Page 30 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

My back teeth had clenched hard.

It wasn't because I liked it.

She had carried the name Morozova. She had been supposed to wear the right dress, the best jewelry, stand in front of anyone without embarrassing me. I'd picked the gown only because the maids at the manor had had godawful taste. I'd let her keep the paints and canvases only because I didn't want to watch her go red-eyed like she'd lost the whole damn world.

And the car—

She had been my wife. Nobody got to reach past me and hurt her.

That was it.

Feodor came in through a side door and kept his voice low. "No issues on the banquet side. They clearly didn't think you'd still show after the hit, so they didn't leave a second team. We doubled the perimeter outside. Nothing's slipping through."

I lifted my gaze. "What else?"

"Plates were swapped, gun had no serials, and the route looked like somebody had handed it to them in advance. The two we kept alive went to the room to start talking. The guys are already pulling everyone who'd gotten close to the convoy tonight."

"Before sunrise, I want names."

"Understood." On his way out, he glanced toward the far end of the hall, that punchable grin sliding onto his mouth. "Madam bounced back faster than you did. At least she doesn't look like she'd just crawled out of a firefight."

I followed his line of sight.

A few friends with ongoing business with the Morozov family had been talking with Elena. She sat straight, not a hint of panic on her face. She listened—really listened—then answered with the exact right amount of warmth. Not too familiar. Not cold enough to insult.

She did know how to work a room.

Isabella had been the kind of woman who stole a crowd with a turn of her head and a smile. Elena had been different. She didn't fight to be heard, but when someone spoke to her, she gave them all of her attention. That quiet focus made people want to stay.

Of course, it could've all been an act.

She had been best at making people drop their guard. She'd had Olga shielding her, had gotten Pera to defy my orders again and again, and now even men who'd lived on lies had been smiling at her like they meant it.

But the second that suspicion rose, I remembered those hazel eyes when she'd been sick—clean, no calculation in them.

Fuck.

"Morozov." Vasily raised his glass, dragging me back into the deal. "That northern shipment—I accept the number you threw out. But how are we pricing the risk before delivery?"

"Until it leaves my warehouse, the risk stays on me. Once it lands in the hands you name, it isn't my problem." I pulled my attention away. "If you want my guns and my routes, then don't dump your own sloppy security on the Morozov family."

He stared at me for a few seconds, fingers slowly rolling the stem of his glass.

"You don't give an inch."

"Because what I sell is worth it."

He smiled and finally offered his hand. "Risk after delivery is on me. First payment transferred tonight."

"Deal."

When it was done, he didn't walk off. He just followed where my eyes had gone—back to Elena.

"Mrs. Morozova holds the room for you," he said. "She doesn't talk over people. She knows when to let someone finish. In this circle, not everyone has that kind of patience."

I didn't answer.

"I've seen plenty of women who only care about being the center of attention," he added. "She isn't like that."