Page 16 of BRATVA'S Avenging Bride
"And what are you telling them?"
"That it was an accident. Faulty wiring. A tragedy." His mouth curves. "They don't need to know about the woman who watched it burn."
I study him. The way he stands so still, so controlled, like he's carved from stone. The bandage is gone from his palm, but I can still see the thin red line where my knife cut him.
"Why are you protecting me?"
"I told you. I want you."
"That's not a reason. That's an obsession."
"Semantics." He sets down his glass. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
"Is that a request or an order?"
"Does it matter?"
I hate that he's right. I follow him anyway because sitting alone in this apartment makes my skin crawl, and at least movement feels like choice.
He leads me to a room I haven't been in yet. His study, I realize. Dark wood, leather chairs, a desk covered in papers and files. One wall is entirely bookshelves. The other is covered in photographs.
Not family photos. Maps. Territories marked with pins and string like something out of a crime show. Buildings, businesses, faces I don't recognize.
"This is what I do," Matvey says, gesturing to the wall. "I manage the family's interests. Clubs, restaurants, construction companies. Some legal, some less so. I make sure the money flows. I keep the peace between factions. I remind people why crossing us is a bad idea."
"You mean you hurt people."
"I mean, I maintain balance." He moves to the desk, pulls out a folder. "Boris wasn't just running a brothel, Katherine. He was trafficking girls from overseas. Minors. Some as young as thirteen."
My stomach turns to ice.
He opens the folder. Photos spill out. Girls with hollow eyes and bruised faces. Documentation. Flight records. Bank transfers.
"I didn't know the extent of it," he continues, his voice flat. Cold. "Not until after the fire. Not until my men pulled his records from what was left of his office." He looks at me. "You didn't just kill rapists. You killed slavers. Predators. Men who deserved worse than what they got."
I stare at the photos. At the faces. Some of them could be Lena. Could be any of us. I swallow the bile that rises up my throat and bite my teeth together. But nothing can stop the way my body begins to tremble.
I wrap my arms around myself. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because you think I'm a monster for protecting you. For wanting you. For not turning you over to the police." He closes the folder with deliberate care. "But I'm showing you that in my world, there are rules. Codes. Lines we don't cross."
"Like trafficking children?"
"Like trafficking anyone." His jaw tightens. "The Bratva has its sins. We're not saints. But we protect our territory. Our people. And Boris violated that. He brought shame on my family's name. He made us complicit in atrocities."
"So, you're glad I killed him."
"I'm furious you had to." The admission comes out rough. Raw. "I should've seen it. Should've stopped it. Should've put a bullet in his head myself the second I suspected."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to reconcile the man who makes me breakfast with the man who just admitted he would've executed someone without hesitation.
Maybe there's no reconciling it. Maybe that's the point.
"There's a meeting tonight," he says, changing gears. "With the families. They want answers about the fire."
"Are you going to tell them about me?"
"No." The word is absolute. Final. "You don't exist to them. You're a girl who used to dance at the club. Nothing more."
