Page 17 of BRATVA'S Avenging Bride
"And if they find out you're lying?"
"They won't." He moves closer. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Warm and expensive. "But if they do... if someone tries to come for you, tries to harm you..." His voice drops to something dark and promising. "They'll learn very quickly that I'm my father's son."
A chill runs down my spine as recognition worms beneath my skin.
He's not just protecting me because he wants me. He's protecting me because I'm his now. His responsibility. His choice.
And men like Matvey don't let anyone take what's theirs.
"I need air," I say suddenly. "Real air. Not recycled penthouse air. I need to go outside."
"That's not safe."
"I don't care. I've been locked in here for three days. I'm going insane. Let me onto a balcony or a roof. Anything. Please…"
He considers this. Then, impossibly, he nods.
"Tonight. After the meeting. I'll take you to the roof."
I almost laugh. "Okay. The roof. That works."
He steps back, giving me space. "But Katherine? You run, and I'll find you. You run, and I'll drag you back. Not because you're my prisoner—"
"Then why?"
His eyes meet mine. Dark. Intense. Burning.
"Because I'm not finished proving you wrong about me yet."
He leaves for the meeting at sunset. I watch him go from the window, him and Emil and three other men in black suits, all sharp edges and controlled violence.
I'm alone for the first time since he brought me here.
I should search his things. Look for weapons, money, anything I could use. Plan my escape. Instead, I go back to his study. Stand in front of that wall of photographs and pins and territory maps.
This is his world. Blood and loyalty and codes I don't understand. Rules written in violence and enforced withbrutality. But somewhere in that darkness, there's a line. A code that says children are off-limits. That some sins are unforgivable.
Boris crossed that line. So did Abram. So did every man who looked the other way while girls disappeared into rooms and never came out the same.
I crossed a line, too. But Matvey doesn't see it as a sin.
He sees it as justice.
My phone buzzes. The one he gave me with his number programmed in. One text:
Don't burn down my apartment while I'm gone. I'll know.
Despite everything, I smile.
Matvey
The meeting runs long.
Three hours of posturing and politics, of old men in expensive suits asking questions they already know the answers to. Zeke Yestin wants to know why I didn't inform him about the fire immediately. Sergei Litzchenk suggests Boris's territory should be redistributed. My father sits at the head of the table and says nothing, which is somehow worse than if he'd spoken.
He watches me with those cold, calculating eyes that I inherited, and I know he's measuring. Weighing. Deciding if I'm still worthy of the crown he's been grooming me to wear.
I give them the story we prepared. Electrical fire. Tragic loss. Boris's books were a mess with evidence of skimming, of side deals that violated protocol. His death was unfortunate but not entirely unwelcome.
