Page 3 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
He gives me a quick smile, as if he’s doing me a favor. I nod, voice small when I say, “Thank you.” All I can think is how quickly things have become real.
The rest of orientation passes in a blur. There are tours of empty offices, introductions to harried supervisors who barely glance up from their screens, an IT guy who gives a rushed explanation of secure passwords.
I watch every detail—the way people lower their voices when certain names are mentioned, the security keypad on every door, the subtle distance between foundation employees and the people wearing Sharov-branded pins.
Nobody talks about Eli, but I catch the way one of the older men frowns when he hears my last name. Benett, not Rivers. Still, I make a mental note.
***
By early evening, I’m back on the subway, pressed between a man in a suit and a woman reading a romance novel. My hands ache from clenching and unclenching my notebook all day. I keep my head down and replay every detail, every face, every snatch of overheard conversation.
The gala is in three days. Adrian Sharov will be in the building. My stomach flips at the thought—half dread, half anticipation.
At home, the apartment feels even emptier than before. The light is nearly gone, the radiator ticking softly, and I sit cross-legged on the futon, the folder of Eli’s notes open in mylap. I take out a blank sheet, start sketching lines, making a plan the way he taught me—“Get the lay of the land first, Tali. See who talks to who. Watch who keeps their distance.”
I make a chart of names, roles, where they sit in the hierarchy. Eric. The IT guy. Two women from HR who whispered through lunch. I draw circles around the Sharov family, arrows linking the foundation to their shadowy empire, question marks over every gap in my knowledge.
I write out my goals:observe, document, keep your head down. Don’t get noticed. Don’t get caught. If I’m lucky, I’ll blend in as another intern, just close enough to watch but never a threat.
I take out my phone and open Eli’s last message. The one I’ve read so many times the words are burned behind my eyes:I’m onto something. If I go quiet, assume the worst.
My thumb hovers over the reply window, though I know he’ll never answer. The silence that follows is a kind of answer itself—a warning and a dare.
I close my laptop and slide it under the futon. Every part of me aches for something as simple as a safe ending, a miracle headline—Missing Reporter Found Alive.But the more honest part of me knows better. Eli is gone. Maybe dead. I can’t afford the luxury of grief, not yet. The pain is there, but it’s changed. No longer raw, but dense and cold, a stone I carry everywhere.
I look around the apartment, at the boxes still half unpacked, at Eli’s photos spread out like a map. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the foundation, wear my new face, do what needs to be done.
If Adrian Sharov is responsible for what happened to my brother, I will find out. And if it’s true—if he took Eli from me—I will bury him.
***
One week later, my official assignment arrives in a curt, typo-riddled email from Eric:
Press coverage team. Gala night. Credentials will be distributed at call time.
Dress code: business formal.
I read it twice, then a third time, just to be sure I haven’t misinterpreted the words. I haven’t. It’s real.
The gala is being held at the old Mironov Estate, a place I know by reputation more than memory—high marble steps, gold-leaf ceilings, the kind of grandeur meant to impress and intimidate. It’s one of the oldest Bratva-owned properties in the city, the type of place you’d expect to see in a glossy magazine spread.
I picture myself there, badge on my blazer, camera in hand, trying not to look out of place.
My role is clear enough: shadow the senior photographers, snap candid crowd shots, help with the livestream and social media blurbs. Eric’s note is full of reminders: be discreet, stay out of the way, never approach VIPs without clearance. It’s meant to be routine, just another night for the foundation’s junior team.
To me, it feels like a test. A trap, maybe. I wonder if Eli ever felt this kind of sick anticipation, if he ever sat at a kitchen table with a pit in his stomach, steeling himself for what came next.
The guest list is attached as a PDF. I scroll past the names of billionaires and minor celebrities, past old money philanthropists and new tech barons. Then, at the very top, in crisp block letters:
ADRIAN SHAROV.
The words feel heavier than anything else on the screen. They take up all the air in the room. I trace the line with my fingertip, as if the ink might burn me, as if saying the name aloud could summon him.
I close my eyes, taking one slow, deep breath. My palms are sweating. I smooth them down the front of my navy sweater, anchoring myself in the rough knit.
My reflection in the black screen of my laptop looks paler than usual, lips pressed thin, eyes too wide. I don’t feel like anyone special. Just an intern with a borrowed name, borrowed nerves.
Still, I can almost hear Eli’s voice in my head, teasing but warm:“You’re braver than you think, Tali.”
