Page 105 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Antonio doesn’t run. He doesn’t pull a gun. He just stands there, watching Nikita.

I don’t understand. What is happening? Is this a trap?

The leader of Lorenzo’s men sees the tide turning. His men are dropping like flies. He realizes he’s lost.

“Retreat!” he screams. “Fall back!”

He turns to run, but Nikita is faster.

He closes the distance in seconds, tackling the man to the ground. They struggle, rolling on the concrete. The leader is big, fueled by desperation, but Nikita is fueled by something colder. Harder.

I watch, horrified, as Nikita gains the upper hand. He pins the man down, his knees on his shoulders.

“Tell Lorenzo,” Nikita growls, his voice loud enough to carry over the gunfire. “Tell him the next time he sends a dog to do a man’s job, I’ll send the head back in a box.”

He draws his knife.

“No!” the man begs.

The blade flashes. The man goes still, blood pouring from a hole in his neck.

Silence falls over the warehouse, sudden and absolute.

Nikita stands up, wiping the blade on his trousers. He looks around, checking his men. “Status?”

“Clear,” Yuri calls out.

“All clear.”

Nikita sheathes his knife and turns to me. He walks over, his steps heavy. I can see the adrenaline fading, leaving him exhausted.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I… yes. What about Antonio?”

“Antonio is fine.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. Why didn’t you shoot him?”

Instead of answering, he pulls me out from behind the crates. We walk toward the center of the warehouse. Yuri is standing with Antonio, talking to him in low tones.

Antonio turns as we approach.

I freeze. Up close now, I can see a similarity in the way he shifts.

“Freya,” Antonio says. His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher, but it’s him.

“Ayaan?”

My knees buckle. I would have hit the concrete if Nikita hadn’t caught me.

“It’s me,” he says.

He steps closer, lifting his hand. There, on the inside of his wrist, is a small, irregular birthmark. A splash of coffee-colored skin shaped like a crescent moon.

I touched that mark a thousand times when we were kids. I traced it when he taught me how to ride a bike. I held onto it when he left for college.

I reach out, my fingers trembling, and brush against his skin. It’s real. He’s real.