Page 3 of The Russian's Stalked Bride
“Then you should already know it’s important.”
Silence falls between us, stretching to an annoying degree, only broken up by the muffled music from inside the club.
Then, Wyatt sighs. “At the very least, we need to keep an eye on Mila. If her brothers are planning anything, she’ll be the primary tell.”
“I already am.”
Without needing to see him, I know this catches his attention from the way his end goes completely still.
“How close?”
“Close enough. I’ll let you know if I learn anything new.”
Giving me a final, exasperated breath, Wyatt mumbles, “Just don’t lose sight of the objective.”
“I won’t.”
Before he can sound more disappointed in me, I end the call, watching as the screen goes black. Slipping the phone into my pocket, I head back inside the club, navigating the dimly-lit space before easing back into my seat. The noise is immediate as the opener wraps up his set, and the small, intimate crowd starts to clap.
I do the same, pretending like I didn’t just miss the entire thing. Though sitting near the back, where I’m likely obscured from view to anyone on stage, helps me blend in further.
I’ve been here before…more times than I care to admit.
Then, as the lights dim further, the chatter softens down to quiet anticipation, and before long, she steps onto the stage.
Mila Grimaldi doesn’t look like the daughter of a dead boss. She isn’t done up like someone used to being doted on or showered in praise for merely existing. She isn’t covered in diamonds or gold; she’s not surrounded by an entourage or bodyguards. Instead, she wears a simple black dress that sits perfectly on her frame, along with understated heels that don’t scream luxury.
Her long blonde hair frames her face like a curtain, looking even more golden under the stage lights. She curls a hand around the microphone, gripping tight for just a moment before she relaxes.
She has done that every time. She braces herself, then, when she’s ready, she lets go.
As the first note leaves her mouth, something all too familiar tightens painfully in me.
Mila’s voice isn’t loud or dominant, and it doesn’t need to be. She starts out soft and gentle, almost like she’s trying it out for the first time, vulnerable and raw. Then, she slips into that confidence again, putting more strength behind every note.
Leaning back in my chair, I force myself to breathe.
I’ve been telling myself for weeks now that this is only about surveillance. That I’m here to watch for patterns, signs of Grimaldi activity, or potential threats. That I’m doing this to get myself closer to her brothers.
But my eyes never leave her.
Mila sings like she doesn’t have anything to lose, and yet, she’s risking everything to be here. Really, that is the case.
It’s a low-key show without any cameras, press, or anyone who might be lurking due to her name. Just some locals and likely some curious tourists who stumbled in due to sheer curiosity.
She shouldn’t be able to get away with this, given everything that has gone on in the last few months. But then again, I know why her brothers let it happen. They have no clue.
There’s a guard at their place usually stationed near her room, and on the nights of her shows, she smiles just enough to make him feel special, I suppose. Though he doesn’t seem to notice how she never pushes too hard.
By the time she slips away, he’s convinced it was his idea all along. But it’s all just a ruse for her sake.
I noticed it the first night she did it, following her at a distance, and stupidly ready to put a bullet in anyone who got too close to her.
When the song ends, the room erupts into applause, and Mila ducks her head slightly, just enough to look bashful. That shy smile pulling at her lips guts me every time.
After a short break and speaking to the crowd, she starts the next one, easing into it like it’s nothing.
I’ve been tracking the Grimaldis for some time now, between trying to locate her brothers and keeping tabs on her. Her name was supposed to be just another variable in the equation. But now, she’s a fixation, and one I can’t seem to drop.
