Page 1 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

The airport is colder than I expect. The kind of chill that settles right through my jeans and turns every breath shallow.

My boots squeak on the polished floor as I step off the jet bridge and blend into a crowd of tired, impatient travelers.

People hustle everywhere: families arguing over strollers, businessmen jabbing at phones, a couple fighting in low, tight voices. Nobody looks at me twice. That’s good. I need to be forgettable.

I keep my head down as we move in a slow, impatient herd toward baggage claim. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Every so often, a loudspeaker crackles with flight announcements: delays, new gates, someone’s lost dog. I clutch my shoulder bag tighter, thumb running over the worn strap.

Inside, my phone vibrates with a pointless push notification. I ignore it. I’ve changed every setting, wiped every trace of Talia Rivers. Today, I am Talia Benett: twenty-one, journalism student, here for an “opportunity” at a city news foundation.

My real ID is buried at the bottom of my suitcase, taped into the lining. The fake one sits heavy in my front pocket, edges too crisp to feel real.

I scan the crowd, searching for anyone out of place: security, a man in a suit, anyone watching too closely. No one is. I could almost laugh at the ordinary misery in people’s faces. It almost makes me forget why I’m here. Almost.

Baggage claim is chaos. Suitcases tumble out onto the conveyor, bumping and piling up.

I watch my battered gray duffel circle twice before I work up the nerve to grab it.

My hands are sweating. The rubber handle squeaks in my grip as I heave it off the belt.

Someone elbows past me, muttering, but I hardly notice.

My brother’s face flashes in my mind; Eli’s crooked smile as he balanced a camera on one shoulder, forever looking for stories nobody else cared to find.

The thought twists something sharp in my stomach.

I check the claim ticket: BENETT, T. The name still feels wrong.

I slide it into my back pocket and haul the bag up, the weight awkward against my hip.

There’s a moment, as I move toward the exit, when I almost turn back.

The temptation to bolt—find the nearest restroom, hide in a stall, text Jessa and say I’m sick or lost—nearly overwhelms me.

Instead, I force my steps steady. Each stride is a reminder: you’re here for Eli. You’re here for answers.

The glass doors whoosh open, letting in a gust of humid air that smells like car exhaust and burned coffee. I blink against the onslaught of taxi horns and shouted greetings. The sky overhead is a dull, colorless wash, somewhere between morning and afternoon.

My phone buzzes in my pocket again, the screen flashing with a reminder: “Pick up keys, keep moving.” My own voice, recorded late at night, brittle with nerves. It grounds me, a little.

Outside, a crush of yellow taxis lines the curb, drivers shouting in a dozen different languages. My palms are damp as I drag my duffel down the cracked pavement, the wheels catching on every seam.

A man in a navy windbreaker approaches, waving a sign for someone named Rajiv. I sidestep, tightening my grip on my bag. I do not make eye contact with anyone. That’s the rule, now: do not stand out. Do not get remembered.

I reach the taxi stand and hold up a hand, heart pounding. The driver who stops looks me up and down through mirrored sunglasses, then pops the trunk. “Where to?”

“Uh—” I almost trip on the answer, then catch myself. “East Eighty-Third, please. Between York and First.” I practiced the address a hundred times last week, burning it into my memory.

He nods, jerks a thumb at the trunk. “Bag in back. You want the bridge or the tunnel?”

I freeze, blank for a moment. “The… uh, whatever’s faster.” I hope that sounds normal. My voice feels too thin. He shrugs, unimpressed, and I haul my duffel into the trunk, slamming it shut with more force than necessary.

Inside, the cab smells like stale gum and cheap cologne. The vinyl seat sticks to the backs of my thighs as I sink into it, wrapping my arms around my backpack like it’s a shield. I double-check my phone. Nothing new, no missed calls, no panic texts from Jessa, nothing from Eli.

Of course not. Eli hasn’t texted in six months. My throat tightens.

The taxi lurches into traffic, weaving between buses and delivery vans. I keep my eyes glued to the window, watching as the city blurs past: warehouses, blank billboards, graffiti that covers every possible surface. Everything here moves so quickly, it feels like a different planet.

I press my forehead to the glass and try to slow my breathing. In, out. In, out. The city can’t swallow me if I don’t let it.

I replay every detail in my head—how I registered for the internship using the new identity, the way the acceptance letter called me “Ms. Benett” like it was a compliment. How the foundation’s logo sat in the corner of the email, sharp and sterile.

I told myself it was fate, but now, with the driver’s gaze flicking to the rearview every so often, I feel like every move is being watched.

I remember the rules: never use my real last name. Never answer to Talia Rivers. Never mention Eli unless I am absolutely sure no one can hear me. My hands twitch in my lap. I want to text Jessa, to tell her I landed safely, but I can’t risk it. Not yet.

Instead, I focus on the rhythm of the city outside. The clang of a distant construction site, the shriek of sirens, the constant, restless hum that never stops. It’s overwhelming, but it keeps me sharp.

The cab jerks over a pothole. My duffel shifts in the trunk. I dig my nails into my palm and remind myself why I’m here. This is the first step. The only step that matters. I am Talia Benett. I am a journalism student. I am not afraid.

In the front seat, the driver glances up at me again. “You new in town?”

I keep my expression bland, a half smile. “Just moved for a job. Intern stuff.”

He grunts, unimpressed, but doesn’t push. The silence in the car stretches. I count each passing street sign, mouthing the cross streets to myself like a prayer. East Eighty-Third. York. First.

Every mile we drive, my nerves twist tighter, wound by hope and dread in equal measure. Somewhere in this city, Eli disappeared. Somewhere, the answers are waiting.

When we arrive, I clamber out and gather my duffel. The taxi pulls away, leaving me on a narrow sidewalk with my duffel at my feet and the late afternoon sunlight glancing off the row of aging brownstones.

The air is quieter here, a little cleaner.

I stand still for a moment, taking in the faded brick, the chipped paint on the iron railings, the cracks in the pavement.

It’s not the kind of place anyone would call glamorous, but there’s a kind of privacy to it.

There’s nobody on the stoop to ask questions, and the old woman two doors down only glances up before returning to her crossword.

My new building is three stories, the front door sticking a little before it gives way under my push.

The hall smells of bleach and something fried.

I take the stairs up to the second floor, my bag thumping against each step, then pause outside apartment 2C.

My hands shake as I key in the lockbox code, the numbers stiff under my fingers.

The key slides out, cool and unfamiliar.

I slip inside, shutting the door quietly behind me.

The apartment is… fine. Cleaner than I expected, honestly, but stripped of personality.

Pale walls, faded hardwood floors, air-conditioning humming in the corner.

A twin mattress sits low to the floor, covered by a thin blue sheet, and a rickety table takes up one side of the kitchen. The fridge buzzes in the silence.

I set my duffel down and walk a slow circuit of the room, fingers tracing the cold countertop, the windowsill’s peeling paint. There’s no trace of whoever lived here before—just empty shelves and the faintest scent of lemon cleaner.

I work fast, tugging off my boots and unzipping the duffel.

My heart hammers as I dig out the USB drive, cold and sharp-edged, its weight insignificant but everything it holds pressing down on me.

I kneel beside the radiator and search for the loose floorboard I’d noticed in the photos—right where the corner sinks half an inch lower.

It pries up with a muted creak, revealing a dark gap just big enough to slide the USB inside.

I press the board back into place and sit back on my heels, counting three slow breaths before I move again.

The rest of my unpacking is automatic: jeans, sweaters, notebook, spare phone battery, all stashed in the tiny closet. I leave my jacket on a hook by the door, my hands still trembling. The apartment feels colder now, as if every surface is waiting for something to happen.

From the bottom of my bag, I pull out the folder.

Eli’s folder. Inside are snapshots, printouts, notes in his cramped handwriting.

I spread them across the kitchen table, careful not to smudge the ink.

His face stares back at me from half a dozen angles: grinning, frowning, caught mid-laugh behind a camera lens.

I trace his features with my thumb, memorizing every detail for the hundredth time.

I don’t cry. I haven’t in months. The grief settled somewhere deep, pressed flat and hard by too many sleepless nights. I let it keep me steady now. There’s work to do, and I have to see it through.

***

Morning comes in a pale wash of blue through the thin curtains. I lie awake for a moment, listening to the fridge click and hum, my nerves buzzing quietly under my skin. Sleep never comes easily anymore, but today my mind is sharper than usual, edged with purpose and something like fear.