Page 3 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Why does Nikita have it?

“Freya?” Marcus’s voice cuts through the haze, sounding concerned. “You look pale.”

Nikita’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him. It’s not a supportive gesture. It’s possessive. It’s a cage. His grip is firm, his fingers digging into my hip bone hard enough to bruise.

“She’s just overwhelmed,” Nikita says smoothly, not taking his eyes off me. The steel gray is burning, searching my face for any crack. “It’s a lot to take in. The ring, the news… we haven’t even told our families yet.”

He lifts the silver band with the black stone, holding it up for the room to see.

“I was going to save this for the private reception,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, designed just for me, even though everyone is listening. “Since my future wife is so eager to share our life with the world…”

He brings out a small velvet box, and reveals another ring. This one is pale gold encrusted with tiny diamonds.

Nikita brings the ring to my finger. I can’t breathe, my eyes watching his hands as they move.

If Ayaan is dead, that ring is a trophy. If he’s alive, this is a hostage situation.

Either way, I’m trapped.

He slides the ring onto my finger. It’s cold and wrong. It belongs on Ayaan’s hand. It doesn’t belong here, on me, in this hellhole of a gala surrounded by monsters in suits.

The applause is thunderous. I don’t hear it. I only hear the rushing of blood in my ears.

Nikita leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. The heat of him sears my skin, contrasting violently with the ice in my veins.

“You started this war, darling,” he whispers, using a term of endearment that sounds like a curse. “Now you have to finish it.”

He tightens his hold on my waist, anchoring me to him.

I stare at the ring on my finger, then at Ayaan’s ring on Nikita’s finger. The black stone staring back at me like a dead eye. The questions are screaming now, louder than the cameras, louder than the applause.

I look up at Nikita, meeting his gaze with everything I have left. He smiles that cold, calculated smile, and raises his glass to the room.

Chapter Two - Nikita

The city below is a grid of indifference, millions of people moving through their lives oblivious to the wars fought in the glass towers above.

I stand at the floor-to-ceiling window of my office, a tumbler of vodka in one hand, watching the traffic crawl along the West Side Highway.

It’s quiet up here. Quiet is rare in my line of work.

“Sir,” Yuri says from the doorway. He doesn’t knock.

I don’t turn. Instead, I just watch the reflection of the oversized man in the glass. Yuri has been with the Gromov family since before I could hold a gun. He’s loyal, brutal, and lacks the creativity to be truly dangerous on his own. He’s a blade, not the hand that wields it.

“Talk,” I say.

“The article is spreading,” Yuri reports. His voice is flat, like he’s reading a grocery list instead of a potential security breach. “It’s been picked up by three major financial blogs and two watchdog nonprofits. They’re calling it an investigation into ‘organized money laundering in Manhattan real estate.’”

I take a sip of the vodka. It burns, clean and sharp. “Legal?”

“Our lawyers say there’s nothing actionable. It’s all circumstantial. Shell companies and tax havens, property transfers that look irregular on paper but have valid explanations if you dig deep enough. They’re sniffing around the edges, but they haven’t found the body yet.”

“But they’re sniffing,” I say, turning finally to face him. “Attention is noise. I don’t like noise.”

“No, sir. But… the source is the problem.”

I walk over to the mahogany desk and set the glass down. “Give me a name.”