Page 19 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

The sun warms the rooftop, turning the concrete gold beneath my thighs.

I swing my legs over the edge, bare feet scuffed and dusty, and squint out over the stretch of S?o Paulo.

The buildings glow like glass, and the sounds of traffic and distant radios drift up like lullabies.

I don’t know why I’m up here. I only know it’s quiet, and I like it better than inside.

Then I hear the creak of the ladder.

I glance back, and there he is—tall, familiar in a way I don’t yet understand, moving carefully so his shoes don’t scuff the roof.

Matías. He holds something behind his back, and when he gets close, he kneels in front of me like he’s trying not to scare me.

His face looks unsure in the eyes but steady in the mouth.

He pulls the paleta from behind him—a mango one, yellow-orange and dripping a little—and offers it out like a peace treaty.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and warm. “For not being here before.”

I stare at the paleta for a beat before I take it, fingers brushing his. He smiles when I lick the edge, like it means something. Then he reaches forward and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“ Estrelinha ,” he murmurs. “My little star.”

I don’t understand the weight in his voice, not fully, but I feel it. It settles in my chest like an anchor.

“I promise,” he says, like it’s carved into stone. “From now on, I’ll never miss another birthday.”

I nod slowly, because what else can I do? I believe him. With all my stupid, small-child heart, I believe him.

He turns then, gestures behind him—and another figure climbs up. Tiago. Much older, with dark eyes that see too much. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, gaze steady.

“This is your brother,” Matías says, resting a hand on my shoulder.

My chest swells with something I can’t name.

I’m not sure if it’s happiness or relief or awe, but I know it’s new.

It doesn’t feel like I belong to my mother anymore.

It feels like I belong to him. This man who smells like smoke and salt and something sharp underneath. He looks down at me like I matter.

“I’ll build you a treehouse,” he adds. “The biggest one in the neighborhood.”

I believe that too. Every word. Every promise. That rooftop becomes a sacred place, and for the first time in my life, I feel claimed. Chosen. Real.

The ache starts small, a twist in my ribs, then sharpens like a knife. My breath catches—and I wake up.

The ceiling above me is unfamiliar. The sheets too soft. My chest still burns with that old feeling, but there’s nothing left of him here. Not even the scent.

My breath catches the second I wake. Chest tight, ribs aching with the echo of a dream that felt too real.

Too warm. The taste of mango still clings to my tongue, and for a moment I forget where I am.

The silence tells me—this isn’t S?o Paulo.

This isn’t a rooftop bathed in sun. It’s a fortress dressed as a home, and I’m not a child anymore.

I turn my head. The clock reads 2:30.

Perfect.

I sit up, careful not to shift the sheets too loud, and reach for the clothes I laid out earlier—neutral colors, nothing that’ll catch on the security feeds. Soft cotton, bare feet, hair tied back. No perfume. No rings. Just my hands and a purpose.

The halls are quiet, same as yesterday. The staff always vanish around this time—lunch breaks staggered, guards rotated, no one around to ask questions.

I slip through the corridor like I’ve always belonged here.

Like I know which floorboards creak and which corners to avoid.

My pulse is steady, my steps measured. The cameras in the east wing are still running their nightly diagnostics. I made sure of that.

Maxim’s study door isn’t locked.

I push it open and step inside. That scent hits me all over again—leather, musk, the bitter trace of whatever cologne clings to his suits. It’s him. It lives in the grain of the desk, the velvet of the chair, the air between the walls. I breathe it in, stupidly, before I move.

The laptop is where I left it. Closed. Untouched.

I slide into his chair, fingers trembling slightly as I flip the lid open. The login screen glows blue, almost gentle. Familiar now. His password still holds. Arrogant bastard.

I open my breach software, clicking through the scripts I spent years perfecting. The firewalls groan. Then crack. The hidden folders unspool across the screen like a trick of the light.

There it is: Obelisk-12.

My throat tightens as I click.

Inside, the truth spills out in cruel, elegant lines. Twelve names—names I know. Names everyone knows. CEOs. Politicians. Tech giants. Courtroom architects of whole nations. These are the people who move wars with signatures and sell peace like product. None of them should be in a Bratva archive.

But they are.

Each has a folder. I open the first. Inside: grainy photos of an affair, timestamped. Another: offshore accounts linked to embezzled relief funds. Another: audio clips of a late-night phone call discussing backdoor arms deals. They keep going. Every file worse than the last. This isn’t business.

It’s power. Control.

This isn’t networking. It’s leverage. Blackmail, curated with precision. Obedience bought with ruin.

I lean back slowly, the air knocked from my lungs.

No wonder they all kneel when Maxim speaks. He doesn’t need armies. He has this.

I copy the entire Obelisk-12 folder without hesitation. My fingers fly across the keys, dragging the files into the hidden drive patched into the laptop’s side port. The transfer bar appears—steady, slow, mercilessly visible.

Thirty percent. Sixty. Eighty-five.

I don’t breathe. Every second stretches like wire pulled tight. My mind shouts through the silence, a thousand thoughts at once. I can’t afford a mistake. Can’t afford a delay.

Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.

One hundred. The bar vanishes.

My lungs fill in a rush, as though I’ve surfaced from deep water. I yank the drive free and tuck it where no search will find it—beneath the strap of my bra, flush against my skin. The plastic casing bites into my ribs, but I welcome the sting. It’s real. It’s proof.

Maxim doesn’t build alliances. He builds chokeholds. This isn’t a marriage—it’s a leash. A gilded collar sealed with power and held in silence. He doesn’t need to threaten anyone. He only needs to remind them. I wonder how many names I know. How many smiles in my life were built on this.

My heart slams harder. My hands begin to sweat.

Then I hear it. Heels. Not stomping, not impatient. Measured. Sharp. Rhythmic.

Not a guard.

My entire body goes cold.

That sound doesn’t belong to any of the women who clean this wing. Not during break. Not on this floor. It’s too late, too precise. That is not the walk of someone passing through. That is someone entering.

Panic kicks every thought into place.

I slam the laptop shut. The sound echoes too loud. Too final.

I dive to the floor, every movement stripped of grace. My knees hit first, jarring through bone. I slide beneath the desk just as the door creaks open.

My breath seizes in my throat.

A silhouette enters the room—long, elegant, draped in silk and menace. The heels strike softly now against the carpet, but I hear each one like a hammer to my ribs. Through the gap between the desk’s panel and the floor, I glimpse the hem of a skirt and the curve of perfectly polished shoes.

Darya.

She hums under her breath: low, casual, something in Russian I don’t understand.

My stomach knots. Her steps carry her deeper into the study.

I press myself flatter against the wall, hands curled tight.

Dust stings my throat, but I don’t dare cough.

She speaks again, softer now, muttering to herself. I catch my name once. Maxim’s too.

Then silence.

She’s stopped walking, right beside the desk.

I stare at the floor beneath her feet and pray she doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t bend. Doesn’t so much as glance down.

The seconds stretch like torture. I don’t blink. I don’t move.

I think, for the first time since this game began, that I might actually die.

I press myself flat beneath the desk, arms tight at my sides, face turned toward the wall. The wood is cold. The carpet rough against my skin. My ribs ache from how hard I’m trying not to breathe. Every inhale feels like a sin. Every exhale, a risk.

She moves through the room like a ghost, all grace and silence and something sharp beneath it. I can’t see much—just the hem of a long, tailored skirt brushing against her calves. Each step is too elegant to be accidental. She isn’t wandering. She’s searching.

Then, her voice.

Low. Even. Thick with the cold lilt of Russian. The kind of voice that sounds like it’s never been rushed a day in its life.

“Foolish girl,” she murmurs. “He sees the hips, not the eyes. She’s not what she seems.”

My chest tightens. She doesn’t say my name, but I know. She means me.

Another step. Then another. They slow. Stop. Directly in front of the desk again.

My fingers curl into the carpet, nails digging hard enough to sting. I don’t move. Don’t blink. I can’t. My back is damp with sweat despite the chill in the air. My whole body feels like it’s humming with panic.

She speaks again, softer this time, but still audible. “Maxim always was a romantic under the violence. It’ll ruin him. Again.”

I swallow hard, the sound of it deafening in my ears.

She doesn’t move.

I count to five. Ten. Twenty. Still, nothing.

I can see the toes of her heels now, perfectly pointed, still and deliberate. My mind spirals. I picture her crouching. Kneeling. Bending down to retrieve something and meeting my eyes through the dark.

Don’t crouch. Don’t look. Don’t kneel.

The mantra screams in my head, over and over, louder than her silence.

Please. Please don’t.

Then—movement.

Her shoes shift slightly. A step back. Another. A soft hum rises from her throat, melodic and faint, like a lullaby sung to no one. She turns, slow as dusk, and walks away.

The study door clicks shut behind her.

My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My pulse beats in my throat, wild and furious. I stay curled on the floor for a full minute, maybe longer, before I finally exhale.

She didn’t see me. I think.

My hands still tremble when I press them to the floor and push myself upright, and I know—Darya isn’t just suspicious. She’s watching.

Even after I’m long in bed, I don’t sleep easily, even with the data tucked in the pocket of my silk pajamas.