Page 67 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Do you agree?” I ask her.

The room goes silent. Twelve pairs of eyes swivel to her.

She hesitates for a beat, then sets the pen down with a decisive click.

“Staten Island is farther from the commercial hubs,” she says, her voice calm and clear. “But it gives you control over the bridge. If you own the entry point, you own the flow. You can tax anyone coming in or going out.”

She scans the room, her gaze sharp and assessing.

“Plus,” she continues, “the security on the waterfront is notoriously lax. It’s easier to hide… irregularities.”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the men.

A smirk touches my lips. She’s clever. She found the angle—the political angle, the power angle. Not just the cost of fuel.

“Exactly,” I say. “Staten Island it is.”

I dismiss the meeting with a wave of my hand. The men file out, their low chatter following them into the hall. They’re looking at her differently now. Not just as a pretty accessory, but as a player.

When the door clicks shut, we’re alone.

“Not bad,” I say.

“It’s basic strategy.”

“Basic is rare in this business.”

She stands up, gathering her papers. “I’m going back to the office.”

“Stay.”

“I need to work.”

“I need you.”

The words are out before I can stop them, raw and unvarnished.

She pauses, her hand on the back of her chair. She looks at me, her eyes searching my face. “For what?”

“Reviewing the dossiers on the new partners,” I state, recovering, my voice smooth again. “I want a second opinion.”

“On what?”

“Their weaknesses.”

She hesitates, a war playing out behind her eyes, then she sinks back into the chair.

“Fine.”

I open the file I’d retrieved earlier. It’s a thin dossier on a man named Ivanov, a Russian expat with ties to the black market in Dubai.

“Read,” I command.

She takes the file, her movements deliberate.

I wait until she’s engrossed, her head bent over the dense text. Then I move. I stand up and walk behind her chair. Instead of touching her, I stand there, letting my presence settle over her, a weight in the air.

I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo. I can see the rapid, frantic flutter of her pulse in the delicate skin of her throat.