Page 82 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
From where I’m sitting, you’re gambling with her safety to catch bigger fish.
He’s not wrong. If I let this play out—if I allow Janice to maintain contact with Santini, let her believe she’s successfullyhiding her betrayal—I’m putting her directly in the Zullos’ crosshairs.
They’ll want updates. Results. Proof she’s delivering what she promised.
When she can’t provide it, they’ll get impatient. Dangerous.
Or she will provide it, and I’ll watch my empire crumble from the inside out.
Trust me.
I do. But do you trust her?
The question hangs unanswered.
Do I?
I look down at Janice, still sleeping peacefully, her face soft and unguarded in the darkness. This is who she is without armor—vulnerable, beautiful, human.
Tomorrow, she’ll wake and rebuild her walls. Tomorrow, she’ll smile and touch me and pretend everything is normal while planning my destruction.
Tomorrow, I’ll pretend I don’t know.
The alternative is ending this now. Confronting her, extracting the truth, making her understand that betrayal comes with consequences she can’t afford.
Mercy or punishment. Wife or enemy.
The woman I’m falling for or the threat she’s always been.
I press a kiss to her shoulder, feeling her sigh in sleep.
“Choose me,” I whisper against her skin. “When the moment comes, choose me.”
Tomorrow, the real test begins.
Chapter Twenty-One - Janice
I wake alone.
The sheets beside me are cool, creased where Dimitri’s body pressed hours ago. Sunlight cuts harsh through the windows he never closes, and I squint against it, disoriented. My body aches in ways that remind me exactly what happened last night—his hands on the desk, his mouth demanding answers I couldn’t give, the way I’d shattered under his touch while guilt burned through my chest.
The phone is still hidden in that trash can. The drive is still in his desk drawer.
I’m still a coward.
I drag myself from bed, muscles protesting. The bathroom mirror shows evidence I can’t hide—marks on my throat, bruises fingerprinted into my hips, the flush that won’t quite fade from my cheeks.
The shower runs hot enough to hurt. I stand under the spray until my skin pinks, scrubbing at places his hands touched, his mouth tasted. The water can’t wash away what happened. Can’t erase the moment I chose him over the plan, chose his touch over my freedom.
Did you get it?
The message from last night pulses behind my eyes. I’d read it three times before deleting it, before turning the phone off and shoving it deeper into the closet, as if distance would make it disappear.
They’re waiting for an answer. Waiting for the drive that proves Dimitri’s operations, that gives them ammunition to destroy everything he’s built.
I almost took it. The drawer was open and I was looking at the laptop and drive when he appeared in the doorway, when those gray eyes pinned me in place and demanded truth I couldn’t give.
The water runs cold. I shut it off, wrap myself in a towel that costs more than my old monthly rent, and stare at my reflection through steam.
