Page 4 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

You may decide what is to be done with his body.

I stop breathing.

My throat tightens, like something is caught there. I read it again, hoping the words might change—hoping this is some kind of mistake. But the ink doesn’t move. It just sits there, calm and cold.

They’re going to kill Logan.

No trial. No warning. No time.

They’re not asking me to save him. They’re telling me he’s already lost—and that I need to pick up the pieces. The Bratva doesn’t deal in maybes. I know enough to understand that.

“Jennie?”

I jump. Violet’s voice cuts through the buzzing in my ears, and I turn fast—too fast. The paper crinkles behind me as I slam my hand back against the door, hiding it like it’s contraband.

Violet stops a few steps away, her eyebrows drawn together. “Why are you standing here like a statue? What was that? Who were those guys?”

My heart thunders. I swallow hard and force a smile. “It was nothing. Just—delivery. Wrong address.”

“You’re lying.” She tilts her head, stepping closer. “And you’re pale. And weirdly sweaty. And acting like you just flushed a dead body down the toilet.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

Violet crosses her arms. “Jennie.”

“I said I’m fine.” I try to smile again, but it feels broken at the edges. “I don’t know. I think I’m just not feeling well all of a sudden. Maybe something I ate. Or the banana bread was too sweet or something. I should turn the TV off and rest.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she hesitates. “You want me to leave?”

“Yeah.” My smile drops. “I just need to rest, that’s all. I’ll take a nap or something. I’ll be okay.”

Violet frowns, still watching me like I might crack open. “You sure?”

I nod. “Yeah. Promise.”

“Okay. But call me if you need anything. Literally anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

She lingers for a beat longer, then finally turns and walks toward the door. I wait until I hear the apartment door close and lock behind her before I breathe again.

My knees buckle. I slide down to the floor, clutching the letter like it’s a lifeline and a loaded gun all at once.

I grab my phone and scroll to Zoe’s name, thumb hovering over the call button.

She’ll know what to do. She has to. She’s married to Lukin. She knows these people.

But then I remember—she texted me two nights ago. She went to France. Family trip. Just her, Lukin, and their son.

“Gone off-grid for a bit. Don’t text unless it’s life or death,” she said jokingly.

I almost laugh. This is both.

But I don’t press call. There’s no point. It was a joke, yes, but she really does need the vacation. She’s been working so hard, with raising a child and building her fashion business. She needs this break.

And suddenly, I feel very, very alone.

I look at the letter again. My hands are shaking now. The words don’t make any more sense than they did before. But they’re starting to feel real.