Page 78 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Yours,” she whispers back.

I know, in that moment, that I’ve won.

Chapter Twenty-One - Freya

The memory of the man Nikita killed is a stain I can’t wash out. It’s not the blood that haunts me, not the final, wet thud as his body hit the alley floor. It’s the look on Nikita’s face. The cold, detached calm as he gave the order. The way he watched, his expression unreadable, as he slashed his throat.

I should hate him for it. I should be sickened, repulsed, plotting my escape with renewed fervor.

I’m not. That’s the part that scares me the most.

I stand in front of the mirror in the walk-in closet, running a brush through my hair. The strokes are mechanical, rhythmic. A normal activity for a normal person. Except I’m not normal. Normal people don’t watch their husband—the man they’re sleeping with—execute a man and feel a twisted sense of safety.

That’s what it was. Safety. He wasn’t just killing a traitor. He was cleaning house. He was protecting his world and by extension, me.

The brush catches in a tangle. I yank it free, my knuckles white.

I’m becoming one of them. The thought is a cold knot in my stomach.

***

The fashion event is more like a circus. Now, it feels like a costume I’m wearing, a fragile mask over the brutal reality of my life.

I’m flitting between clusters of influencers and designers, a clipboard in my hand, a smile plastered on my face. I’m making sure the models are on schedule, the lighting is perfect, the sponsors are happy. I’m good at this. I’m in control.

And then I see a man standing by the bar, a stark figure in a tailored suit that’s too severe for the whimsical chaos of the event. He’s not looking at the art or the clothes. He’s looking at me.

Antonio. Lorenzo’s second-in-command. The man from the Guggenheim.

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force myself to keep moving. To smile. To nod at a passing photographer. I can’t let him see me sweat.

“Mrs. Gromov,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet as he falls into step beside me. “A stunning event. As always.”

“Mr. Colombo,” I reply, my voice cool. “I didn’t realize you were a patron of the arts.”

“I appreciate beauty in all its forms,” he says, his eyes roaming over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You, my dear, are a masterpiece.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“On the contrary,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “I find it opens many doors.”

I stop, turning to face him. “What do you want, Antonio?”

“Information.”

“About?”

“Your husband.”

I laugh, a sharp, brittle sound. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I’m asking you.”

He’s close now, too close. I can smell his cologne, something spicy and cloying. I can see the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, the only imperfection on his otherwise handsome face.

“He seems… preoccupied lately,” he continues, his voice dropping. “Distracted. I wonder why.”

“I wouldn’t know.”