Page 27 of The Bratva Betrayal

And I won’t stop.

I smooth my fingers over the pressed petals one last time before closing the book gently and setting it on the table.

Another one added. Another moment that I've decided matters.

The flower is small and white, pulled from one of the arrangements near the entrance of the ballroom when the night was winding down. I open the book just enough to see the label beneath the petals, and my neat handwriting against the cream-colored paper.

May 3rd — Artem Makarov. First approach.

My thumb lingers over the ink before I close it again.

It's not about the flower. It never is. It's about marking something that shifted, even if no one else noticed.

Tonight, something shifted.

My phone vibrates softly against the counter.

Misha.

I pick it up, smoothing my tone before I even answer. "Hi."

"Hi," he says in that cocky tone of his, and I can picture the smirk. "What are you doing?"

Thinking about your brother.

"Just jumped out of the shower," I lie. "You?"

"Thinking of you."

Bullshit.

"Really?" I release a silent breath. "How was the club?"

"Boring. I was hoping you'd come by tonight."

"Can't. Early morning."

"Then maybe you can tell me what the hell this dinner is about."

I blink once. "Dinner?"

"With my brother," he says, like the words don't make sense. "He just told me he's coming over this week. You invited him."

A brief stillness moves through my chest before I catch it.

He agreed.

"Right," I say. "I invited him to dinner."

"You invited him," Misha repeats, slower. "Why?"

I let a hint of amusement color my tone. "Why not? He seemed interested."

Interested is one word for it. Suspicious fits better. Dangerous fits best.

"When did you even see him?" he asks.

"At the charity event. He showed up."