Page 41 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“Damien will never approve.”
“Damien doesn’t get a vote.”
“He’s in charge. He gets every vote.”
I turn to face Felix directly. “Then I’ll deal with that when the time comes. Right now, I’m solving the Volkov problem and the Janice problem simultaneously.”
“By creating a bigger problem?”
“By taking what’s mine.”
Felix shakes his head but doesn’t argue further. He knows when I’ve made a decision that can’t be reasoned with.
Oleg, sitting in the front seat, turns back to look at me. “So you’re really doing this? Marrying some random woman just to avoid the Volkovs?”
“She’s not random.”
“You knew her for what, a few months? That was four years ago.”
“It’s long enough.”
“For what?”
“Long enough to know she’s mine,” I say instead. “Whether she accepts that yet or not.”
The car goes quiet. Outside, the city pulses with its usual chaos—millions of people moving through their lives, unawarethat somewhere in the machine, decisions are being made that will reshape everything.
Janice will be at my office tomorrow at ten. By noon, she’ll understand exactly what her exposé cost both of us.
Chapter Eleven - Janice
I leave the office late, later than I should, given everything that’s happened this week. Diana left hours ago, shooting me concerned looks that I pretended not to see. Marcus departed at six with reminders about tomorrow’s client presentation.
The rest of the team trickled out one by one until it was just me and the cleaning crew, fluorescent lights humming overhead while I tried to lose myself in campaign strategy that refuses to come together.
Anything to avoid going home to an empty apartment where I’ll replay the feeling of cold metal against my throat.
By the time I finally pack up, it’s past eight. The building is almost empty, security guard barely glancing up as I sign out.
The parking garage echoes with my footsteps, every sound amplified in the concrete space. My car sits in the corner where I left it this morning—a lifetime ago, before Dimitri’s message arrived demanding I come to his office tomorrow.
I haven’t responded yet. Don’t know how to respond to a summons that feels more like a threat.
I unlock the car, slide behind the wheel, start the engine. NPR plays softly through the speakers, some interview I’m not processing. I pull out of the garage and merge into sparse late-night traffic, heading toward my apartment in Brooklyn.
Three blocks from the office, I notice the car.
It’s a black sedan, tinted windows, staying two cars back. Nothing unusual about it—half the cars in Manhattan are black sedans with tinted windows.
I take a left. The sedan takes a left. Coincidence. Has to be coincidence.
I accelerate slightly, changing lanes. The sedan matches my movement, maintaining the same distance.
My pulse kicks up. I tell myself I’m being paranoid, that Dimitri’s threats have me jumping at shadows. This is New York. People drive the same routes, make the same turns.
I take another left, then a quick right down a side street I don’t normally use.
The sedan follows.
