Page 22 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“You need to explain what I just saw in the basement.”

I set down the tablet and give her my full attention. “You were in a restricted area. That’s a violation of the rules we discussed.”

“I was looking for Maria—she was supposed to bring fresh towels and I couldn’t find her—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head sharply. “Don’t deflect. I saw you down there with that man. The guards were holding him and you were—” She struggles for words. “What were you doing?”

“Conducting an interrogation.” I keep my tone matter-of-fact. “An internal security matter that required immediate attention.”

“It looked like psychological torture.”

“It was questioning. Necessary questioning to determine the extent of a security breach.” I stand, moving around the desk toward her. “What exactly did you see?”

She takes a step back, maintaining distance. “Enough. I saw enough to understand that whatever happens in that basement isn’t just ‘administrative leadership.’ You were—he was terrified of you.”

“He should be. He betrayed this organization and put lives at risk.” I stop a few feet away, reading her body language carefully. “His fear was appropriate given the circumstances.”

“What happened after I left?” she asks, her voice rising slightly. “Where is he now?”

I hold her gaze steadily. “Being dealt with according to Bratva protocol for traitors.”

The color drains from her face as she processes the implication. “You’re going to kill him.”

“I’m going to ensure he can’t betray this organization again. The method is less important than the result.”

“The method is murder.” She wraps her arms around herself, the cardigan pulled tight. “You’re talking about murder like it’s a business decision.”

“In my world, it is.” I move closer, watching her reaction. “Dmitri Popov sold information to our enemies that led to four of my men being injured and millions in losses. He compromised security protocols that protect everyone in this organization—including you. What would you have me do? Give him a stern warning and hope he doesn’t betray us again?”

“There are legal systems. Courts and police.”

“That we can’t use because our business operates outside legal frameworks.” I let that reality settle before continuing. “You knew what I was when you were forced to marry me,Serena. Criminal. Bratva leader. Those aren’t abstract concepts. This is what that means.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, her arms still wrapped around herself defensively. “Is this normal for you?”

“When necessary, yes.”

“How often is it necessary?”

“Often enough that I don’t keep count.” I study her expression, looking for the point where this conversation becomes too much for her carefully maintained composure. “Does that frighten you?”

“Of course it frightens me!” The admission bursts out before she can contain it. “I’m married to someone who casually orders executions in his basement while discussing security protocols like they’re routine business matters. How is that not terrifying?”

“Because it’s what keeps you safe,” I reply simply. “Every decision I make, every interrogation I conduct, every person I remove from this organization—it all serves to maintain the security that protects you. You don’t see most of it. You don’t need to. But it happens constantly, and it’s the reason you can walk through this house without fear of genuine threat.”

She stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “That’s insane. You’re trying to justify murder by calling it protection?”

“I’m explaining reality.” I close the remaining distance between us. “You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to approve. You need to understand it, because this is the world you’re part of now. The violence you saw tonight? That’s mild compared to what happens when real threats emerge. Being my wife makes you a target for every enemy this organization has.”

“Who’s fault is that?” Her voice cracks slightly on the words.

“That decision is made and irreversible. What matters now is whether you can adapt to the reality of what that means.” I reach out to touch her chin, tilting her face up when she tries to look away. “I won’t apologize for protecting this organization. I won’t soften the truth about what I do or why I do it.”

She pulls away from my touch, backing toward the door.

“Take your time.” I let her retreat without pursuing. “Understand that seeing what happened tonight doesn’t change anything fundamental. I’m exactly who I’ve always been. You’re just finally seeing it clearly.”

She stands in the doorway for several more seconds, her expression cycling through emotions too quickly to track—fear, anger, confusion, something that might be reluctant understanding. Finally, she turns and leaves without another word.

I return to my desk, picking up the tablet to continue reviewing security reports. The conversation went approximately as expected—shock, moral outrage, the collision between her sheltered political world and the brutal reality of Bratva operations.