Page 108 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Eventually, he lifts his head. He looks at me, his eyes softening. “Your brother is alive,” he says quietly.

“I know,” I whisper, tears pricking my eyes again. “I have you to thank for that.”

“No,” he says, brushing a lock of hair from my face. “You have yourself to thank. You never stopped looking. You never gave up. That’s why he’s alive.”

He kisses me, soft and sweet.

“Now, let’s go get cleaned up. Ayaan will be at the safe house in an hour.”

I nod, sliding off the table. My legs are shaky, but he steadies me.

“What happens now?” I ask.

“Now,” he says, taking my hand. “We live. We fight, and we win. Together.”

Together.

The word hangs in the air, heavy with promise. I squeeze his hand, feeling the rough calluses of his palm against my skin.

I’m ready for the war. As long as I have him, I’m ready for anything.

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Nikita

The sound of the shower hissing through the pipes is the only noise in the penthouse. It’s a white noise that usually soothes me, a mechanical purr signaling cleanliness and order. Tonight, it grates.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the damp towel I used to wipe the blood and soot from my hands. The water in the basin is tinged pink—a diluted reminder of the violence in the warehouse. The mess I had to clean up to keep her safe.

Freya is in the bathroom. Although she’s already showered, it’s like she can’t quite get the warehouse filth off of her. I can hear her moving, the rustle of the shower curtain, the splash of water. She’s alive. She’s whole.

She knows.

The weight of that knowledge presses down on me like a physical burden. For months, I carried the secret of her brother’s survival alone. I carried the guilt of her tears, the hatred in her eyes, the way she flinched when I touched her, all because I was protecting a promise made to a ghost.

Now, the ghost is back.

I lie back against the pillows, folding my arms behind my head. The room spins slightly—not from dizziness, but from the sheer exhaustion of the adrenaline crash. My eyes drift closed, and the darkness behind my eyelids isn’t empty. It’s filled with the past.

Three years ago.

The memory hits me with the force of a bullet. It’s vivid, sharp.

I was younger then. Not by much in years, but in experience. I was the new Underboss, hungry to prove myself, desperate to carve out my own legacy in the shadow of my father. The Gromov empire was stable, but stagnant. We needed expansion. We needed a foothold in new territories.

That was when the Colombos started making noise.

Lorenzo was a rising star in the Five Families, a man with ambition that outstripped his conscience. He was moving product up the East Coast, using ports that we considered neutral. He was bold, reckless, and dangerous.

We needed eyes on the inside.

Ayaan came to me.

I remember the night clearly. It was raining, just like tonight. He walked into my office without an appointment, wearing a hoodie that was worn thin at the cuffs and a pair of jeans that had seen better days. He looked like a student, maybe a grad student pulling an all-nighter.

His eyes… his eyes were old.

“Mr. Gromov,” he said, his voice steady.

“Nikita,” I corrected him. “Mr. Gromov is my father.”