Page 96 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

Roman’s phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket, checks the screen, then exhales slowly.

“Neutralized,” he says. “The threat is gone.”

He rolls off me, helping me sit up. My whole body is trembling, my breath coming in short gasps. Roman pulls me into his arms.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

I clutch at his shirt, burying my face in his chest. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me shaky and hollow.

“That’s twice now,” I say when I find my voice. “Twice someone has tried to kill us.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

I pull back to look at him. His face is grim, his jaw set in a hard line.

“This is my life,” he says. “This is what it means to be with me. Constant danger, constant threats. I can’t promise it’ll ever stop.”

“Good thing I’m not asking you to promise,” I say.

His eyes widen slightly.

“I made my choice.” I reach up and cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “When I said yes at that church, I knew what I was getting into. Maybe not all of it, but enough. I choose you.”

He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he kisses me again, harder this time.

The security team enters then, led by a grim-faced Lev who must have rushed over from wherever he was.

Roman stands, pulling me up with him, and they begin the process of securing the property and assessing the damage.

I watch from the sidelines as Roman transforms back into the Bratva enforcer, issuing orders and coordinating responses.

This time, I don’t find it frightening. Instead, I find it reassuring.

This is the man I married. This is the life I chose.

No matter what comes next, I’ll stand by him.

28

ROMAN

The council chamber at Konstantin’s estate hasn’t changed since I was a boy. The same heavy oak table dominates the center of the room, its surface scarred by decades of deals and betrayals.

I stand at the head of the table. Vera is beside me, her spine straight and her chin lifted. She’s wearing a dark dress that makes her look like she’s attending a funeral, which feels appropriate.

Konstantin sits at the opposite end, his expression unreadable.

The elders file in one by one. Pavel Sorokin takes his usual seat, his eyes flicking between me and the empty chair where Anton should be.

Lev positions himself by the door, his hand resting near his jacket in a gesture that’s become habit.

The door opens again, and Anton strides in like he owns the room. Two of his men flank him, their faces carefully blank. He takes his seat without looking at me, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.

“Let’s begin,” I say.

The screen at the far end of the room flickers to life. I’ve spent the last several hours preparing this presentation, gathering every piece of evidence I could find. The first image that appears is security footage from the penthouse, timestamped and clear.

“This was taken during the first attack on my penthouse,” I say. “Konstantin entered my home through a service entrance. His men incapacitated my security detail and abducted my wife.”