Page 7 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
Secure line.
Only one person could be calling from there.
Lukin.
I press the phone to my ear. “I was halfway through breaking a guy’s jaw,” I mutter. “This better be worth it.”
Lukin sounds almost amused. “And here I thought your idea of fun involved more class these days.”
I grunt. “Say what you need to say, Lukin.”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he starts talking about France. The weather. Zoe’s obsession with croissants. Their son throwing a tantrum at the Eiffel Tower.
His voice is light, conversational, like we’re just catching up.
I clench my jaw, feel the tension gather at the base of my neck. “Are you done?”
“Why? You in a hurry?”
“Yes,” I snap. “Because if you called me on a secure fucking line to talk about pastries, I’m hanging up.”
Silence.
Then a low chuckle. “You’ve gotten impatient.”
“You’ve gotten soft.”
That lands. I hear the breath Lukin lets out. “I married a woman. Had a child. That’s not soft. That’s balance.”
“No, it’s a distraction,” I grit out. “And right now, I don’t have time for either.”
Another pause. Then, finally, he speaks the name.
“Logan Cartel.”
My spine straightens.
“I know who he is,” I say, voice clipped. My knuckles twitch, curling slightly around the edge of the phone. “I know exactly who the bastard is.”
“Then you’ll be happy to hear he’s managed to do what most men can’t—steal from us. $3.7 million, through the cleaning front.”
I hiss softly. “He’s dead.”
“Already?”
“Not yet. But he will be by tonight.”
“Unless….” Lukin lets the word hang.
I grit my teeth. “Unless what?”
A pause.
Then: “Unless you want to handle the punishment. In your own way.”
My jaw flexes. My body stills. And like a trigger being pulled, a face flashes behind my eyes.
