Page 2 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Every mile we drive, my nerves twist tighter, wound by hope and dread in equal measure. Somewhere in this city, Eli disappeared. Somewhere, the answers are waiting.
When we arrive, I clamber out and gather my duffel. The taxi pulls away, leaving me on a narrow sidewalk with my duffel at my feet and the late afternoon sunlight glancing off the row of aging brownstones.
The air is quieter here, a little cleaner. I stand still for a moment, taking in the faded brick, the chipped paint on the iron railings, the cracks in the pavement. It’s not the kind of place anyone would call glamorous, but there’s a kind of privacy to it. There’s nobody on the stoop to ask questions, and the old woman two doors down only glances up before returning to her crossword.
My new building is three stories, the front door sticking a little before it gives way under my push. The hall smells of bleach and something fried. I take the stairs up to the second floor, my bag thumping against each step, then pause outside apartment 2C. My hands shake as I key in the lockbox code, the numbers stiff under my fingers. The key slides out, cool and unfamiliar. I slip inside, shutting the door quietly behind me.
The apartment is… fine. Cleaner than I expected, honestly, but stripped of personality. Pale walls, faded hardwood floors, air-conditioning humming in the corner. A twin mattress sits low to the floor, covered by a thin blue sheet, and a rickety table takes up one side of the kitchen. The fridge buzzes in the silence.
I set my duffel down and walk a slow circuit of the room, fingers tracing the cold countertop, the windowsill’s peeling paint. There’s no trace of whoever lived here before—just empty shelves and the faintest scent of lemon cleaner.
I work fast, tugging off my boots and unzipping the duffel. My heart hammers as I dig out the USB drive, cold and sharp-edged, its weight insignificant but everything it holds pressing down on me. I kneel beside the radiator and search for the loose floorboard I’d noticed in the photos—right where the corner sinks half an inch lower. It pries up with a muted creak, revealing a dark gap just big enough to slide the USB inside.I press the board back into place and sit back on my heels, counting three slow breaths before I move again.
The rest of my unpacking is automatic: jeans, sweaters, notebook, spare phone battery, all stashed in the tiny closet. I leave my jacket on a hook by the door, my hands still trembling. The apartment feels colder now, as if every surface is waiting for something to happen.
From the bottom of my bag, I pull out the folder. Eli’s folder. Inside are snapshots, printouts, notes in his cramped handwriting. I spread them across the kitchen table, careful not to smudge the ink. His face stares back at me from half a dozen angles: grinning, frowning, caught mid-laugh behind a camera lens.
I trace his features with my thumb, memorizing every detail for the hundredth time.
I don’t cry. I haven’t in months. The grief settled somewhere deep, pressed flat and hard by too many sleepless nights. I let it keep me steady now. There’s work to do, and I have to see it through.
***
Morning comes in a pale wash of blue through the thin curtains. I lie awake for a moment, listening to the fridge click and hum, my nerves buzzing quietly under my skin. Sleep never comes easily anymore, but today my mind is sharper than usual, edged with purpose and something like fear.
I braid my hair back tight, dress in my cleanest sweater and dark jeans, and double-check the contents of my bag: notebook, pen, phone, foundation acceptance letter with the fake ID number highlighted in yellow. I look myself over in the cracked bathroom mirror. The face that stares back at me is tired, drawn, but steady.
Talia Benett,I remind myself. Not Talia Rivers. Not Eli’s sister. Not a girl with anything to hide.
The subway is a blur—shoulder-to-shoulder with other commuters, the car rattling through tunnels, everyone absorbed in their own exhaustion. Nobody looks at me twice. I ride two stops too far, just to be sure, then circle back. Old habit.
By the time I reach the Sharov Foundation building, my heart is racing and I force myself to breathe slow, measured.
The building looms above the sidewalk, sleek and unwelcoming, all gray glass and matte steel, its corners too sharp and windows too narrow for comfort. Cameras are perched at every angle, their dark lenses following the flow of people in and out. There’s a logo above the revolving door, stylized silver, modern, soulless.
I can feel the security guards’ eyes skimming over everyone as they enter, cataloging faces, checking badges.
Inside, the lobby is bright and cold. Light bounces off pale marble floors and tall glass walls. A woman at the front desk checks my ID, her face expressionless as she matches my photo to the fake name.
For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to question me, but then she gives a short nod and prints out a sticky visitor’s badge:Talia Benett, Intern.
Orientation is on the sixth floor. I ride up with a cluster of other new arrivals, most of them younger, talking quietly or scrolling their phones. A man with tired eyes and a blue lanyard leads us through a set of double doors into a conference room where stale coffee sits on a side table beside neatly stacked folders.
He introduces himself as Eric, the operations coordinator. There are name tags at every seat—mine in the front row.
I take it, slide in quietly, and keep my gaze fixed forward as Eric welcomes us with the same practiced script I imagine he gives every month. Company values. Security protocols. A video about the foundation’s “commitment to journalistic integrity.” I sit through it all, jotting notes in the margins of my pad, eyes moving more often to the exit than the screen.
After an hour, a round of introductions. There’s a handful of full-time hires, but most are interns or recent grads like me. One girl from Queens, another guy who transferred from Rutgers, a smiling redhead from Vermont.
I make my voice steady when my turn comes. “Talia Benett, New Jersey. Journalism student.” No mention of my real school, no slipups. The words feel strange on my tongue, but no one seems to notice.
Eric outlines our assignments for the week. The newsroom is abuzz with preparations for a high-profile charity gala.
“This is a big deal for the foundation,” he says, flipping through his clipboard. “Bratva-sponsored, with some of the biggest names in philanthropy and finance attending. The Sharov family is… well, they’re the centerpiece this year. Adrian Sharov himself will be hosting.”
The name rings out like a gunshot. For a split second, my whole body goes still. My hands curl into fists under the table, nails biting into my palm. Adrian Sharov. The architect of this empire, the man my brother warned me about in every encrypted message and half-joking threat. I try to keep my face blank, but I can feel the flush rising at the back of my neck.
Eric continues, oblivious. “The media team will handle coverage: photos, interviews, livestreaming the main speeches. We need every hand on deck. Talia, you’ll be with us, prepping the press kits and assisting with digital archiving during the event.”
