Page 36 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

That did it.

My control tore loose. I thrust a few more times, chasing the last of it, and then I drove deep and came inside her, spilling warmth where she'd already taken everything from me.

For a moment, there was nothing but our breathing, harsh and tangled, and the pounding in my ears.

Elena went limp against me, boneless, head tucked into my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her and held her there.

Desire finally settled, but the ugly, restless edge that had ridden me all night didn't disappear the way it usually did. Something worse replaced it.

I didn't want to loosen my grip.

Her lips were softer than they looked. When she got nervous, she grabbed my clothes. When she got angry, she glared with those hazel eyes like she could burn straight through me. I wanted that look only for me. I wanted the light in her eyes to flare because of me, and I wanted every man at that damn party who'd looked at her out of New York.

I couldn't blame this on a marriage contract anymore. I couldn't pin it on simple lust or possession.

An answer I didn't want to admit rose right up in front of me.

I'd fallen for Elena.

I dropped Elena off at the manor, then had Feodor turn the car around and take me to the office.

Hell. I would've rather faced another shootout than admit she was turning into my weakness.

The lights were still on at the top floor.

When I walked into the conference room, the table was already laid out with the attackers' files, crime-scene photos, and the interrogation notes that had just come in. Both cars had been running fake plates. The serial numbers on the guns had been ground off. The money had been routed through three shell companies and wired in from an offshore account.

Not clean, but clean enough to drag out any real investigation.

"The two we brought in only admitted they got paid to do a job." Feodor slid a photo toward me. "They never saw who hired them. The middleman was found dead two hours ago in a motel in Brooklyn."

I glanced at the picture. A bullet to the back of the skull. No signs of a struggle in the room. Whoever it was, they hadn't planned on leaving anything behind that could point back at them.

"Keep digging into the money," I said.

Feodor noted it, then put a second folder in front of me.

"One more thing. We found Isabella."

My hand stopped in midair.

"Where?"

"Europe."

He opened the folder. The first page was an exit record, timestamped the night she'd left New York. The ticket had been paid from her own account. She'd traveled alone. No sign of coercion. No trace of anyone forcing her.

Behind that were photos pulled from security footage and other people's social accounts.

I flipped one over. Isabella wore a silver mini dress, standing in the center of a private bar's dance floor. She smiled brightly, surrounded by half-naked men and women, and one guy's hand rested on her waist like he belonged there.

The rest were more of the same. She was drinking, partying, pressed close to strangers. The only thing that didn't change was her smile.

She didn't look like a woman driven out of town by her little sister. There wasn't a hint of pain on her face.

"When were these taken?" I asked.

"The last few nights." Feodor paused. "She'd been there almost two weeks. She switched hotels twice. She went to six parties. Her spending was... high. Every day."