Page 90 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

Slowly, deliberately, he extends his arms fully, holding the plate out like an offering to an unpredictable deity.

“Take it,” he says in a voice that sounds like a deadpan rumble. “Take the whole thing.”

Before I can reply, he places the plate firmly in my hands, turns on his heel, and walks away down the corridor with stiff, brisk strides, entirely defeated by a pastry exchange.

Laughing softly to myself, I continue my walk through the house, holding my prize. But my lighthearted mood shifts the farther I get into the heart of the house.

I stop outside the briefing room, noticing the mahogany door has been left slightly ajar. I don’t peek inside, but I listen.

The atmosphere is charged with bustle and noise.

Secured phones ring with coded efficiency and get cut off instantly by low voices. I hear the crisp rustle of old maps being unrolled, the frantic clacking of keys, and the murmurs of men analyzing data.

It could be a more recent operation, I’m not certain, but decisions are being executed before the questions can even fully form in the minds of the men carrying them out.

My lightheartedness fades completely and is replaced by an awe that I’ve never really gotten used to: the reality that this is the true intensity of Igor’s world.

I’ve seen it countless times, but it’s always staggering to see the scale of my husband’s control.

Instead of the chaotic, reckless violence I once believed it to be, it’s strategy layered within strategy, like an intense chess game where Igor is always three moves ahead of the rest of the world.

Over the last few months, I’ve learned that his power isn’t loud or boastful. It’s structured, calculated, and almost elegant.

Holding the plate carefully, I walk the rest of the way back to our bedroom.

I manage to turn the handle with my face bent down to take another bite of blueberry pie. I slide inside, pushing the heavy door closed with my foot until it clicks shut, but the moment I look up, I freeze.

Igor is sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, his dark gaze locked right on me.

He isn’t wearing his usual tailored suit jacket, just a simple black T-shirt that stretches over his massive shoulders. And he’s smiling. It’s a rare, relaxed look that reaches his eyes, flickering from my face down to the porcelain plate in my hands.

“What is that?” he asks, his deep voice carrying a trace of amusement.

I swallow the bite quickly. “Sergei gave me blueberry pie.”

Igor’s brow furrows, and then he tilts his head slightly in genuine disbelief. “Sergei? Blueberry pie? Gave you? All in the same sentence. Strange things are happening in our house.”

I chuckle, stepping fully into the room and setting the plate down on the nearby dresser. “Quality control, he said. He was double-checking Anastasia’s baking. Although, if you ask me, I’d say there’s something going on behind closed doors with those two. Something he didn’t want me latching onto, so I think I terrified him into surrendering the pie.” I set the plate down on the nightstand.

“That’s definitely what happened,” Igor murmurs, with his lips curving upward. “You scared one of my fiercest men into giving you his blueberry pie. He has no defense against you.”

He stands up and walks over, slipping his large, warm hand into mine.

Without a word, he pulls me gently toward the open French doors, leading me out onto our private balcony.

Humid Miami air wraps around us like a warm blanket, a sharp contrast to the chilled, air-conditioned bedroom.

From up here, the view is breathtaking. The city stretches out below us in a bedazzling expanse of bright blues, vibrant purples, and yellow lights reflecting off the dark, glassy surface of the ocean.

The horizon is endless, beautiful, and completely calm.

Igor steps up behind me, and his massive chest presses against my back as his arms wrap securely around my waist.

With ease, I lean back against him, letting his solid weight support me as I rest my hands on his forearms.

“We’re like Jack and Rose in this position,” I murmur with a small smile. “All I have to do is spread my arms.”

“Jack and Rose...” he repeats slowly, like he’s trying to remember. He chuckles when it finally clicks. “Oh, I see.”