Page 103 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

His gaze lingers on my face for a moment, as if checking for himself. Then he presses a kiss to my forehead.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says. “We both need to sleep.”

I let him lead me to the bathroom, my legs still shaky. He turns on the shower and helps me step inside, then follows me in.

The water is warm, and I let it wash over me as I try to process what just happened. I think that was the hottest sex of my entire life.

I watch him as he washes. “Roman,” I say.

He looks at me, water streaming down his face. “Yes?”

I want to say something about what just happened. He’s different now than he was before, more careful even when he’s being demanding.

The words won’t come. So instead, I just shake my head. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t respond, but something in his expression softens. He reaches out and tucks a wet strand of hair behind my ear, and I smile.

30

ROMAN

The Volkonsky mansion feels different now.

When I was a boy, this was home—before my mother died, before my father moved us across the city to the new estate and left the old house to gather dust. These halls felt endless then, corridors that stretched into shadow, doors that led to rooms I was never permitted to enter. The house was a kingdom, and my father was its king.

Dmitri took it for himself while I rotted in Siberia. Moved Vera into the rooms my mother once walked, made the place his own. And even after I returned from exile, even after I killed him and claimed it back, something about it still felt like it belonged to someone else.

Not anymore.

I stride through the front entrance with Vera at my side, and the staff parts before us like water around a stone.

No one meets my eyes. No one asks questions. They’ve heard what happened at the church, and then at the last meeting. They know which way the wind is blowing.

Good. They should know.

We make our way to Dmitri’s office without speaking. The afternoon light filters through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the floor.

I settle behind the desk and start pulling out the financial records again.

Somewhere in Dmitri’s records is proof of what I already know; the charges that sent me to Siberia were manufactured. I don’t need another accusation. I need something undeniable, something written by Dmitri’s own hand.

Konstantin can’t stop us this time.

Dmitri wouldn’t have let something that important out of his reach. It has to be somewhere in this house. He was many things, but he was never careless with his secrets.

Vera drifts toward the bookshelves, her fingers trailing along the spines. She’s been quieter than usual, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. I don’t blame her.

“The ledger has to be here,” I say, more to myself than to her. “If it wasn’t at his apartment, it has to be somewhere in this house.”

She doesn’t respond. She’s frowning at the wall, her head tilted slightly to one side. Her eyes are distant, focused on something I can’t see.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

She moves toward the large painting that hangs behind the desk: some ugly oil of a Volkonsky ancestor on horseback, his face stern and unyielding. The frame is ornate, gilded with real gold leaf that’s started to flake in places.