Plus-Size Vengeance By the Cold Bratva (Sharov Bratva #24)

Chapter One - Suzy

I arrive with time to spare, shoes pinching just enough to remind me this isn’t my usual orbit.

The marble lobby, all slick lines and polished chrome, reflects me back at myself: a careful composite of nerves and plain prettiness.

I stop near the elevator, check my reflection in the glass, and smooth my hair, mouth practicing that little half smile—soft, apologetic, approachable. I try out the lines I’ve picked: Oh, I’m not used to places like this. You must come here all the time.

The right sort of self-deprecation, gentle enough to be endearing but never slippery. I picture the version of myself he expects and step into her skin, one finger trailing the seam of my coat as if I can sew her shut.

Nikola arrives with barely a sound, his footsteps swallowed by the hush that hangs over everything here. He’s taller than I remember, suit fitted so sharply it almost looks painful, but his smile is easy—genuine in a way that makes my stomach tip.

I let myself glance up, down, once: his hands, broad and sure, a watch that glints when he shakes mine.

He watches my face, or maybe my mouth. The tiny crease at the corner of his lips is satisfaction: he likes what he sees, or he likes knowing I’m a little unsettled.

“Right on time,” he says, voice pitched to reassure. He guides me toward the elevator with a palm at my elbow, a gesture that’s nothing, really, but it feels rehearsed, practiced into habit. I let myself be led.

Inside, he swipes a black card, and the elevator glides upward, silent. He glances at my reflection in the mirrored wall, then back at me, as if he’s checking which version will blink first.

“First time in a place like this?” he asks, not unkind, but I can feel the tease underneath.

I press my lips together, offer a sheepish, sideways smile. “You can tell?”

He laughs, a low rumble that says this is his world, and he’s pleased to share it. “It’s always obvious,” he tells me. “There’s a look people get.”

I let my posture shrink, just a touch. Shoulders rounded, arms close. “I hope it’s not that bad,” I say. My voice is soft, but not fragile. “You’ll have to show me what I’m missing.”

He beams, pleased, ego flaring in the brief pause. The elevator opens directly into the penthouse: a wall of glass, the city stretching out in a scatter of neon and car lights, windows thick enough to hush the world. For a moment, I can almost believe we’re above everything else.

He stands behind me as I step forward, hands tucked into his pockets, but he’s close—close enough that his scent brushes my shoulder. Expensive cologne, something citrus and sharp, threaded with warmth. I let my breath catch, just a little, not quite audible.

“Impressive, right?” He’s nearly boyish, pride curling his words. “The view’s the best part.”

I pretend to hesitate, my fingers finding the seam of my sleeve, tugging.

“I can see why you like it.” I turn my head, catch him watching me, his gaze unwavering, hungry for praise.

“You have great taste,” I add, gesturing to the room: all minimal lines, concrete softened with leather and deep blue.

“It feels… calm. Like you could leave the city behind, up here.”

His shoulders square, pleased. He moves to the bar—glassy, discreet—and pours a whiskey for himself. He gestures, bottle tilted, eyebrows raised.

I shake my head, apologetic. “I’m a lightweight. One drink and you’d be carrying me home.”

He laughs again, softer this time. “Tea, then?”

“That’d be perfect, thank you.” I wrap both hands around the mug he offers, let the steam cloud my face for a beat. My fingers toy with the rim, tracing circles, a fidget that reads as nerves. I watch the city, keeping my eyes wide, childlike, drinking in the glitter and hush.

He moves closer, and I let him. There’s a moment—his hand brushes my back, fingers spanning the hollow at my waist. I stiffen, then let myself relax, spine softening against the subtle pressure. He takes that as encouragement, thumb drifting, lingering.

“So,” he murmurs, head tilted, searching my face for something. “You always this shy, or is it just me?”

I let out a breath that almost counts as a laugh. “Maybe a little of both.”

His knuckles brush mine on the mug. He’s careful, almost gentle, but I feel him testing, reading the shape of my hesitation, looking for a gap. The scent of his cologne is stronger up close, almost dizzying. My eyes flick to his mouth, then away.

He tilts my chin, thumb grazing the angle of my jaw. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

I shake my head, but it’s too quick, too practiced, and he smiles at the lie.

He leans in, lips brushing mine—light at first, a test. I let myself startle, but only a little. His hand is warm on my cheek, anchoring me.

The kiss deepens for a moment, heat blooming behind my ribs, but I pull back before it can spiral, my breath catching. I look away, cheeks hot, eyes sliding down to the floor.

“Sorry,” I whisper, breathless. “I just—I’m not used to this.”

He reads the fluster as innocence. He likes it. His thumb traces my knuckles, possessive.

“It’s all right,” he soothes, voice low, proud. “We’ll go slow.”

I keep my hands tight around the mug, focus on the feeling of ceramic against my palms, the city lights beyond the glass, the warmth of him at my side.

I let my thoughts scatter, refusing to pin down anything solid. I am every version of the girl he thinks I am: shy, flustered, a little overwhelmed. I glance up through my lashes, catch the pleased, greedy look on his face, and I know I’ve given him exactly what he wanted.

He thinks he’s won something. He thinks I’m here, teetering, ready to fall. And for now, that’s true enough.

Nikola’s shift is subtle—first the smile, then the narrowing of his eyes, that faint upturn of his mouth that says he’s settling into his preferred role. The drinks are untouched, but the air hums with a charge that wasn’t there before.

He steps in, claiming the little space I’ve held around myself, arm sliding around my waist as if it belongs there. His fingertips skim the fabric of my blouse, heat leaching through, and he’s so certain—so sure that my soft laugh, my half-averted gaze, mean yes.

He guides me without effort. Not rough—just steady, sure, a practiced dancer who always leads. The city is spread beneath us, but the only view that matters is the way the penthouse pulls in, closing the world to just us and the slow, controlled pressure of his body.

He draws me toward the wide sofa, low and sunken, and I let him. My pulse is even, measured, as I allow myself to fold onto the cushions, knees angled toward him, posture loose.

Not a single quiver, no telltale panic. My breathing is calm. I trace my thumb along the inside of my wrist, anchoring myself.

Nikola notices. He likes my composure, mistakes it for submission.

He leans in, pressing his advantage—knuckles at my jaw, mouth at my ear. “You always this quiet?” he murmurs, voice somewhere between tease and claim.

I tip my head, hair falling to shield my face, eyes tracking his hands. “I’m still… figuring you out.” I let the confession hang, coy and soft, as he skims his thumb over my cheek. “It’s just different. All of this.”

He’s pleased. I see it in the way his body loosens, the way his guard lowers. He wants to believe I’m overwhelmed. He wants to play the generous host, the man who makes complicated things simple. He slides even closer, thigh pressed to mine, lips brushing my jaw.

“It’s just us,” he says, and there’s a question tucked inside it. I answer with a shy, sidelong glance.

“Do you live alone?” My voice is small, curious. “It must get lonely up here.”

He chuckles, smug. “I have staff during the day. Cleaning, groceries, whatever I need. They’re gone by six. No one here now but us.” His hand finds my hip, thumb stroking lazily. “You’re safe.”

I let myself relax into his touch, as if soothed. “What about security? With all these windows, don’t you ever feel… watched?” My tone is breathless, like the idea makes me shiver.

He likes this question. “No cameras inside. I like my privacy.” He sounds proud. “There’s a guard in the lobby, and cameras in the hall, but not up here. This is mine.” The pride borders on possessive, as if he’s inviting me to thank him for the privilege.

I let my eyes roam the space, mapping the room: the thick glass, the single elevator, the way his body blocks my view of the front door. “No one else coming?” My voice dips, soft and vulnerable. “I mean—does anyone know I’m here?”

He shakes his head, drawing me in for a kiss. “Not unless you want them to.”

I tilt my chin, let his mouth find mine. His kiss is confident, his hand anchoring my waist, the other cupping the back of my neck. I melt against him—perfectly, carefully.

He thinks he’s leading; I let him. I can feel the weight of his body shifting, bracketing me with his legs, and the entire room narrows to the scent of his cologne and the city lights ghosting through glass.

He deepens the kiss, testing boundaries. My hands tangle in his lapel. He thinks I’m clutching for balance; I’m checking the seams, the pressure, how easily the fabric could be used to choke.

His fingers drift lower, thumb brushing the hem of my skirt, and I let my breath quicken by half a beat—just enough to keep him invested. “You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“A little,” I breathe, and I make it sound like nerves. “It’s just… intense.”

He takes it as invitation, teeth grazing my jaw, voice dropping lower. “I want you here. Stay.”

My work brain wakes up, sharp as a knife. I clock the camera angle in the ceiling—pointed harmlessly at the elevator, not the living area. The door behind us is weighted, the latch soft but distinct; I’d heard it click when we entered.