shadows that jitter with each surge. One of the fixtures sputters near the back, blinking with a final, wheezing glow before dying completely. The rest hang on in stuttering defiance.

The interior is mostly empty. Stacks of crates line one wall, untouched and orderly. The scene hasn’t been disturbed. No overturned pallets. No forced locks. No damage, no theft.

Which makes the body that much louder.

He’s slumped against the far wall, arms resting limply at his sides, head bowed like someone knelt him there on purpose. But I know better. There’s nothing reverent about this. One bullet to the skull. Close range. Clean.

There’s no blood spray across the wall—just the thick trail of it dripping down behind him like ink seeping through paper. No panic. No struggle. Not even a scuff mark on the floor around him. One shot. One kill.

Calculated.

I crouch beside him, eyeing the angle, the trajectory. The entry wound sits just above the left brow. Straight through. The precision is what bothers me. Whoever did this took their time. Lined it up. Watched him breathe before they pulled the trigger.

The kind of quiet only confidence allows.

This wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t business. It was a message.

We can get close.

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