Page 18 of The Bratva Betrayal

And I mean it.

Cady Gallagher didn’t just wander into this.

She didn’t just get curious.

She walked into a house that isn’t hers, into a war that is getting close enough to feel, and she started digging like she already knew where to look.

Which means whatever she’s after, it matters.

Enough to risk everything.

And that’s what makes her dangerous.

4

Cady

Breakfast with my father has never been about food. Even when I was younger, when I still believed things like this meant time together, there was always an edge to it.

Now, there’s no pretending otherwise.

It’s a meeting.

The restaurant is the kind of place my father favors, quietly tucked behind a façade that keeps curious eyes out.

The lighting is low and warm, the walls paneled in dark wood that absorbs sound, and the air smells faintly of coffee, butter, and money.

Everything is polished, intentional, and controlled.

Just like him.

I’m led past the main dining room, heels sinking softly into the carpet as I follow the hostess toward the back. No one stops us or questions it. My father doesn’t ask for space; he occupies it, and people around him adjust without needing to be told.

The private room door is already open, and he’s already seated inside.

Colin Gallagher doesn’t wait for anyone, not even his daughter.

I step in, smoothing my hand over the front of my dress out of habit, and the door shuts quietly behind me, sealing the room in a heavy silence.

The table is already set.

White linen stretches clean and untouched beneath a spread that’s excessive for two people. Fresh fruit arranged in careful symmetry, berries still glistening as they’ve just been washed. A tiered stand of pastries—croissants, scones, and other things delicate enough to fall apart if you touch them wrong. Eggs, smoked salmon, toast cut into perfect lines, small dishes of jam and butter that look more decorative than functional.

Coffee sits waiting, dark and rich, steam curling lazily into the air.

At the head of it all sits my father.

He doesn’t touch any of it.

A glass of whiskey rests near his hand that he hasn’t bothered to lift, either. His suit is perfectly tailored, charcoal and sharp against the warm tones of the room, not a single detail out of place.

He looks the same as he always does.

Untouchable.

His eyes lift to mine as I step inside, and the familiar, measured scrutiny settles over me, a weight I’ve been carrying my entire life.

“Caitlin.” His voice is smooth and controlled.