Page 14 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Markian nudges my shoulder with a knowing smirk. “You collect strays now, do you?” he murmurs.
I give him a look, half amusement, half warning. “She’s not a stray. She’s here for work.”
He lifts his glass, hiding a grin. “Of course she is.”
The table settles, but I do not. My focus keeps returning to the girl with the cheap blouse and big eyes, the one who meets every challenge with silence and every threat with carefulrestraint. She is still a mystery; one I have not decided whether to solve or savor.
Yelena glances at me once more, eyes cold, assessing. I let her look. Let her wonder. She plays her games; I play mine.
By the end of the course, the room has grown warmer, the tension masked by candlelight and good wine. Beneath it all, the currents run sharper than ever. At the center of it, silent but unbroken, is Talia—holding her place, holding her secrets, holding her own.
The game between us is growing more interesting with every passing minute.
The third course arrives, some delicate arrangement of fish and caviar, announced with a flourish by a server whose smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Around the table, conversation shifts and reforms: old stories, cautious jokes, all the lines rehearsed and recited in careful cadence.
Yelena turns her laughter up a notch, her hand drifting to my arm with the practiced ease of a woman who knows every camera angle, every eye in the room.
I let her perform, giving nothing back. My mind is elsewhere. My eyes stray again to Talia. She keeps her posture perfect, never fidgeting, always listening. She sips water, types notes on her phone, occasionally nodding at something a guest says. She never interrupts, never draws attention.
The servers don’t look at her twice, but I see how the older men at the table notice her—at first as novelty, then as threat. She’s an unknown, and in this world, unknowns are never truly safe.
Dessert comes, something rich and dark.
Yelena declines with a flick of her hand, all sharp edges and faint disdain. Markian, beside me, teases the youngest Chernikov about his appetite, winning a reluctant smile.
I contribute the bare minimum, offering a toast to the host, a few polite words about legacy and tradition. I watch as the wine glitters in the candlelight and think how thin the mask of civility is here. We are all animals, some of us better at wearing suits.
Talia is offered dessert by a passing server. She accepts, but only tastes a spoonful, eyes distant. I imagine she’s making calculations—how long to stay, how quickly to retreat, what faces she needs to remember for later. She looks up once, meets my gaze, and holds it for a heartbeat longer than before.
There’s something stubborn in her eyes. Not a plea, not fear. I almost smile.
The final course is cheese and fruit, a forced gesture of hospitality. The room is warmer now, the guests a little more at ease, voices louder.
Yelena’s mask slips only once when a staffer brings the wrong port to her elbow. She snaps at him, low and cold, and I see the boy’s hands tremble as he backs away. The cruelty is effortless, as natural to her as breathing. My irritation sharpens, but I say nothing.
When dinner is finished, the table dissolves into smaller clusters. Petr gestures for a private word with one of my men.
Markian tugs me aside, a familiar hand on my shoulder. “Care for a smoke?” he asks, but I shake my head. I need air, but not with company.
Yelena stands at my side, looping her arm through mine, her perfume sweet and cloying. “Come, darling. Show the Chernikovs you’re still part of the family.”
“I need to make a call,” I say, and her eyes narrow for a moment before she smooths her expression. She lets me go with a gracious smile, but I know she’ll remember the slight.
I slip away, letting the cold air of the terrace bite into my skin. The night is silent except for the soft crunch of snow beneath my shoes and the distant hush of conversation through closed doors.
Stars hang low and hard above the estate’s black silhouette.
I take a deep breath, letting the cold clear my mind.
Unpredictability is the one thing I cannot abide in my world. Control is what keeps me alive, but as I think of Talia, her silence at the table, the refusal in every careful word she does not say, I find that unpredictability doesn’t feel like a threat tonight. It feels… intentional. Dangerous, yes, but intriguing.
Most who enter these rooms learn quickly to flatter, to submit, to dissolve into the background. She resists in quiet ways: by listening too closely, by refusing to shrink, by holding herself together in the lion’s den.
There is a kind of courage in her that I rarely see, and I am old enough to admit I want to understand it. I want her where I can watch her closely.
Inside, the rooms begin to empty. Guests drift to the lounge, the billiards room, the cars idling outside.
Yelena reappears at my elbow, eyes bright and brittle. “Everything settled?” she asks.
