Page 5 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

The tailor mutters under his breath as he circles behind me, pins clenched between his teeth. His hands are quick, precise, tugging fabric into place and adjusting seams with practiced irritation.

“Too broad in the shoulders,” he complains in Russian, flicking a bit of chalk against the jacket’s edge. “This is not a mannequin frame. You ruin symmetry.”

I don’t respond. The scent of pressed wool and fresh thread clings to the room—sharp, sterile, exact. The kind of clean that comes with money and preparation, not comfort.

I’m not really listening to him, I’m thinking about her.

Kiera Vargas, seated across that long table in her quiet little dress. Her eyes wide, her voice careful, every word shaped by someone else’s expectations. She looked at me like she was waiting to be judged. Measured and sorted.

Too soft, I thought at first. Too quiet for what this is. She doesn’t belong in this world.

She’s in it now, whether she belongs or not.

The tailor tugs at the sleeve again, steps back to assess, then makes a sound of dissatisfaction and begins the process over.

This isn’t about her. Not about attraction or curiosity. It isn’t about sentiment.

This is a long-game strategy. Influence packaged in silk and sealed by bloodline. Marriage is the most permanent kind of partnership we offer in this world. It binds more than names. It ties debt and loyalty and silence into something that can’t be easily undone.

I adjust the cuff of the jacket myself, pulling it straight before the mirror. The fabric is dark, tightly woven, already heavy with expectation. I watch my own reflection and feel the weight of the moment settling across my shoulders.

It doesn’t feel like a union. It feels like armor. The kind worn to sit across from enemies who pretend to smile. The kind you don’t remove when the doors close.

I’ve never liked being tethered. I don’t trust permanence. It turns sharp men dull, but if I have to wear a chain, I’ll make it gold-plated. Heavy. Unmistakable.

The tailor sighs again. I hold still, eyes fixed on the mirror.

I think about the ring I sent.

I didn’t choose it for beauty. The garnet is red, deep and dark—close enough to blood to make the message clear. The silver band is thick, structured, held by claws. Not delicate. Not romantic.

Steel and stone. Like me.

She’ll wear it soon. Or she won’t; either way, she’ll understand what it means.

Platon stands in the corner, silent until now. Arms crossed, one foot braced against the wall, he’s been watching without speaking—his version of patience. The line of his jaw is tight, expression unreadable, but I know him too well to miss the tension in his stance.

He lets the silence stretch another few seconds. Then he says, “Why’d you say yes?”

I don’t look at him. My eyes stay fixed on the mirror. The jacket fits better now, though the tailor’s still fussing with the hem, muttering to himself in frustration.

“She’s delicate,” I say. The words come flat, matter-of-fact. I speak them the way I speak most things—quiet, steady, controlled. “Pretty.”

I lift one hand to adjust the collar, watching my reflection move. “Her brother’s throwing her to me like she’s nothing. That’s enough reason.”

Behind me, the room holds still.

Then I add, almost conversationally, “I’ll take her. Whether she likes it or not.”

Platon doesn’t answer right away. I see his reflection shift slightly in the mirror—shoulders straightening, mouth drawing into a firmer line. He’s not a man who startles easily, but something in my tone makes him take notice.

“Right,” he says, slower now. “And if she tries something?”

I turn.

The tailor stills the moment I move. His fingers go rigid on the sleeve, breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask questions. He knows better. He’s worked for us before.

“If she tries something,” I say, looking at Platon directly, “then I kill her myself.”

The words hang in the air, not loud but absolute. Final.

The tailor’s hand trembles once before he steps back, pretending to adjust a cuff that doesn’t need fixing. He doesn’t meet my eye. He knows this isn’t theatre.

I don’t blink.

This is the world I come from. One where decisions carry weight. Where power isn’t suggested—it’s enforced. Where hesitation looks like weakness, and weakness invites ruin.

She’s part of this now. That means she’s under my control; if she forgets that, there’s a price.

Platon shifts his weight, pushing off the wall, but he doesn’t approach. His voice drops slightly, a warning woven into curiosity.

“Cold, even for you.”

“No,” I say. “Efficient.”

Marriage. Murder. Money. None of it is sacred. None of it separate.

It’s all negotiation.

She’s currency. A symbol. A message in red stone and silver metal. She becomes valuable only because I decide she is. Her name on my ledger means power. Because taking her sends a signal that the Ortegas belong to us now.

If she plays the part, she’ll live comfortably. I’ll give her clothes, protection, a title. She’ll sit where I put her, speak when spoken to, and sleep in a house with more security than most diplomats dream of.

If she resists? I won’t waste time explaining myself twice.

I return to the mirror, shoulders square, voice calm. “This isn’t love,” I say. “It’s ownership.”

The tailor finishes in silence, pins gathered, hands unsteady.

I don’t thank him. I barely notice him leave. There’s still work to do. A wedding to arrange. A message to solidify.

A girl to collect.

***

When I step outside an hour later, the city air hits dull against my skin, less a relief and more a shift in pressure.

The inside of that tailor’s studio had its own gravity—stitched from thread and expectation.

Out here, at least, the noise is familiar.

Traffic hums in the distance. A siren wails three streets over.

Somewhere close, someone’s yelling into their phone.

Manhattan’s version of background music.

I light a cigarette, cupping the flame against the wind. The first drag burns a little, settles easier. Smoke clears my head in ways conversation never could. Inhale, exhale, and the edge dulls without disappearing.

My driver waits by the curb, the black car sleek and motionless. The engine’s already running. He gives a nod when I approach but says nothing. We don’t need to talk. I value silence more than loyalty. Silence is harder to fake.

Behind me, Platon walks at an even pace. No footsteps rushed, no shift in posture. He never gives anything away unless he chooses to. He’s still chewing on what I said upstairs. That much I can tell. He’s not ready to challenge me.

The moment stretches. One drag, then another.

Then the quiet breaks.

Kion’s voice cuts through it with the same reckless ease he brings into every room. “Weekend!” he calls, hopping out of a low black coupe parked two cars down. “Be ready. I’ve got something planned.”

He grins as he approaches, the top buttons of his shirt undone, sunglasses still on despite the dusk.

Every inch of him looks like he belongs on a magazine cover, not a kill list. That’s the thing with Kion, he makes everything look like a joke.

Charm draped over menace. The teeth beneath the smile.

He claps a hand against my shoulder like we’re still twenty, like we didn’t bury four bodies together last summer.

Platon raises an eyebrow. That’s as close as he gets to commentary. I glance at him. We both smirk.

Kion notices. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say.

He spreads his hands in mock offense. “You two wound me.”

“You plan a weekend,” Platon replies dryly, “we brace for casualties.”

Kion laughs, unbothered. “Have some faith.”

My cigarette’s almost done. I flick the ash away, watching it scatter across the concrete.

“What is it this time?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Details, details. You’ll see.”

Which means it’s already in motion. Whatever it is, it won’t be small. Kion never does small.

I flick the ash from the end of my cigarette, watching it scatter down into the puddle near the curb.

It hisses as it hits the surface, barely audible over the noise of the city.

The water’s slick with oil—rainbow-streaked and filmy, like even the pavement here’s been corrupted by what lives above it.

Kion doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.

He talks fast, words tumbling over each other with that same too-smooth rhythm he uses when he’s hiding something.

“There’s a place upstate,” he says, hands moving as he speaks. “Walled, gated, private as hell. No cameras. Plenty of space. Real clean. Real quiet.”

He grins, and it lands crooked. “You’ll like it. Bring whoever you want. Stretch your legs a little.”

Platon exhales through his nose, a soft sound of quiet disdain. He doesn’t interrupt. He’s letting the game play out. Kion likes to circle before he pounces. He never comes out and says what he means—not unless he’s bored or bleeding.

I don’t ask questions yet. I let him talk.

The street’s busy enough, but I’m not really watching the traffic.

My eyes scan the windows, the shadows behind storefront glass, the reflection off the car hood across the street.

Every movement maps itself in my periphery.

That’s the habit. The instinct. Let Kion fill the air; I’ll cover the rest.

Chaos in silk. That’s what he’s always been.

Too fast, too clever, too amused by everything. He changes faces like shirts, wears confidence like armor, and can kill in a designer jacket without ever losing a step. You never see the violence coming until it’s done, but he’s useful. Loyal, in his own way. At least when it counts.

Mostly.

I take another drag. The smoke curls in my chest, warmer now. More settled.

Kion’s still talking, something about music, about “real food,” about how it’s not a party, but it could be. His voice dips with suggestion, then rises again in amusement.

I tune half of it out. Not because it doesn’t matter. Because I’m already thinking ahead.

If this trip means anything—and it always does with Kion—then it’s better to be prepared. He never invites us somewhere without a reason.

Platon’s watching him the same way I am. Careful. Patient. Neither of us trust him completely. You’d be an idiot to try.

Still.

There’s opportunity in chaos. There’s leverage in unpredictability. You learn more about people when they’re out of their element. Which makes me wonder…

I glance down the street. Somewhere across the city, Kiera is waiting. Probably still holding the box I sent. Probably wondering what it means, whether silence is safety or sentence.

I wonder how she’ll fare among the others. Away from her brother. Away from the room where she was handed to me like a peace offering.

I finish the cigarette, exhale the smoke, and let the thought settle.

Let her see the wolves up close.