Page 93 of The Bratva Sinner

“She doesn’t need to know everything.”

“She needs to know enough.” Cinder takes her cup to the sink. “She’s either in or out. This grey-area bullshit won’t work. No one will trust her or accept her if you don’t.”

She leaves without saying goodbye.

I hate when she’s right. I don’t know how to be a husband. I have a way of doing things that works. If I’m not flirting and charming, how do I get what I want? Obviously, there are other ways, but they aren’t my way.

I don’t want to hurt Lila. She needs to know I’m not fucking those women. But how would she know? And that’s what Cinder tried to say.

Relationships are drama, which is why I’ve always avoided them. It’s too easy to trip over other people’s feelings.

Lila doesn't feel like drama, though.

That's the problem.

She should feel like a complication. A liability. A girl I pulled out of a bad situation and turned into a war because I couldn't leave well enough alone.

But I keep thinking about her in the med room, with an oxygen mask on her face and soot in her hair. Telling me the guards would have been too late, like that was a fact, and I was an idiot for not seeing it. She ran into a burning building, and her only regret was that it took her too long to get to them. She put those horses before herself without a second thought.

I don't know what the fuck to do with that.

But I don't have time for whatever this is right now. Last night, during my many conversations, I learned that there was too much hesitation. The problems in the underworld are bleeding into my legitimate business, and I need to fix that.

I text Damien and let him know we’ve got shit to handle.

An hour later, we’re in one of the rougher areas of Miami. A brick building with zero curb appeal is my target. It’s the kind of place that exists because certain people need certain things and don’t want to be seen obtaining them.

It belongs to a man named Bosko. He’s Serbian, but he’s been allowing Arlind’s people to operate out of his building while pretending to stay neutral. I’ve never cared before. His shitty, grungy club is not taking my clientele. The women they traffic are not taking my customers.

But if we’re in the game of sending messages, mine will be the loudest.

It’s the middle of the afternoon. The place is closed. I don’t bother trying the lock. I step back and kick in the fucking door.

It swings open and slams against the wall.

We walk inside, and the soles of my shoes stick to God-knows-what on the floor. The place is a step above a dump. I feel dirty just being here.

“Shit.” Damien looks around. “People pay to be here?”

“People pay to get high and fuck here,” I retort.

I take out my phone, pull up the camera app, and pull out a lighter. I flick it, and the flame shoots high and bright.

I take a picture in front of the bar to make it very clear where I’m standing.

Then, I send it to Bosko and nod to Damien.

He walks behind the bar and grabs a few bottles, handing one to me. We move around, dumping the alcohol on the couches that I’m afraid to get too close to. We soak the space.

Then, Damien moves to the door to wait for me. I pull out the lighter, light it, and drop it in the puddle of cheap vodka.

The heat from the explosion of flames washes over me. Then, I casually walk out with Damien leading the way back to the SUV.

“A little dramatic,” Damien says as Sampson navigates the narrow streets.

“Good.”

The compound is quiet when we pull back in. I get out of the SUV, and Sampson pulls away to park. I go inside, not knowing what to expect from my wife. When she’s pissed, she can be a little violent. Maybe that’s what I need right now.