Page 5 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)

The image of that woman was burned into the depths of my skull.

Arlette Whitmore.

What began as a persistent and irritating curiosity toward her festered into something more uncomfortable and pleasant. And her name lingered in my mind like an earworm.

At first, I dismissed my feelings for her as lust—a craving to possess her—but then I realized it was something I couldn’t fully explain as time went on. It had been two weeks since our encounter at the hospital, yet I could still smell her. I could still hear the echoes of her voice everywhere.

And it was driving me crazy and filling my heart with deep hatred for her whole being.

I wasn’t wired to think too much about things, especially people, but now she had toppled the balance of everything in a matter of seconds.

And even now, seated on an obsidian-colored suede couch in my penthouse, I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of any other thing.

The penthouse, which sometimes housed other women temporarily, was now devoid of any other person aside from my assistant, Cassandra, who stood at the kitchen island just across from me, scheduling my meetings for next week.

Cassandra was the only woman I had kept by my side for this long. She was a Slavic beauty whom I had recruited from being a server at a high-end bar. Back then, I had figured she had too much potential to waste out at a bar where she was constantly being groped by men.

And I was right. As my assistant, Cassandra Miller was more than just a pretty face. She carried herself with an air of elegance, with brains that could figure out a person in a matter of seconds.

She didn’t need to ask before she knew what I wanted, and she must’ve noticed something was wrong with my behavior, but chose not to comment on it.

She was also pretty efficient, caring about the appearance of my penthouse more than I did. The penthouse was baroquely styled, shrouded with gray-accented walls and a chandelier hanging atop a mural of clouds on the ceiling.

Gothic-framed artworks also hung on the walls, and although it was daytime, the room still felt brooding—an excellent atmosphere Cassandra had created.

I silently wondered if Arlette would be attracted to the haunting gloom of the penthouse. Ladies who came by for a night of pleasure found it kinky, but I was certain that witch would hate it.

I scoffed at myself as the tapping of Cassandra’s heels against the marbled floors snapped me back to reality. Here I was, thinking of a woman I’d never meet again, when Jaxon Whitmore’s murderer had still not been found.

I hadn’t been attacked as I expected, but somehow, I knew it was only a matter of time.

The glass doors of the penthouse suddenly beeped and slid open, alerting Cassandra and me to another presence, though I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Maxim Voronov, my right-hand man.

Maxim Voronov wasn’t just my right hand. He knew exactly who I was underneath my outward facade. He was the only one who truly knew who I was.

Even more than Cassandra Miller.

He looked sharp as always, a darkness looming over him like a shadow.

He donned a navy-blue suit over his lean, athletic build that ladies swooned over.

His thick, long midnight hair was tied into a bun behind his head.

The jagged scar beneath his right eye lifted as a small smirk appeared on his lips.

A scar that had been a souvenir from a deal gone wrong back in Prague, and although I found it somewhat unsightly to look at, Maxim wore it as a badge of honor, saying it mirrored the one I had just below my cheekbone.

When Maxim reached me, he slid an envelope-style file onto the minimalist wooden coffee table, which held a rosé-filled wine glass in front of me.

He then stood straight like a soldier, hands clasped behind his back, and began to fill me in on its contents while I picked it up and removed each piece of paper.

I could feel his eyes on me as he spoke, his voice low and gravelly, with his thick Russian accent seeping through.

“It’s the progress of the money laundering from the Eastern European casinos,” he said, and then pointed at the envelope. “Everything you need to know is in there.”

I nodded, rubbing my temples. I wasn’t in any mood to go through documents now, so I simply slipped the papers back into the envelope and tossed it on the table.

“Anything else?”

“You remember Skylar Brent? That daughter of Brent Cosmetics?”

My brows furrowed at Maxim’s question; lines of frustration marked my forehead as I tried to recall who he was talking about. But of course, no matter how hard I thought, all I could see were wisps of ginger hair clouding my mind.

Tch! That woman was really turning into a thorn in my side.

Maxim seemed to notice my struggle as he chuckled lightly.

“She’s the woman you slept with right before you left for Chicago. You know, blonde, blue eyes, dumb as fuck.”

I still had no clue who Maxim was talking about, but the sooner I played along, the quicker he would stop talking about whoever the hell she was.

“What does she want, Maxim?”

“She keeps trying to reach you, Boss,” Maxim revealed with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t have bothered telling you, but you seemed pretty interested in her father’s business, so I thought—”

“I don’t know who the hell that is, Maxim,” I calmly said, tapping my fingers against the coffee table. “So tell her to fuck off the next time she calls, okay?”

Maxim scoffed in response, completely indifferent to my verdict, while I gulped the glass of rosé in one shot, wiping the remains off my lips afterward.

“He’s been quite forgetful these days, Maxim. Something tells me he had quite an unforgettable experience back in Chicago. It’s been occupying his mind.” Cassandra’s teasing voice came from behind me.

I glanced at her figure, dressed in a stylish white suit skirt topped with a white blazer, from my side view with a quiet smile. She knew, but I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of admitting she had unraveled me in seconds.

So I said the only thing I could think of in reply to her, pouring more wine into my cup.

“Bullshit.”

Maxim shook his head with a baritone laugh as he grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass from the home bar before settling into one of the golden-brown barstools, while Cassandra continued to point out the anomalies of my recent behavior.

“You’ve got to admit that I’m right, sir,” Cassandra stated, as she circled the couch I was sitting on, standing just a foot from my view with her iPad in her hands like it was gold.

“It’s been what?” She brought out two fingers.

“A week, and not only have you been randomly forgetting things, but you haven’t even brought a woman in here. ”

She shook her head and slightly adjusted her glasses, which nearly fell off the bridge of her nose, while Maxim suddenly started choking on his drink.

I leaned back against the couch, a small smirk on my lips as I prepared to dispel Cassandra’s suspicions—until my phone started buzzing loudly beside me, almost like a premonition that something was about to go down.

Silence filled the room, squeezing the air out as I pulled my phone from the breast pocket of my suit jacket.

It was Matvey.

My expression immediately darkened. He couldn’t just let me be, could he?

I answered the phone while I stared directly at Cassandra, whose features began to contort with worry.

“I need you in Chicago now, Rafael,” Matvey ordered—no salutations, no pleasantries, nothing.

I took a sharp breath. Matvey’s voice was cold and firm, making it clear there was no room for complaints, and as usual, I knew better than to oppose him.

“Alright,” I replied after moments of silence. “I’ll be there.”

And then the line went dead.

I chugged down another glass of wine, muttering a curse under my breath. This had better be fucking worth it, because I was so close to lighting a fire under Matvey’s ass one of these days.

Being back in Chicago wasn’t something I had planned, but Matvey really knew how to push my buttons. Still, I chose not to dwell on it too much.

As well as benefiting the Bratva’s cash flow empire that I oversaw, I figure I could tolerate Matvey’s insolence.

***

A day after his call, I sat across from him. Security had ramped up all over the estate since the explosion—the first daring move anyone had ever made directly on Bratva soil.

I was sure Matvey already had intel on who had been behind the attack. And I was patient enough not to seek the answers from him but watch and observe. I wasn’t desperate, just curious.

Matvey sat in his high chair, wearing his usual tailored black suit that tugged at his biceps, his dark brown hair tousled as he shuffled through some papers in front of me.

I lit a cigarette, inhaling its musky aroma while I waited for whatever he had to tell me that was so important he couldn’t say it over the damn phone.

My pocket watch ticked slowly in the breast pocket of my coat. To me, time was always sacred, and I never liked wasting it.

I leaned against the black armchair, carefully scanning Matvey’s form as he finally pulled out a paper from beneath his stack, his eyes now locking onto mine with a steady gaze.

“Oskar and I have decided, Rafael,” Matvey began, his voice steady as he handed me the paper in his hands before leaning against his seat, which dipped slightly under his weight.

A frown appeared on my face as my eyes slowly examined the details on the paper.

On it was a passport of the woman who had been haunting my very essence for the past week. In it, she looked vibrant, a genuine smile on her face—a contrast to the pain-stricken face I had chanced upon at the hospital.

I found myself staring intently at the picture, analyzing every detail of her face like a mosaic painting that held my attention. Her features were sharp yet delicate, and freckles lined her cheeks with a pale reddish hue.