Page 4 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I whisper into the hush of my empty apartment, a steadying mantra, “I can do this.” The words feel shaky at first, but then firmer, filling the space around me. “I can do this.”
Chapter Two - Adrian
The music in the ballroom is soft, just loud enough to cover the hum of too many conversations. Crystal lights scatter reflections across polished floors, gilding the edges of expensive laughter.
I stand at the far end, half shadowed by the tall marble columns, untouched vodka sweating in my hand.
My security team flanks the exits, men in tailored suits, earpieces coiled close. They know their cues. They know mine. We don’t smile for cameras unless it’s necessary. We don’t speak more than we must. Power isn’t in what you say, but in how little you need to say.
This gala is an act, as all these nights are—our foundation’s orphan fund, branded with hope and mercy for the press. The money helps, yes, but the donors in this room? Half of them are wolves in formalwear, empire-builders who think charity is a shield.
I tolerate their handshakes, their oily jokes, the way they lean in and ask if Moscow is colder than New York. I play my part.
That’s the price of making Bratva legitimate in the eyes of the city. My silence is my signature. My silence is law.
Still, I would trade this ballroom for the cold and certainty of Moscow in a heartbeat. There, things run as they should. Here, the walls echo with too many accents, too many ambitions, too much American chaos. Presence is currency. Absence breeds rumors. So I stay.
My gaze moves through the crowd, cataloging—the arms dealer with his too-young wife, the local politician flushed withwhiskey, the old-money matriarch who never takes off her gloves. Their alliances shift nightly. I trust none of them.
Something shifts at the edge of the event floor. Not a threat, no, but a disruption in the pattern. I see a girl, late teens or early twenties, standing too still at the margin. Dark curls pulled into a low ponytail, oversized camera at her hip.
Her clothes are unremarkable, almost severe: black blouse, loose trousers, flats instead of heels. She doesn’t belong to the world of these donors, but she moves as if she’s meant to be invisible. Most people succeed at that by shrinking. She does it by listening.
She’s watching, I realize. Not the event, but the room. Listening to conversations she pretends to photograph. Recording, cataloging. Her chin lifts as she scans the crowd, and for a moment, her face is clear under the ballroom lights. There’s something in the eyes—focus, calculation, a quiet steadiness that’s rare in this place. It tugs at my memory, but the thread won’t unravel.
She glances up. Our eyes meet. She holds it—one second, then two. She doesn’t flinch. Most do.
One of my men leans in, murmurs, “Intern from the media team. One of the students.”
I nod. I don’t look away.
Harmless, I tell myself, but there’s no such thing as harmless.
A string quartet plays from the raised dais near the back wall, their notes swelling and fading as waiters weave between tables, balancing trays laden with caviar and gold-rimmed glasses. The hum of conversation never falters, not even when the security detail moves in their silent, practiced rotation.
Everyone here knows the rules—how to smile for the press, how to let a bribe pass for a donation, how to lower their eyes just enough in my direction to show respect without deference.
I let the vodka warm my palm, but I never taste it. Instead, I watch.
I watch the way the mayor’s aide whispers to a guest list sponsor, nervous fingers twisting a cocktail napkin into shreds.
I watch an oil baron slip an envelope under the table to a silent fixer with a pinched mouth and a white pocket square.
I watch the thinly veiled tension between two men who used to be allies and now barely share a nod.
Someone toasts the Sharov Foundation from the center of the room, glasses raised in my direction. I give them a small, precise smile, the kind that makes men remember how easily I can end a conversation, or a career. Around me, my own people—half of them Bratva, half of them handpicked for their silence—stand at easy rest, but I know none of them are truly at ease.
The interns circle the edge of the crowd, careful not to block the view of the photographers or draw attention from the high-profile guests. The girl with the camera moves like she knows the floor plan. Each time I look, she’s changed position. Now she’s behind the dessert table, always with her eyes just above the lens, searching.
A heavy-set donor intercepts her, leaning in with a patronizing grin, gesturing for a photo. She lifts the camera with practiced hands and obliges, polite but expressionless. When he turns away, her face returns to that state of alert stillness.
A ripple moves through the crowd as my chief of security enters the ballroom. He signals, subtle—two fingers tapped to his watch, a tilt of his head toward the entrance hall. I know whathe means. A new arrival. Perhaps someone late, or someone not on the list.
I scan for potential threats, but nothing stands out. The donors laugh too loudly, the press jostles for better angles, and the city’s most careful criminals trade compliments in three languages. I remind myself that this is all performance. My silence is the sharpest weapon in the room.
Still, I glance once more toward the girl with the camera. Her lens is pointed at the main table, but her eyes are on me. I acknowledge her with a tilt of my glass—wordless, warning, curious. She doesn’t look away. I find myself waiting to see what she’ll do next.
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