Page 32 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

My lungs filled with scalding air, ready to blow.

"Our business isn't your goddamn place to comment on!"

Conversation around us dropped a notch—everyone close enough knew I hadn't been joking.

"Kiryan." Elena tugged lightly at my sleeve.

It only pissed me off more. Half an hour ago she'd looked at me in the car with that pure, trusting stare. Now she'd been warning me not to make a scene—for another man.

Yegor didn't back up. Didn't show a flicker of irritation. He just inclined his head to Elena. "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to put you in the middle."

"You didn't," Elena said almost immediately.

It hit like a needle straight into my chest. My throat tightened, and for a second I couldn't even speak.

She didn't give me the chance, anyway. She turned back to Yegor and politely asked about the paintings his mother collected. Yegor picked it up smoothly, rattled off a few artists by name, then talked about one piece that shifted into completely different colors when the light changed.

Elena listened like it mattered, her profile under the chandeliers so relaxed it burned to look at.

Jealousy wrapped around my guts like barbed wire and kept tightening.

I shouldn't have been jealous.

I'd loved Isabella. Elena had just played her way into my wife's seat. She'd had Olga and the staff speaking for her. Tonight, even my most hard-to-impress partner had been drawn to her. Maybe she'd been counting on that from the start—collecting goodwill like it was currency.

But if all I felt was disgust, why had I wanted to snap another man's hand the moment he got close to her? Why, when bullets came, had I not thought about whether I'd die—only that she couldn't take even a scratch in my arms?

I couldn't find the answer.

"Yegor." I looked at the man having a great time chatting up someone else's wife.

Both of them turned to me.

"Tomorrow. Nine a.m. Bring that port contract to my office."

Yegor's brow ticked up. "Didn't we already lock the terms?"

"We renegotiate."

His gaze paused between me and Elena, and something clicked.

"I'll be there." He dipped his head.

"Next time you decide to stick your nose in, you'll learn what it costs," I said. "My wife doesn't need you playing hero for her."

I didn't give Yegor another look. I grabbed Elena and hauled her out of the ballroom.

Feodor had already had the car waiting at the curb. When he saw us, he—miracle of miracles—didn't crack a joke.

Elena slid into the back seat and pressed herself against the far door, clearly done with me and any conversation I might want.

That dark green dress still clung to her, carving out every curve. The earrings flashed at her lobes—bright, expensive. Everything on her screamed Morozov.

And she still wouldn't even spare me a glance.

"You really like men like Yegor?" I broke the silence first.

Elena turned, frowning. "We were just talking."