Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva (Rusnak Bratva #2)

Chapter 1 – Jennie

The apartment smells like banana bread, vanilla, and impending complaints.

“I swear if that thing doesn’t come out in the next five minutes, I’m going to eat your couch cushions,” Violet groans, stretching dramatically across my thrifted armchair like a dying Victorian heroine.

I grin from the tiny galley kitchen, flicking on the oven light. “Seven minutes left.”

“Seven minutes?” she gasps. “You said five, like, three minutes ago!”

“I rounded down.”

“You’re evil.”

I glance back and see her nose twitching as the scent of caramelizing bananas and vanilla wraps around the room like a warm hug. The banana bread is rising perfectly—crisping at the edges, golden brown on top. My one domestic talent.

“You’ll survive,” I say, wiping my hands on a pink dish towel. “We had breakfast.”

“That was four hours ago. And it was salad.”

“It had grilled chicken in it.”

She scoffs. “One strip, Jennie. One sad little strip.”

I chuckle and return to the living room, sinking into the space beside her on the couch.

She kicks her feet up on the coffee table and pulls the blanket over our laps like it’s a sacred ritual.

The crime documentary is paused on a still of a suburban house wrapped in yellow tape. I hit play on the remote.

Violet eyes it with exaggerated disgust. “How is this your idea of a good time?”

“You like watching lonely women pine for emotionally unavailable poets.”

“Because that’s romance and artistic tragedy, not blood-splattered walls and dismembered limbs. This stuff is morbid.”

I nudge her with my shoulder. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m romantic,” she corrects, tugging the blanket higher. “There’s a difference.”

But she doesn’t change the channel. She never does.

We’ve been doing this every Tuesday night for the past year.

Crime documentaries for me. Soft whines and cookies for her.

It started during a joint elective in criminal psychology—back when we were both trying to keep up with Zoe Monroe’s laser focus.

Violet only joined the class because she wrote murder reports as a side gig to earn money.

Now Zoe’s off married to the boss of the Rusnak mafia—though we don’t talk about that.

We pretend it’s all normal. It’s easier.

I glance over at Violet as she snuggles deeper into the blanket, mumbling about carbs and tragedy.

Her brown hair is tied up in a messy ponytail, and her nails are painted yellow with tiny smiley faces.

She belongs in a sunbeam, not in the middle of a true crime marathon.

But she sticks around anyway. That’s what love looks like in friendship form.

She side-eyes me. “You know what you really need?”

“A boyfriend?”

“No. A hug. A real one. The kind that counts.”

I laugh softly. “You hug me all the time.”

“Yeah, but not the kind that makes your lungs loosen and your spine melt. The kind that smells like aftershave and protection. You know what I mean.”

“You read too many romance books. I feel sorry for you.”

“You need to read a romance book,” she says. “Seems like that’s the only way you’ll experience real romance.”

My smile fades a little. I do know what she means.

My friends hug me all the time. But I can’t remember the last time a man held me like that—strong arms around me, steady breath against my hair, a moment I didn’t want to escape. I’ve never had a real relationship. Not one that lasted past coffee dates and polite kisses at the door.

And for the past year…it’s been worse.

I try to date—when I have time between classes and my shifts at the café.

And at first, the guys seem into it. They flirt, they text, they smile like they mean it.

But by the second date, something always shifts.

They stop replying. Or worse, they see me on campus and go pale like they’ve seen a ghost. One guy literally turned around and walked the other way in the middle of the student quad.

After the fourth time, I stopped trying.

Maybe after graduation, I’ll meet someone older. More grounded. Someone who sees more than my body or my awkward laugh or the way I talk with my hands when I get nervous.

Eww. Now I sound like Violet when she’s going on about love and romance.

My best bet is that I’ll just adopt a cat and live in the woods.

“Earth to Jennie,” Violet says, waving a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry. Zoned out.”

She narrows her eyes. “Were you picturing a boyfriend hug?”

“No,” I lie, smiling faintly. “Maybe.”

“You deserve that kind of love,” she says quietly. “The real kind.”

I nod, but I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I believe it.

The apartment creaks faintly as the wind shifts outside.

It’s old, this place. A second-floor unit on the edge of campus, squeezed between a dry cleaner’s and a shuttered antique store.

The floors are crooked, the heater rattles in the winter, and the windows fog over every morning. But I’ve made it mine.

Soft pink curtains flutter by the balcony doors.

There’s a tiny white bookcase in the corner, filled with my favorite dog-eared paperbacks, a few scattered psychology textbooks, and a chipped ceramic mug I use as a vase.

String lights hang above the couch, their warm glow bouncing off the pale yellow walls.

I painted them myself. Took me three weekends and a lot of swearing.

It’s not fancy. But it feels like a heartbeat. Like a place where something good might grow.

The oven timer dings.

Violet bolts upright like she’s been summoned by the food gods. “That’s my cue!”

I laugh and head to the kitchen, pulling the banana bread from the oven. It smells divine—rich, warm, comforting. Like my childhood in the small, happy pockets before everything got messy.

“Is it ready?” Violet almost crashes into me from behind. “Is it? Is it?”

I roll my eyes.

“Jennie,” Violet groans. “I’m so hungry I could eat that tiny dog across the street.”

“You’re not eating Mr. Pickles,” I reply, laughing as I grab two mismatched plates from the cabinet. “Calm down. It’s ready.”

She perks up immediately. “Bless your banana-loving heart.”

I cut thick slices from the loaf, steam still curling up like it’s sighing with pride. The crust is golden, the center soft and fluffy, and the kitchen smells like vanilla and brown sugar and home. I hand Violet a slice, and she moans dramatically after the first bite.

“Okay, maybe crime and carbs is a superior combo,” she says through a full mouth while walking back to the couch. “I take back every complaint I’ve ever made about your weird documentaries.”

“Thank you,” I reply, settling beside her with my own slice. “Your approval means everything to me.”

“Damn right it does.”

We fall into that easy rhythm we’ve perfected—just two overworked, final-year students in a cozy, run-down apartment, wrapped in blankets and soft lights, watching horrifying things together like it’s self-care.

The screen flickers with a reenactment of a quiet neighborhood gone dark after a string of disappearances.

The narrator’s voice is low and ominous, but I’m more focused on the case breakdown than the dramatized footage.

The psychology behind it—the escalation, the motives, the childhood triggers—I live for it.

“That’s the fourth time they’ve shown the same lamppost,” Violet says, licking a crumb from her thumb. “We get it. The suburb has atmosphere.”

“It’s called setting a mood.”

“It’s called dragging it out so they can stretch the episode to an hour.”

I laugh and pass her a glass of water, and we sit in silence for a while, the banana bread half gone between us. It always disappears faster than we think.

The doorbell rings then, just as I start to doze off from a full stomach. Violet turns to the door with a frown.

“I’m shocked your doorbell is ringing. When did you start having callers? Zoe isn’t around, and I’m right here. Wait—” She gasps. “Have you made new friends?”

“Shut up!” I shake my head. “And you’re the only one who ever shows up without texting first. It’s probably someone who needs directions.”

Cautiously, I walk toward the door and peek through the side blinds. The hallway is dim, lit by the yellow-tinted bulb that’s always flickering—but even in that light, I can see them.

Two men.

Standing still.

Dressed in tailored black suits, the kind that don’t wrinkle and don’t come off the rack. Shoulders like walls. Expressions carved in stone. They’re the kind of men who never have to introduce themselves, because their presence says enough.

And I’ve seen men like this before.

At Zoe’s parties.

When I follow Maria to her family’s nightclubs, lingering in corners like shadows that breathe.

They don’t flirt. They don’t dance.

They just watch.

Bratva.

My stomach knots. Not because I’m unfamiliar with them—on the contrary, I’ve always had a brush of their world against mine, soft and cold and sharp. Especially because of Logan.

My brother has a way of dancing too close to fire.

I hesitate at the door, hoping—praying—that maybe Zoe sent them. Maybe it’s something simple. A party. A favor. An errand. But even as I crack the door open, I know better.

“Can I help you?” My voice is steadier than I feel.

One of them steps forward. He’s broad, bald, and silent. No smile. No greeting. He simply extends his gloved hand and offers me an envelope—thick, heavy, sealed with a black wax emblem I recognize instantly.

A falcon. Head turned to the side. Spread wings.

The seal of the Rusnak Bratva.

My blood turns to slush.

I take it slowly, trying not to let my fingers tremble.

The man gives a single nod, then turns. The other follows.

Neither looks back. Their footsteps vanish down the stairs as I break the wax seal and pull out the single sheet inside.

Thick, expensive paper. Black ink. No room for misunderstanding.

Jennifer Elise Whitlock,