Page 71 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

The empty glass hits the desk with a hard, final thud.

A decision. Jackson Waters has already lost.

The city sprawls out beneath me, a glittering expanse of cold lights and broken promises.

I stand at the office window, hands braced on the frame, my reflection staring back faintly against the glass. Smoke from the abandoned ashtray curls behind me, twisting into the shadows. Far below, Moscow hums with life—unaware, uncaring of the violence that keeps its heart beating.

My mind is already ten steps ahead.

Securing Alina. Neutralizing Jackson.

Reinforcing the loyalty of my men—reminding them, if necessary, exactly who they serve and what the price of hesitation is.

Strategy comes easily. Always has. It unfolds itself inside me, efficient and relentless, each piece slotting into place like a weapon assembled by instinct alone.

Underneath it—beneath the ruthless logic that built my empire—something else seethes.

Emotion. Hot. Sharp. Unmanageable.

I don’t let it surface often. It’s dangerous, unpredictable. The kind of thing that makes men weak, that cracks open steel and lets rot seep in.

I thought I had burned it out of myself years ago.

Then Alina walked into my life.

I curl my fingers into fists, the glass cool against my knuckles, grounding me as I force my breathing steady.

Jackson will regret ever breathing the same air as her.

I’ll make sure of it. Slowly, carefully. I’ll dismantle him until nothing remains. He’ll know what it means to covet something that doesn’t belong to him. He’ll know what it means to choke on regret, to wish he had never set eyes on her.

He’ll beg for the kind of death I’m going to deny him.

The promise hardens in my chest, a molten certainty that soothes even as it burns.

Still, a part of me knows this isn’t just about Jackson.

Soon, I’ll have to face her.

She’s no fool. She’ll have questions. She’ll fight me—she always does. She’ll demand answers, try to claw her way back to the illusion of freedom she thinks she can still reach.

This time… I’m not sure I want to fight back. I might just let her win.

Let her scream at me, rage at me, claw at me with all the fire she tries to hide. Let her break herself against me.

There’s a terrible, aching hunger in me now—a need to see her shatter. To feel her tear herself apart and still come back to me, still choose me, even if it’s only because I left her no other choice.

I want her ruined for anyone else.

I hear the door creak softly behind me.

Dima steps into the room, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. He doesn’t speak at first—he knows better. He waits until I acknowledge him with a glance over my shoulder.

“Well?” I say, voice low.

He shifts his weight, folding his hands behind his back. “Waters is moving. Not tonight, but soon. Rumors say he’s reaching out to the Kovalchuk family. Trying to find leverage.”

I nod once, unsurprised. The rats always scurry when they sense the fire coming.

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