Page 12 of The Bratva Betrayal

One of them is the enforcer of the Volkov bratva.

And that one will kill me without a second thought if he believes I’m a liability to his boss.

Brother’s girlfriend or not.

3

Artem

Sleep doesn’t come.

I lie there anyway, on my back, one arm tucked behind my head, and staring up at the dark ceiling. The room is cold. I keep it that way. No distractions, comfort, or anything soft enough to sink into.

My mind won’t shut off.

It keeps circling back to her.

The way she sat in that room as if she belonged there. The way her fingers moved over the keyboard, fast and precise. The way she looked at me when I caught her.

Not scared or surprised.

Aware.

Like she’d already accounted for me.

I drag a hand down my face because that’s the part that sticks.

Not that she was in my office. Not that she was on Misha’s laptop. Not even that she was digging through things she has no business touching.

It’s that I let her walk out.

I didn’t press harder or make her answer me.

I just sat there and watched her, wanting to see what she’d do next.

It bothers the hell out of me.

I push up from the bed and grab a shirt off the back of the chair. It’s still dark out, early enough that the house hasn’t started moving yet. Not that anyone is here. Misha didn’t come home with her after they went out. No noise or footsteps, nothing but the low hum of the vents pushing cold air through the walls.

Misha is still asleep. I don’t have to check to know that. He sleeps like he lives—recklessly and carelessly, like nothing’s ever going to catch up to him.

I head down the hall toward my office. The hardwood floors are cool under my feet when I unlock the door. I’ve never had to lock any doors until Misha brought home a beautiful redhead.

The space around me is too wide and open. The house was built to impress, not to feel lived in. Everything is sharp edges and clean lines, dark finishes and expensive materials.

The room is bare but functional. A low couch pushed against one wall, a narrow coffee table in front of it, and a desk that rarely gets touched.

Misha’s laptop is where I left it on the desk. Picking it up, I drop onto the couch and lean forward as I flip it open. The screen lights up, and for a second, it’s what she wanted me to see.

A shopping site. Rows of dresses with soft fabrics, bright colors, and something expensive enough that most people wouldn’t question it.

It fits her too well if I believe that’s what she was doing. Pretty and polished, that a woman with her means and funds would shop, but it’s just a little out of reach for me to believe.

Too safe.

I huff out a quiet breath through my nose. “Bullshit.”

I close the browser and go into the system, my irritation sharpening into focus. This part is easy and the one that makes the most sense.