Page 18 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva (Yezhov Bratva #8)

The night’s coolness bit at my skin. The scent of cigar smoke and jasmine lingered faintly beneath the darker weight of oak trees and distant sea salt carried by the breeze.

Beyond the hedges, the sound of the party became indistinct—laughter muffled, the odd clinking of crystal glasses, strings playing something sophisticated that no one was truly listening to.

I settled back into one of the wrought iron chairs in Damian’s garden, a glass of whiskey cupped in my hand. The ice had melted for the most part, but the liquor was still cold, sharp enough to keep my head clear.

Damian dropped into the chair across from me, legs outstretched, one ankle sloping lazily over the other. His own glass swirled in his hand, untouched for the time being.

We didn’t talk for a moment.

No need to.

Silence between men like us wasn’t awkward. It was understood. Mutual. Sometimes, the only pure honesty you could share.

He was the one who finally broke it, a low laugh raking his throat. “Small world, isn’t it?” His tone was casual, but there was a knowing tilt to it. “Your girl and Elena. Funny how life ties things up.”

I didn’t speak at first. Just exhaled through my nose and took a sip, the burn flowing down my throat.

The corner of my mouth lifted a little. “Not life. Control. Someone’s always tying the knots.”

He nodded once, his lips curving. “Still, it suits you. You’ve changed.”

I didn’t ask how. He wouldn’t say. Instead, he leaned again, his voice dropping lower. “Have you found out what exactly happened to Yulia? You’re married to Zoella. She might be curious about why and how her sister died.”

The mention of her name still cut as deep as it did the night she died. It sliced through the silence, carving into something primal beneath my ribs.

My hand tightened on the glass, just barely. Not enough to be seen. Not enough to shatter the glass.

But Damian noticed. Of course he did. His eyes darted to my hand for a while before he returned them to my face.

I flattened my voice. “No. Nothing yet.”

He nodded slowly. “Didn’t think you’d stop looking.”

“I haven’t stopped looking.” I ran my free hand over my hair. “Yulia was family too.”

And I wouldn’t even if the rest of them had. I’d been occupied with my new life as a husband, but that didn’t mean I would give up on finding out the truth behind Yulia’s death.

Rurik had given up.

He hadn’t said the words, but I’d seen it in his walk. Quiet. Reserved. Guilt had seeped through his pores like rot.

He blamed himself for ignoring her. For shutting her off. For loving her on paper and never in real life.

He thought she died of heartbreak.

He thought it so intensely that he never once questioned how her death was wrapped up and sealed so effectively.

But I had.

Because grief was noisy. But guilt—real guilt—was silent. Paralyzing. And I knew my brother all too well.

The quiet things he did were always the worst.

The real autopsy report hadn’t been released to the family. I’d had to buy it quietly through proxies.

It didn’t say heart failure.

It didn’t say stress or suicide or anything else the family doctor had murmured to cushion the truth.

“She didn’t die of stress or natural causes. Her heart failure was induced.”

A dose measured with accuracy. Introduced into her bloodstream hours before she was found. A killer-med-shot. Untraceable to someone who had no clue where to search.

It was murder, and it was premeditated.

But by who and why was a mystery I had yet to solve.

I took another sip, let the whiskey burn through the chill still underlying my skin.

Damian leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You think it was someone on the inside?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I stared into the dark horizon, into the Yezhov crest hanging above the main hall. “Yes.”

That was all the answer I could offer for now until I found out who had the freaking guts to kill a Yezhov bride right under our noses and under our roof.

An outsider wouldn’t dare, not even our biggest rivals. It had to be someone on the inside, someone who could’ve easily gotten to her.

I had no idea who it was yet, but I would find out soon enough. And when I did…nothing would save them from me. Not even death.

Damian leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes angled beneath his dark eyebrows. “You sure it wasn’t Rurik?”

The question wasn’t meant to accuse or offend me. It was calculated. Clinical. Meant to eliminate possible options.

I locked eyes with Damien. “My brother is an asshole, but he would never go as far as killing his own wife. That I’m sure of.”

It came out harder than I’d intended, too fast, too certain. But I didn’t take it back.

Because despite everything else I knew about my brother—his detachment, his pride, the coldness he wrapped around himself like armor—that kind of darkness didn’t exist in him.

He would’ve broken Yulia quietly, maybe. Locked her out. Shut down every open vulnerable corner of himself that allowed him to feel too much.

But he wouldn’t have killed her.

Not poison.

Not like that.

My jaw tightened, and I leaned back in the chair, letting the cold leach into my back. “I don’t care who did it,” I said finally, my voice lower now. More slashing. “It’s the why that matters.”

Damian’s eyebrow lifted slightly, intrigued. “If you find out the motive, you’re halfway to finding the killer.”

My eyes narrowed as my mind pulled on strings of memories, conversations, blanks I hadn’t known were there before. “What did she know?” I breathed. “Who was afraid of her?”

I exhaled slowly, and my gaze drifted to the estate, the light spilling out of the windows, the music drifting from somewhere beyond the garden doors.

“It wasn’t someone outside the Bratva,” I added. “It was one of us. But why?”

Damian nodded once. “I agree with you. The estate was heavily guarded; it would’ve been hard for anyone else to penetrate. And for her to be killed like that, it had to be someone she trusted.”

We didn’t speak for a while after that.

Just sat in the dark, both of us lost in thought as the realization began to sink in slowly.

His fingers tapped once on the rim of his glass, then went quiet. “You think it was about the alliances?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to. Heard something. Somebody might’ve thought she was leverage…or a liability.”

“She was smart,” Damian said. “Quiet, but smart. That kind of woman sees everything.”

Exactly.

Yulia was nice, sure. Diplomatic. But she wasn’t naive. And the way she’d been acting those last few weeks—softer on Rurik, but more biting in private—had been a warning sign I hadn’t known how to read until now.

She knew something.

And whoever killed her…knew she was getting close to exposing them.

I ground my knuckles into my mouth, staring out into the darkness.

“I didn’t keep her safe,” I said out loud. “She was family. I should have protected her when Rurik was busy sticking his dick in whatever whore opened up for him.”

And the thought that Zoelle could possibly hate me for what happened to her sister wasn’t something I wanted to sit with. I knew she did, but I couldn’t accept it.

Damian turned to me then. His eyes were leveled against mine. Unapologetic. “Don’t do that to yourself. You can’t protect everyone.”

I didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Because the truth was bitter, and it tasted of failure.

I’d thought I had all the power in the world. Thought my arm was long enough to keep everyone I loved safe.

But she died anyway. Alone in her room, in her sleep, under my brother’s roof and wings.

And whoever did it still walked out of these walls unscathed. They most likely still walked these walls.

My fingers tightened on the glass until the rim cracked softly under the pressure.

They could roam these halls all they wanted for now, arrogantly thinking they’d gotten away with killing her, but it was only a matter of time before I solved the mystery.

I wasn’t going to spare whoever was behind her death.

I didn’t give a shit who it was. I would make sure they died in the same way—maybe even worse.