Page 61 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

My body is heavy, weighted down by a combination of satisfaction and a sinking, rock-in-the-gut sense of failure.

He touched me. He had me. Right there on the railing, thirty floors up, with the city watching.

And I liked it. I was too busy at that stupid gala to think about it yesterday. Now, in the dark, I can’t think about much else.

That’s the part that makes me want to scream into the pillow. The betrayal of my own senses. I spent last night wanting him to touch me, needing him to be closer, and now that the sun is up, I feel cheap. Used. Or worse—I feel like I’ve used him.

I kick the sheets away, sitting up. The room smells like sex and cedar, a scent that seems to have seeped into the drywall.

Stop it.

I shove the heels of my hands into my eyes, rubbing until I see spots. Focus.

The anger is still there, but it’s muffled now. Wrapped in layers of confusing lust and the memory of his hands on my skin. I need to sharpen it. I need to find the edge again.

I slide out of bed and pad to the window. The city is a grid of indifference. Somewhere out there, there are answers.

The name Colombo keeps surfacing in my mind like a bloated corpse. I saw it in the file, mentioned alongside the debt recovery. Last night, Nikita had dropped the name like a grenade—Don Lorenzo of the Colombo family.

Is he a rival syndicate? Partner? Enemy? I need to know.

I dress quickly in leggings and an oversized sweater. Armor against the world.

The penthouse is quiet. Anna is in the kitchen, the clatter of pans the only sign of life. I bypass it, heading straight for the hallway.

The locked door stands at the end, a sentinel of dark wood and reinforced steel.

I approach slowly. My heart rate kicks up, a nervous flutter.

I test the handle. It’s locked, obviously. I glance up at the corner. The black dome of the camera is unblinking.

Nikita is watching. Or someone is.

I take a breath, dropping my shoulders. I can’t act like a thief. I need to act like… nothing.

I turn my back to the door. I lean against the wall, pretending to look out of the hallway window. I tap my foot. I sigh.

I’m a bored housewife waiting for her husband.

I keep this up for a full minute. Casual. Disinterested. I even check my reflection in the mirror of a nearby vase, smoothing my hair.

Then, I move.

I drop to one knee, pretending to tie my shoe. As I’m down there, I run my fingers along the bottom edge of the doorframe. The door is old, with a physical key lock, but something tells me it’s a ruse.

The sensors are usually magnetic. Maybe I can find some kind of component…

I stand up slowly, my mind racing. It’s not just a keycard. It’s biological. Fingerprints? Retinas?

That means I can’t pick the lock or trick it. I need Nikita.

I look back up at the camera. I smirk, shaking my head like I’m laughing at something random. Then I turn and walk away, leaving the door exactly as I found it.

Let him watch me leave. It’s better than him watching me fail.

***

At dinner, I don’t say a thing.