Page 73 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

We fall into easy, meaningless small talk. The weather. The stubborn hedges. The way the rains have been good for the lavender this season. I let her words wash over me for a few minutes, soaking in the rare simplicity.

Then the mood shifts.

It’s subtle—a hitch in my breath, a weight in my chest that presses harder with every heartbeat.

I hesitate.

Then, before I can lose my nerve, I blurt it out. “I want to know the truth,” I say.

Yelena pauses, her brows lifting slightly.

“The real reason Andrei keeps me here,” I continue, voice lower now, tighter. “What happened with my father.”

The tray wobbles slightly in her hands before she steadies it. Her mouth presses into a thin line.

“Alina…,” she says softly, carefully, like she’s speaking to a cornered animal. “That’s not something for me to say.”

“You know,” I press. “You know, don’t you?”

A gust of wind rattles the branches overhead. The roses shudder like they’re listening too.

Yelena looks at me for a long moment. Not unkindly, but with a sadness that sets every nerve in my body on edge.

“I know enough,” she says finally. “Enough to say some things aren’t as simple as they seem.”

I shake my head. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give you right now.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the look in her eyes stops me.

Not fear. Pity.

The tray shifts again in her arms, and she murmurs, “I have to get this inside,” like an apology.

Then she moves past me, back toward the mansion, her footsteps soft against the stone.

I stand there for a long time, the garden pressing in close around me, the scent of roses and rain too sweet, too heavy.

I just stare after her, the unspoken truth hanging between us like another storm cloud about to break.

Yelena’s steps falter. She stops just short of the stone steps leading up to the mansion, the silver tray trembling slightly in her grip.

For a moment, she stands frozen, glancing around the garden, scanning the shadowed hedges and dark windows above us. Checking for watchers. Listening for footsteps. Only when she’s certain we’re alone does she speak—low, hurried, each word tasting like something dragged painfully from her throat.

“Your father,” she says, “wasn’t just a businessman, Alina.”

My breath catches. I had figured as much, knowing he had a man killed.

“He worked… quiet jobs,” she continues, eyes fixed somewhere beyond my shoulder. “For men who needed things handled without attention. Quiet things. Final things.”

The world seems to tilt slightly under my feet.

“What are you saying?” I whisper, though I already know. Part of me must have always known.

Yelena’s voice drops even lower. “He was a hitman, Alina. A contract killer.”

The words hit me harder than any slap.

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