Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

Veronica

The doors slide open, revealing a hallway lined with frosted glass doors, each marked with sleek silver lettering.

The air feels colder here, the quiet oppressive. I follow the signs toward the Conference Room, each step amplifying my unease.

Standing outside the room is a middle aged man in a pale blue suit, his posture casual, but there’s something about the way he watches me that sends a chill down my spine. His gaze is sharp, assessing, as though he’s cataloging every move I make.

“Miss Bennett?” he asks, his voice calm.

I nod, fixing my smile back in place even as my instincts scream at me to turn around and leave. “That’s me.”

“This way,” he says, gesturing toward the door with a nod.

I step inside, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The room is large but unwelcoming—white walls, a long table surrounded by cheap, utilitarian chairs that seem out of place in such an upscale building. At the far end of the table is a briefcase.

The sight of the case in the empty room makes my skin prickle. Something feels off.

I set my bag down and take a seat, but the sense of unease only grows. The silence presses in, thick and heavy.

And then I feel it—a presence behind me. My heart lurches as I spin around, my breath catching in my throat.

Standing by the door, locking it with a soft, deliberate click, is the man I fear most in the world.

“Did you know,” he says, his voice calm, “you can hire rooms in this building by the hour?”

My body goes limp, and I have to clutch the chair to avoid sliding to the floor. My senses flood with stress before I even register what’s happening, the familiar sourness of bile rising in my throat.

“Marco?” I say out loud, unable to believe it’s really him. “What are you doing here?”

He steps closer, his cold smile freezing me in place as it always could.

Time slows to a crawl as he closes the space between us, his movements relaxed. He was always this way, but I know all too well how fast he can strike.

One lash of his hand, and I’ll be right back where I started, begging him to stop.

Of course I can’t be free. Safety, stability? Maybe for those who deserve it, but not for me. How could I have ever thought I had a chance?

He towers over me, clenching and unclenching his fist. I hear a thin, mewling cry of terror and realize it’s coming from me.

He smiles coldly. “You didn’t really think I’d let you decide when this ends, did you?”

“Why?” I ask, backing away from him. “Why do you keep doing this?”

He nods toward the end of the table. “I brought something for you. Go and open it. Now.”