Page 21 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

Tiago arrives to pick me up right on schedule.

The visit was pre-approved by Maxim—signed off, logged, documented. Everything about it looks clean. Above board. The real weight of the meeting doesn’t live in any paperwork.

It walks through the door with my brother.

We meet in one of the side parlors, the smaller one Maxim rarely uses. The staff avoid it unless asked. It’s quiet, sun-warmed, and far enough from the heart of the house to give us space to speak.

Mateo stands near the window, arms folded, gaze scanning the room with a steady sweep. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone keeps the shadows honest.

I sit across from Tiago and slide the USB across the table. It’s small. Black. Nothing special to the eye. but Tiago’s mouth curves when he picks it up, like he’s just been handed the keys to the kingdom.

“That fast?” he murmurs, voice low and laced with approval.

“His computer’s more secure than it looks,” I say, tone clipped. “But not impossible.”

He turns the drive in his hand, slow and deliberate, like it’s a gem he’s waiting to weigh. Then he pockets it and leans back, expression sobering.

“We’ve got what we need. Names, trails, proof of leverage. Blackmail so thick it’s practically concrete. The question now is timing.”

I nod. This isn’t a war we’re waging with bullets. This is shadows. Delays. Careful reveals. Every piece of data is a fuse—we only have to choose which one to light first.

“We’ve spent weeks collecting,” Tiago says. “Now we stage reactions. Leak whispers, force hands, test loyalties. Make them shift before they even realize what they’re shifting for.”

My pulse stays steady, but my nails bite into my palm.

“The Bratva will fracture,” he says. “That much is guaranteed. The only question is where the first break should land.”

His eyes cut to mine.

He’s asking again.

I already gave him my answer, but he wants to hear it now, here, with the air heavy around us and the door shut tight.

“Who first?” he presses. “Which one do we burn?”

I look straight at him. No hesitation. “Maxim comes last.”

He studies me, lips parting slightly like he might ask why. But he doesn’t. He knows.

“I want him to feel it unravel,” I say. “I want him to watch it go soft beneath him. I want him to know it was me when it finally caves in.”

Tiago’s eyes glint with something that might be pride. Or warning.

Mateo still hasn’t spoken, but I can feel his attention—careful, steady, lingering on me just a beat longer than it should.

No one in this room believes I’m too soft for this.

Good.

They shouldn’t.

Tiago’s smirk fades.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a murmur. “You know it worked better than I thought it would.”

I don’t have to ask what he means. I already know.

“The poisoning,” he says, eyes on the floor now, almost thoughtful. “The way he reacted. How fast he snapped. It was perfect.”

His words settle like smoke in the room—thin, bitter, clinging.

“You agreed,” he adds, not accusatory. Just stating fact. “You took it willingly. Knew it had to look real. Dramatic. Messy. You played it well.”

I don’t flinch. My body stays still, spine straight. The memory of bile rising in my throat, the metallic burn on my tongue, the cold tile beneath my knees—it all flashes behind my eyes, but I don’t react.

It worked. That’s what matters.

Tiago glances up. “Maxim killing our uncle wasn’t part of the timeline, but I can’t say I’m upset. The man was a parasite.”

“Now you’re undisputed,” I say quietly. “They won’t challenge you again.”

He nods. “Not for a long time.”

Silence stretches between us. The air feels heavier. I know what’s coming next before he says it.

“Darya,” he says. “She’s a weakness. One he doesn’t even try to hide.”

I stay quiet.

“She’s not just part of his structure. She is his structure. Take her out, and it’ll do more than damage the chain of command—it’ll break him.”

Still, I don’t speak.

He watches me. Weighs me. “You don’t disagree?”

I meet his eyes. Shake my head once. That’s all he gets. I don’t need to say the words out loud. My silence is its own answer. Its own weapon.

He nods slowly, leaning back. “You’re doing well, you know.”

I blink.

He doesn’t say it like a compliment. Doesn’t offer warmth. He’s not that kind of man.

There’s something in his tone. A rare kind of acknowledgment. “You’re deeper in than anyone else could’ve managed. He trusts you. I don’t think he even knows how much.”

I nod again, because it’s true. I’ve made it true.

I take a slow breath, force it down, and when I look at Tiago again, my expression hasn’t changed.

This is the cost. This was always the cost.

I’m still willing to pay it.

After Tiago leaves, I don’t linger.

I slip out the back way, past the hushed staff and their sideways glances, until I find the door to the balcony. It opens without a sound. The dusk presses cool against my skin.

The city sprawls below me, glittering and golden, unaware—or uncaring—of what’s coming. From up here, the skyline looks soft. Like it could be held in the palm of your hand. Like it doesn’t pulse with crime and power and old blood debts waiting to collect. The lie of it is almost beautiful.

I brace my hands on the railing. It’s cold. Solid.

I need it.

My heart won’t settle. It hasn’t since Tiago said her name—Darya—like she was a chess piece instead of a woman. Since he praised me for being trusted. Since he reminded me this is working.

Because it is. But all I can see when I close my eyes is Maxim’s hand on my face. The way his thumb brushed beneath my lip. The burn in his gaze when he said he only liked when I cried in his bed. Like it wasn’t cruelty. Like it was intimacy.

Worse than that—his restraint.

The way he didn’t kiss me. Didn’t touch more. The way he stepped back when I didn’t.

It didn’t feel like strategy, and I don’t know what to do with that.

I feel him before I hear him. Mateo steps onto the balcony, his movements quiet as always. I don’t turn. Don’t startle. His presence has become familiar—more shadow than man, a constant at the edges of my new life. The one person who looks at me without wanting something.

He leans on the railing beside me, both of us facing the horizon.

He doesn’t speak for a while. He never rushes things. Then: “What’s really going on with you?”

It’s not an accusation. Not even suspicion. Just a question, plain and simple, but I can’t answer it.

Not without unraveling.

My silence stretches between us, thicker than any lie I could craft. He doesn’t push. He never does. Maybe he knows it would break something if he did. Maybe he sees more than he lets on.

I’m grateful for it, even if it makes my guilt worse. I’m not supposed to feel anything. I’m not supposed to lie awake wondering what Maxim’s thinking. I’m not supposed to replay the sound of his voice or the heat in his stare. I’m not supposed to feel safer when he’s near.

The city glows beneath me—sharp and glittering, like it’s been cut from glass and stitched into the earth.

I stare out at it, the wind cool against my skin, and repeat the plan in my head like a prayer.

Obelisk-12. Initiate contact. Plant the seed. Watch the cracks form.

The files gave us leverage. More than I imagined.

Names etched in government stone, accounts hidden behind layers of shell corporations, blackmail dressed in velvet and video.

Secrets heavy enough to sink kings. Maxim doesn’t command loyalty—he purchases silence.

Obedience bought with ruin waiting in digital folders.

We have enough to bring it all down.

The next step is delicate. Tiago was clear; we don’t strike the whole body. We fracture the edge—one of the twelve. That’s all it takes. One name to break. One mouth to waver. The others will follow in fear, confusion, desperation.

Tiago will reach out. He’ll apply the pressure, weigh his words. But it’s me who lives here. Me who listens. Watches. Tracks the shifts in behavior and tone. My role isn’t force anymore—it’s intimacy.

That’s where I do the damage now. Not with blades. With glances. With silence held too long, questions timed just right.

My job is patience. Observation. Quiet, hungry patience.

I’m good at it, better than anyone so long as I remember what’s real.

I grip the railing tighter. My knuckles ache with it. The steel cuts cold into my palms, grounding me where my mind threatens to float.

Maxim isn’t real.

His house. His warmth. The careful, almost reverent way he touched my lip last night—it isn’t real.

None of it is.

I whisper it to myself under my breath. “He is not real. His gentleness is not real.”

His mouth on mine? Not real. His eyes in the hallway, full of something I still can’t name? Not real.

Then I remember the way his thumb moved against my skin, how he said he only liked it when I cried in his bed—his bed—and my heart jumps like it hasn’t learned better.

That’s the danger. Not the plan. Not the game. Him.

If I forget what this is, even for a second, I’ll lose everything. I’ll let my guard slip. I’ll let the ache take root, and then I’m nothing.

I’m not the girl who buried poison in her own blood to trigger chaos. I’m not the sister of a man who watches empires burn for sport. I’m not the strategist who tore into Maxim’s files while wearing his name like a silk shroud.

I’m just a girl.

Mateo is the one who finally breaks the silence.

“You’re somewhere else tonight.”

His voice is quiet, more observation than accusation, and I don’t look at him right away. I keep my eyes on the skyline, watching the way the lights flicker like little lies. The city always looks better from a distance.

“I’m where I need to be,” I say.

It’s not a lie. Not exactly.

He exhales through his nose, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s not what I asked.”

I finally glance over at him. He’s not looking at me. He’s watching the horizon too, his posture relaxed, but I can see the tension in his jaw.

Mateo has always been careful. Always still. Like someone who learned long ago that movement gets you killed.

“You worry too much,” I murmur.

“That’s my job.”

We stand there a minute longer, breathing the same chilled air, letting dusk crawl over the sky like smoke. It’s almost beautiful… if you forget what it’s covering.

“She doesn’t know what to make of you,” he says suddenly. “She doesn’t trust you.”

It takes me a second to realize he means Darya.

“She doesn’t trust anyone,” I reply.

He shrugs. “You’d be surprised. She said something, earlier. About women who lie with still hands and quiet mouths.” He tilts his head toward me. “You think she meant you?”

I don’t answer. The railing bites into my palms again.

He watches me for a moment, then adds, “You know what I think? You’re scared.”

I snort, soft but sharp. “Of what? Her? You?”

He shakes his head. “No. Him.”

The words land like a slap. Not hard—but precise. Too close.

“You think I’m scared of Maxim?” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “I’m the one who walked into this with open eyes. I knew exactly who he was.”

“That’s the problem,” Mateo says, quietly. “You still do.”

I turn away from him then, because I can’t afford to be seen too clearly. Not now.

I repeat the plan in my head again, slow and steady, like counting beads on a rosary.

Obelisk-12. Initiate contact. Find the weak link. Crack the chain.

The twelve files are still burned into my memory—names, photos, crimes. Power wrapped in secrets, one keystroke away from imploding. If we can turn just one… the rest will crumble. Tiago’s already made a list. The vulnerable ones. The greedy ones. The ones who have something to lose.

He’ll handle the first reach. Me—I’ll be the eyes. The ears. The one who reports what no one else can see. I’m already embedded. Already trusted.

I am good at this.

I know how to read a room before anyone speaks. I know how to smile without showing my teeth. I know how to say yes and mean war.

So long as I remember what’s real.

“Don’t get attached,” Tiago told me once. “Not to the place. Not to the man. He is not a person, Kiera. He’s a target.”

I believed him. Still do.

That doesn’t explain why my heart jumps every time I hear Maxim’s boots in the hall. Or why his voice lingers in my chest longer than it should.

Mateo speaks again. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”

I stiffen. “Yes, I do.”

He turns fully toward me. “You’re in deeper than anyone, Kiera, and you’re not the only one in danger. If you lose focus—”

“I won’t.” My voice cracks sharper than I intend.

He holds my gaze a second longer, then nods once. “You’re not supposed to feel anything,” he says.

I nod too. “I know.”

I feel it in my chest at night, when the house goes quiet and I remember how his hand felt against my cheek. How his voice dropped when he said he only liked my tears in his bed. How he touched me like I was something already his, and how my body—traitorous thing—responded like it believed him.

Still, the memory of it won’t leave me alone. Not even now. Especially not now.

I take a breath, slow and shallow. Maxim Sharov is the endgame. I want him last. I want him to watch everything fall apart around him. I want him to know it was me.

Yet, when I think of his face—his silence, his restraint—I wonder if I’ve already lost something I never meant to give.

Mateo steps back, the moment shifting, retreating.

“I’ll be around,” he says.

I nod again. I don’t watch him leave.

The sky has darkened fully now, the last orange bleeding out of it like a wound. Below, the city glitters. Still unaware.