Page 7 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
He isn’t wrong. I catch their lenses glinting above every aisle, the little red lights blinking in time with my pulse. I walk briskly, careful to move with purpose, pausing at the right shelves, tapping labels into the inventory app on my phone. I am just another cog in the machine, here to preserve the foundation’s precious paper trail.
A few other staffers are scattered down the row, heads bent over laptops and scanners. No one looks twice at the “student help.”
I work methodically for the first hour, uploading spreadsheet after spreadsheet, archiving invoices and guest lists.
When I’m sure no one’s watching, I slip a hand into my pocket and pull out a copy of the internal directory I printed before coming. One door stands out: Suite 4B, Administration Office. I passed it on the way in, tucked just behind the supervisor’s lounge, labeled only with a black “4B.”
When the last of the other interns clock out, I gather my bag and move quietly down the hall. The office is locked, as I expected. I hesitate only a moment before reaching up to the ceiling tile above the door. The key slides out, greasy from years of lazy hands, and I let myself in.
Inside, the air is cooler. File boxes are stacked in uneven rows across battered desks, some marked with neat codes, others with nothing but a line of numbers.
I don’t bother reading the labels at first—I just start snapping photos, using my phone’s silent mode. Names I don’t recognize, aliases in Russian and English, accounts at banks I’ve never heard of.
There are ledgers and what looks like offshore wire instructions, handwritten notes with only dates and numbers. Everything feels both urgent and unspeakably dangerous.
A battered box in the corner draws my eye—this one labeled with the kind of scrawled shorthand Eli used to joke about:H.C. – A/M – 19/7.
I take a deep breath, snap three quick pictures, then flip the box open. Inside are passports. At least six, all with different names, different faces, but two sets of eyes that are the same cold gray-blue.
My stomach drops. I keep photographing, because there’s no time to look too closely, not if I want to get out.
Footsteps echo outside. I freeze, tucking the passports back in and sliding the box into place. I take one last photo of the file room itself, then pocket my phone and check the knob.
Heart hammering, I step back into the hallway, closing the door behind me.
A soft alarm chimes overhead. I hadn’t touched anything that should have set it off—no drawers, no safes, no wires. Panic claws at my chest. I make myself walk, not run, heading for the exit with my shoulders back and my head high. I fumble for my bag, double-check that my camera is zipped inside, and slip the memory card into the lining of my coat.
The corridors feel longer now, the buzzing lights more hostile. Every door and shadow seems to stretch, hungry for secrets. I try to remember my story: Inventory. Backups. Sent by Eric. Nothing to hide.
I’m almost to the front desk when a man rounds the corner, his black coat swirling around his knees. He’s tall and broad, face unreadable, a wire peeking from his ear. He blocks my path with a single, gloved hand.
“You need to come with me,” he says, voice flat and final.
For a moment, I consider running. Except, I can’t outrun a Bratva escort, not here, not now. I nod once, not trusting my voice, and let him steer me toward the side exit.
We pass through a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” and I risk one last glance at the security monitors. My face is everywhere, caught in black and white on every screen.
He opens the back door, and the city is gone. In its place, a sleek black car idling at the curb, windows tinted, doors already open. I slide inside, holding my bag tight to my chest. He gets in beside me, and the car pulls away with a hiss of tires.
The drive is silent, thick with unspoken threats. I keep my hands steady, forcing my breath to slow. Every time the man’s gaze flicks to my lap, I fight the urge to hide my camera better, but it’s already buried beneath a pile of crumpled receipts and tangled earbuds.
The memory card is pressed against my thigh, hidden inside the coat’s inner seam. Eli would be proud of that much, at least.
Streetlights blur past, giving way to larger roads, then to the winding lanes on the edge of the city. Fog presses in, swallowing the landscape. I try to track our path, count turns, but after ten minutes I’m hopelessly lost.
No one speaks. The only sound is the low hum of the engine, the occasional click of the man’s phone as he reads incoming messages.
He never looks at me, not directly. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, rehearsing my story again and again, willing my heart to slow.
The car turns off the main road, up a long, tree-lined drive. Iron gates loom from the mist, swinging open at our approach.
The Sharov estate rises out of the darkness, all stone and glass and cold illumination. For a heartbeat, I wonder if this is where Eli ended up, if these were the walls he saw last.
The car glides to a halt beneath the awning. The man in the black coat opens my door. My legs barely hold me upright as I step out into the wet night air.
I tell myself to breathe. I tell myself I’ve prepared for this, rehearsed every possibility. But as I look up at the estate—its windows all dark but one, high in the west wing—I can’t breathe at all.
Chapter Four - Adrian
