Page 24 of Brutal Bratva’s Owned Hostage

“No.”

“But you thought about it.”

“For about four seconds, yes. And then I remembered she can barely operate the thermostat in the penthouse without asking Nadia for help, let alone navigate encrypted financial systems well enough to extract exactly what she needs without tripping a single alarm.”

Roman considered that, nodding slowly. “Fair. Though you should know that’s not actually evidence; that’s just you falling for her enough to want it to be true.”

“Who said anything about falling?” I queried.

“Okay, boss,” he conceded. “We’re going to test a new security installation in the third lounge. Matvey and Harry are on standby here, with their soldiers.”

I nodded in acknowledgement, and he left.

I hadn’t found the thread by the time the security alert came in.

One of our affiliated clubs further down the Strip flagged unusual federal activity building around it. Pressure that suggested a raid within hours rather than days, likely connected to the same investigation that had never fully died down since the poker lounge. The location handled a chunk of our financial disruption work, quiet transactions that didn’t need public attention, and a raid there risked both money and exposure in ways that demanded immediate attention.

I started moving before I was done reading the full alert, already pulling on my jacket, already running through who I’d need with me and what needed to happen in the next hour to minimize the damage.

Val was sitting near the windows when I came through the living room, curled into the corner of the couch watching the city.

She looked calmer than she had in days, some of the perpetual tension finally starting to ease out of her shoulders, though I could still see the underlying wariness of someone learning to live inside a life she’d never asked for. I could see her still listening for every unfamiliar sound, though she thought no one saw her do it.

For half a second, I considered simply telling her to stay put without explanation and heading straight for the door, my old instinct to manage rather than explain rising out of habit before I could catch it.

Then I stopped myself.

Val didn’t respond well to being managed, to decisions made about her without explanation, however well-intentioned. I’d learned that the hard way more than once already. She responded to truth—even if it was uncomfortable—better than she responded to control.

“I need to handle something at one of the clubs,” I told her, crossing toward the door.

She looked up immediately, alert in the way she’d developed since the raid.

“What kind of something?” she inquired.

“Federal activity building around one of our locations. Possibly a raid within the hour.”

“Another one.”

“Not like the lounge. Smaller. Different circumstances.” I kept my answer honest without handing her more detail than she needed.

“Are you going to be okay?”

The question landed differently than it would have two weeks ago. Before the wedding, a shared bed, and the vulnerability of watching someone worry about whether I came home.

I could have given her an easy response. But it wouldn’t be the truth.

“I don’t know,” I said instead.

Something flickered across her face, surprise mixed with respect. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“I guess it isn’t.”

She was quiet a moment, studying me.

“A month ago you would have made a joke out of this. Told me not to worry my pretty head about it, something charming and useless like that.”

“Maybe that’s because I didn’t have a reason to want you to actually believe me a month ago.”