Page 50 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

Anton knows about the apartment. He’s watching it. We need to move faster.

His response comes a few seconds later. Already on it.

I pocket my phone and open the car door for Vera. She slides inside without a word, her eyes distant.

Anton is making his move. Somewhere out there, Dmitri’s ledger is waiting to be found.

The question is whether we’ll find it before Anton does.

15

VERA

We get back to the penthouse late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. The sky is just starting to lighten when Roman pulls the car into the garage, and by the time we make it upstairs, the sun is creeping over the horizon.

Roman walks me to my door like he always does. His hand hovers at the small of my back, not quite touching, and I can feel the warmth of him even through the fabric of my sweater.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll talk later.”

I nod and slip inside. The door clicks shut behind me and I lean against it, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The apartment feels different in the early morning light. Softer, somehow.

I change out of my clothes and crawl into bed. The sheets are cool against my skin and I sink into them, letting my body relax for the first time in hours.

Sleep comes faster than I expect.

When I wake, the sun is high in the sky and the penthouse is quiet.

I lie in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The days have started to blur together, one bleeding into the next until I can’t tell where one ends and another begins.

My body feels heavy when I roll over. There’s a sourness in my stomach that I can’t quite shake, a nausea that ebbs and flows without warning.

Stress, I tell myself. It’s just stress.

I drag myself out of bed and head for the bathroom. The mirror above the sink shows a woman I barely recognize. She’s pale and tired.

I brush my teeth and splash water on my face. The nausea ebbs slightly, but it doesn’t go away entirely. It’s been like this for days now, this low-level queasiness that sits in my stomach like a stone.

It makes sense. The past few weeks have been exhausting, so of course my body is reacting. Of course I feel off.

Except this feels different than just stress.

I move through my morning routine on autopilot. I shower and apply moisturizer, trying to make myself look presentable. It doesn’t work. Even brushing my hair still makes me look tired.

Oksana must have been here while I was in the bathroom, because there’s a tray of food waiting for me on the kitchen counter when I emerge. There’s fresh fruit and toast, as well as a pot of tea that’s still warm. I pick at it without much appetite, forcing down a few bites of toast before giving up.

The clock on the wall says it’s almost eleven. I’ve slept the entire morning away.

My mind keeps drifting back to the apartment. I think of those photographs in the drawer, all those sweet, smiling women. Did Dmitri use them too?

I shove away the remaining food and stride into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I won’t think about that now.

I’m almost at the bathroom door when nausea hits.

Pushing past the door, I barely make it to the toilet before spewing up the breakfast I’ve just consumed. The taste is acrid, and my stomach protests all over again at the smell.

Disgusting.