Page 1 of The Bratva Betrayal

1

Artem

Cady Gallagher is sitting in my office, typing casually on her laptop.

But that’s bullshit.

I stand in the doorway and watch her for a second longer than I should. It’s after three in the morning, and I can’t sleep because I heard something move in the house, and that set off alarm bells in my head.

Set off by her.

She’s focused on what she’s doing, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard, eyes locked on the screen, searching for something.

There’s no hesitation or aimless clicking. That’s the first thing that tells me this isn’t harmless because she’s not using just any old laptop.

She’s using my brother’s.

Also, she chose this room. Not the guest room where my brother is passed out from too much vodka at the club tonight, where he showed her off and grinded on her ass for most of it.

The final dealbreaker is that she’s Cady Gallagher.

Irish mob princess. Connected enough to this world that even saying her last name in the wrong room can shift the air. The same family that the Volkov bratva has been trying very carefully not to go to war with for the last few months.

And she’s here.

In my house.

In my spare office.

On my brother’s laptop because he’s stupid enough to leave her alone here.

I shift my weight, the door clicking quietly behind me as I push it shut. That’s what finally gets her attention.

She stills, her fingers pausing on the keys as she turns to look at me.

Blue eyes.

Sharp, clear, and not surprised.

Definitely not scared.

I take a few steps into the room, slow and unhurried, letting the silence stretch a little. She watches as I round the couch to stand in front of her, trying to figure out what I’m going to do.

Most people would panic when they get caught doing something they shouldn’t be.

She doesn’t.

Which means I’m right: She’s playing games and using my idiot brother as a pawn.

My gaze drifts over her before I can stop it.

She’s changed since we got back. The tight black dress she wore at the club is gone, traded for something softer. Thin cotton shorts and a loose tank that slips off one shoulder.

Nothing flashy. Nothing that tries too hard.

Still… it works.

Her hair is a mess now, light red curls falling everywhere, wild and uneven.