Page 4 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Freya Smith.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell. I signal for Yuri to continue.

He pulls a tablet from his jacket pocket and slides it across the desk. I unlock it and stare at the screen.

It’s not a mugshot. It’s a headshot from a lifestyle magazine. The woman is… striking. It’s not just the curves—which are considerable, filling out a red dress that looks like it was painted on—it’s the way she holds herself. Shoulders back, chin up, green eyes that look directly into the camera lens without a hint of hesitation.

“She’s a lifestyle influencer,” Yuri reads from his notes. “Event manager. Has about two million followers across several platforms. She’s not a journalist, just a socialite.”

I scroll through her feed. It’s polished. Curated. There are pictures of galas, charity auctions, street fashion. Except there’s a sharpness to the captions. A wit. She’s not just a pretty face; there’s a brain operating the machinery.

“She wrote the piece herself?” I ask.

“Yes, and she did the digging. Traced the shell companies back to a holding account in Cyprus. That’s not easy for an amateur.”

I zoom in on her face. High cheekbones and soft jaw, a mouth that looks like it’s used to smiling but knows how to snarl.

“Why do this?” I ask. “She lives in this world. She’s burning bridges she’ll need to cross later.”

“That’s where it gets interesting,” Yuri says, leaning against the doorframe. “We ran a background check. She has a brother, Ayaan Smith.”

The name hits me like a punch to the chest, but I don’t let it show. Not even a twitch of an eyelid. I keep my breathing steady, my pulse even.

“Ayaan,” I repeat, keeping my voice bored. “Should I know him?”

“He disappeared two years ago. A missing person report was filed, then went unsolved. He had some trouble with debts. Gambling.”

“Gambling,” I say. “Bad habit.”

“Yes, sir. He ran with some crowds that eventually brought him to our attention. Not as a threat, but as a liability. He owed money to people who don’t offer payment plans.”

I scroll away from her face, looking at a photo of her and a taller man with dark skin and a hesitant smile. Ayaan. He looks softer than her. Less guarded.

“It makes sense,” I say, tapping the screen. “She thinks we killed him.”

“She thinks we buried him,” Yuri corrects. “The article implies that the money laundering isn’t just for profit, but for cleaning up messes. She’s trying to flush you out.”

I stare at the photo of Freya. So, the little socialite has claws. She’s not reckless. Freya didn’t run to the police with wild theories; she built a paper trail, constructed a narrative that forces the public to ask questions. She’s using her influence as a weapon.

A reckless person would have screamed in the street. A stupid person would have threatened me directly.

Freya Smith is calculating. If she were just another reporter looking for a byline, I’d have Yuri handle it. A scare tactic. A brake failure on a dangerous road, maybe, or a warning delivered in the middle of the night. But she’s Ayaan’s sister, and she’s smart.

I feel a strange pull in my chest, something that feels dangerously like anticipation.

“She’ll be at the Winter Gala tonight,” Yuri says, checking his watch. “Her RSVP was confirmed yesterday. Before the article dropped.”

I nod slowly. “Of course she will. She wants to see the fallout. She wants to stand in the room and watch the whispers start.”

“Do you want me to stop her at the door?”

“No,” I say, picking up my vodka again and swirling the liquid. “Let her in.”

“Sir?”

“If she wants a war, give her a battlefield. We play by my rules.” I set the glass down and adjust the cuffs of my shirt. “If she wants to be part of the story, I’ll give her a starring role.”

“Sir?”