Page 92 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“We got caught in the storm. We’ll return shortly.”

“Sure, Boss, but there’s something… penthouse.”

His voice is static. I can hear him on the line, but the words come in and out.

“Yuri?”

The line goes dead.

I turn to Freya, brows furrowed. “I need to go. Stay here.”

“Wait—”

“Freya.”

But she’s already grabbing her jacket. “You’re not leaving me here. If something’s wrong, I want to help.”

She’s impossible, but I know arguing will only make things worse. I glare, but say nothing as she darts for the door. As I wrench the door open, though, I fix her with a look and say, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

The drive back to the city is a blur of adrenaline and silence. I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh, a tether in the chaos. I can feel her trembling, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t ask questions.

We pull up to the private underground garage. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The usual hum of the ventilation system is absent.

“Stay behind me,” I say, killing the engine.

I reach under the seat, pulling out my Sig Sauer. I check the mag. Full.

I get out, opening her door. She’s already moving, staying close to my back.

We take the service elevator. It rises slowly, the numbers clicking by with agonizing slowness.

“What if someone’s broken in?” she whispers.

“Then they die.”

The doors open, and the penthouse is a disaster zone.

The lobby is torn apart. The sofa is overturned, stuffing spilling onto the marble floor. Glass crunches under our boots.

“Stay here,” I command, gesturing toward the wall.

“No.”

“Freya—”

“I’m not leaving your side.”

I look at her. I see the fear in her eyes, but I also see the steel. She’s not running.

“Fine,” I say. “Keep low.”

We move through the apartment, clearing the rooms one by one. The living area, the kitchen, the guest bedrooms. Empty. Destroyed.

Finally, we reach the main hall.

I hear them before I see them. Voices speaking in Italian.