Page 100 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Is he dead?” Yuri asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.

I watch the fire consume the structure. I think about Lorenzo dragging himself toward the window. I think about the hate in his eyes.

“He was alive when I left him,” I say, a cold knot forming in my gut. “Barely.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He won’t be alive for long. The building is going to collapse.”

“You should have double-tapped him,” Yuri says, his voice flat.

“I’d rather leave him to suffer.”

I lean my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me exhausted and aching.

The anger remains.

***

The city is a graveyard of shadows at 3:00 a.m. The usual hum of traffic has died down to a sporadic cough of taxis and the distant wail of sirens that never seem to stop in Manhattan. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and black, reflecting the dying neon of the marquees.

I steer the SUV through the empty streets, the engine purring low. My body aches—a deep, bone-weary throb that radiates from my shoulders down to my fingertips.

The warehouse raid was a success in terms of logistics—we destroyed three million dollars’ worth of product and put a significant dent in Lorenzo’s distribution network—but a failure in execution.

The image of Lorenzo dragging his burning body out of the office, the look of pure hatred in his eyes before he dropped into the river, is seared into my retinas.

I should have double-tapped him. I should have put a bullet in his brain while he was down. Arrogance made me hesitate. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to live with the scars.

I park the car in the private garage and kill the engine. The silence of the vehicle is heavy, pressing against my ears. I sit there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, trying to scrub the scent of smoke and burnt flesh from my mind. It’s clinging to me, coating the back of my throat.

I need a shower. I need a drink. I need her.

I take the private elevator up. The ascent is smooth, silent. When the doors slide open, the penthouse is dark, save for a single lamp in the living room. It’s warm, quiet, smelling of vanilla and home.

She’s there.

Freya is pacing the length of the rug. She’s wearing one of my shirts again, the black cotton swallowing her frame, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. Her movements are agitated, tight. She stops at the window, looks out, turns, and walks back. She’s a caged bird, waiting for the predator to return.

I watch her from the doorway, unseen for a moment. The tension in her shoulders is palpable, a physical knot that I want to smooth away with my hands. She looks fragile in this light, exposed in a way she rarely allows herself to be during the day.

My heart aches. It’s a strange, unfamiliar sensation, sharp and immediate. I want to go to her, but I hesitate. I’m still covered in grime, in the residue of violence. I don’t want to taint her with it.

As if sensing my presence, she stops pacing. She turns slowly, her eyes finding mine in the gloom. She freezes, her hand flying to her chest.

“You’re back,” she breathes.

“I’m back.”

I walk toward her, leaving my shoes by the door. The floor is cool under my socks. I stop in front of her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.

“I was worried,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

“I know.”

“I didn’t know if…” She trails off, shaking her head. “I didn’t know if you’d come back.”

I reach out, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. My hand trembles, just a fraction. I’m exhausted, pushed to the brink, but touching her steadies me.