Page 59 of The Bratva Betrayal

Killian comes at him again, but Artem shifts, redirecting the momentum so cleanly that Killian stumbles forward instead of landing properly.

The next sound is sharper and uglier; the kind of impact that makes the room go still as Artem drives his head forward into Killian’s just enough to stop him.

Killian pulls back, his hand going to his face.

Rian is already there, not to attack but to separate, grabbing Killian and forcing space between them with a grip that looks like it’s come from years of dealing with this kind of situation.

Artem adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulder like it cost him very little, and when he looks around the room, it isn’t my brothers he checks first.

It’s me.

Still on the island.

Still too close to everything.

That glance isn’t concerned in any obvious way. It’s measured and deliberate, like he’s confirming I stayed where he put me and nothing shifted while his attention was elsewhere.

Killian wipes at his mouth, still glaring and ready, but now held back by Rian.

Artem steps back just enough that it reads like he’s decided this isn’t worth continuing.

The silence that follows is full of electricity.

Rian is the one who breaks it first, his voice controlled but firm. “You touch our sister… you’re dead. If she’s dating your brother, she doesn’t belong to you. We find out differently, it won’t be Killian going after you, but both of us. And I don’t stop, Makarov.”

Artem doesn’t respond because he doesn’t need the threat, nor does he look scared.

In fact, I bet he’d love it.

“Cady…” I look up at Rian. “If you want him dead, let us know. It’ll be the simplest thing I’ve done all month.”

Artem grunts at that, but my brothers step up, kiss my forehead, and leave together without further incident.

I’m finding it hard to calm down.

“Breathe, lisichka,” Artem says.

I glower at him. “Fuck off, Makarov.”

12

Cady

By the second hour of Artem Makarov occupying my office, I'm seriously considering whether murder could be classified as self-defense. He’d claimed he was there to “protect me,” but apparently that means sprawling himself across my couch while I try to work.

By the third hour, I’m over it. In barely two days, the man has managed to make himself comfortable in nearly every room of my penthouse. First my guest room. Then my kitchen and shower. Now my office.

With one arm hooked over the back cushion, he scrolls through his phone, completely at ease. It makes me irrationally angry.

I try to ignore him and focus on the screen in front of me.

Lucas Manifold's face stares back from an article published three days ago, smiling beside a headline about expanding the city's organized crime task force. I've spent most of the morning digging through public records, donor lists, campaign schedules, and every interview the man has given over the past six months. If there's a crack somewhere in his operation, I'm going to find it. I just need a few uninterrupted hours to do it.

Unfortunately, Artem is here.

He shifts behind me, the couch creaking softly under his weight, and I refuse to look back even though I feel him watching me.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" I ask without looking up.