Page 76 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Is it?” I ask, my voice dangerously calm. “I thought you’d be expecting me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

I signal to my men. They move in, flanking him, cutting off his escape.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice rising in panic. “This is a mistake.”

“The only mistake was yours,” I say.

I grab him by the arm, dragging him out of the lounge and into the back alley. The air is cold and damp, smelling of garbage and despair.

I push him up against the brick wall, my forearm pressing against his throat.

“Please,” he begs, his eyes wide with terror. “I can explain.”

“Explain?” I ask, my voice a low growl. “There’s nothing to explain. You betrayed me, therefore you betrayed the family.”

“He forced me,” he chokes out. “Lorenzo. He threatened my family.”

“Family is everything, Pavel,” I say, my voice cold. “Which means you don’t fuck with mine.”

I pull a knife from my pocket, the blade glinting in the dim light.

“Please,” he begs. “I’ll do anything. I’ll tell you everything.”

“I already know everything,” I say.

Then I slash his throat, and his words sputter out. I watch the life drain from his eyes, a familiar, satisfying sight.

I wipe the blade on his shirt, then turn and walk back into the club. I barely make it five feet inside before I collide with Freya.

She saw everything. Her face is pale, eyes wide and locked onto the blade.

“I told you to stay put,” I snap.

Freya doesn’t speak.

“Let’s go,” I say.

She doesn’t move. She just stares at me, her expression a mixture of fear and disgust.

“You’re a monster,” she whispers.

I hold out my hand. “Let’s go, Freya.”

She looks at my hand, then back at my face. For a second, I think she’s going to refuse. Then, she takes it. Her hand is cold, trembling.

I pull her outside, leading her out of the club and into the night.

The ride back to the penthouse is silent. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even look at me. I know she’s processing what she saw. I know she’s trying to reconcile the man who held her while she cried with the man who just slit his lieutenant’s throat.

It’s a contradiction I can’t explain. A duality I’ve learned to live with.

When we get back to the penthouse, she walks straight to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

I don’t follow her. Instead I pour myself a drink, the whiskey burning a path down my throat.