Arranged Plus-Size Curves of the Bratva (Rusnak Bratva #4)

Chapter 1 – Noelle

If wishes burned calories, I’d have the body of a supermodel by now. Instead, I’ve got hips that don’t quit and thighs that laugh in the face of denim.

I groan as I yank on the loosest pair of jeans I own, and still, my curves insist on announcing themselves like a marching band. It’s a ritual at this point: Stand in front of the mirror, make sure I’m covered head to toe, pray nothing clings.

Baggiest jeans. Oversized black hoodie. Hair tied back. And yet my ass and thighs act like they’re auditioning for their own spotlight.

But I’m not hiding my body because I don’t want attention; it’s because there are scars on my skin that tell a story I don’t want anyone else to know.

I turn away from the mirror to shove my stethoscope into my bag when the door creaks open.

Sasha fills the frame like she’s stepping onto a magazine cover instead of into our crappy Chicago apartment.

She’s tall—long legs, slim waist, the kind of effortless grace that makes people stare.

Blonde hair falls in perfect waves over her shoulder, and even in pink pajama shorts and an oversized tee, she looks like she belongs on a private jet, sipping champagne.

Which, knowing her job as a flight attendant, she probably does.

Sometimes I wonder how the hell we ended up as roommates.

“Don’t you have a flight or something?” I ask, smirking.

She groans, rubbing her eyes like a child who just lost her favorite toy. “Three hours. That’s all I get before I have to drag myself back to O’Hare and smile at a bunch of entitled assholes who think the sky belongs to them.”

I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t envy you.”

“Well, I envy you.” She narrows her blue eyes at me in mock bitterness. “Sometimes I wish I worked at Redline Assembly. At least I’d be on solid ground, not thirty thousand feet in the air, wondering if the pilot got enough sleep.”

Factory. Right. Redline Assembly—the fictional nine-to-five I invented when I moved in. It’s grimy, boring, and just believable enough to keep Sasha from asking questions.

If she ever found out the truth, she’d pack her bags and sprint in the opposite direction.

Because the truth is simple and deadly.

I don’t clock in at a factory. I clock in at an underground Bratva clinic—patching up mobsters, stitching bullet holes, resetting broken bones for men who’d slit my throat if I so much as breathed wrong.

I shouldn’t be there. But the pay is good—too good. And until someone gifts me a few hundred thousand for med school tuition? Judge me when you can pay my bills. For now, I’m working there, scraping up every penny I make and saving it for my tuition.

I have my own goals. I want to finish med school. I want my own clinic. But I don’t have enough money yet, so for now, I work for men who carry guns and knives and slit throats without blinking. I’m almost used to it by now. It’s been over a year.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and head to the door.

Sasha steps aside, still smiling. “I guess I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“Yes.” I kiss her cheek. “Take care.”

She walks me to the door, waving as I step out into the evening. I round the bend, and a taxi is waiting at the curb. I get in, nodding at the driver. He nods back, eyes on the road as we pull away.

He’s the only driver I use. I don’t know his real name, but I know the ink curling up his wrist and the pistol tucked under his seat mean he’s Bratva. That’s enough. He doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t offer answers. It’s an arrangement that keeps me alive.

Chicago blurs past in a wash of neon and shadows as we cut through backstreets, deeper into neighborhoods most people avoid after dark. The farther we go, the more the city peels away—until there’s nothing left but warehouses, abandoned factories, and silence that hums like a warning.

We turn down an alley no GPS would recognize. Brick walls loom on both sides, graffiti sprayed in languages I can’t read. At the far end, a rusted metal door sits half-hidden beneath a broken security light. To anyone else, it looks condemned. To me, it’s work.

The driver slows, kills the engine. I press cash into his waiting hand. He doesn’t count it, just tucks it into his pocket with a grunt. Our deal is simple: he delivers me here in one piece, and I pay him enough to make sure he always does.

I step out, the night air colder here, heavier. The alley smells of oil and rot, the kind of place where secrets go to rot, too. Hugging my bag closer, I hurry toward the door.

One sharp knock. A pause. Then another.

There’s a metallic scrape before the door swings open. No words, no greetings, just the silent acknowledgment of the guard inside. I slip past him, head down, into the clinic.

The door clangs shut behind me, locking out the city and locking me into a world where blood is currency, and survival is earned one stitch at a time.

The clinic smells like bleach and blood. Always the same. I push through the narrow hallway and slip into the staff locker room.

People move around me—pulling on scrubs, tying their hair back, lacing up gloves—but no one says a word. The only sounds are zippers, the snap of latex, the metallic slam of lockers shutting one after the other. Everyone here works like a machine. Efficient and silent.

I slide my bag into my locker and pull out my clean scrubs. As I change, the silence presses harder, until it feels like I’m suffocating inside it. I miss what it’s like to laugh with someone, to talk until the hours blur, to have a friend who sees me.

I miss Violet.

She and I used to share everything back in med school. Study sessions that went until sunrise. Coffee runs on zero sleep. Secrets whispered into pillows. Even after I dropped out, we stuck together as roommates for a while.

Until my breakup with Anton.

He was a Bratva soldier with too much charm and too many promises.

He blew my life apart piece by piece until the only way out was to run.

Chicago was supposed to be my fresh start, my escape.

The breakup was ugly, brutal in ways I don’t let myself replay too often.

But the vow I made still stands: never again. Never another Bratva soldier.

Sometimes I wonder about Violet and Kaz, though. I hear things, how happy they are, how it actually worked out for them. They’re the exception, not the rule. And I can’t afford to believe in exceptions.

I tie my scrub top, shut my locker, and step out into the corridor. Work waits.

I don’t make it three steps before the door bursts open. Two Bratva soldiers storm in, dragging a bleeding man between them. His shirt is soaked scarlet, his breath wet and ragged, and the metallic stink of blood floods the room like a wave.

“Table. Now.” One of them barks it at me, but I don’t need the order. I’m already moving.

They haul him onto the gurney, blood smearing across the stainless steel. He groans, hand twitching toward the wound in his side, but I slap on gloves and push his arm away.

No questions. That’s the first rule. Always.

The past year has drilled it into me: patch them up, keep them breathing, and don’t you dare ask how the bullet got there. Curiosity is dangerous currency here, and I’ve learned to live broke.

I grab the scissors and slice open his shirt. The hole in his abdomen is dark, pulsing, and deep. A gunshot wound. Bullet’s still inside.

“Clamp,” I mutter, though no one offers help.

They never do. The soldiers stand back, eyes cold and sharp, as if daring me to fail.

I work fast, steady, blocking out the sound of his uneven gasps.

I’ve sewn enough flesh in this place to know the rhythm—cut, clamp, pull, stitch. My hands move on muscle memory.

I steady my breath, lock the memory away, and dig in with the forceps. The bullet scrapes against the metal with a sickening sound. The man groans, his body bucking, but I press harder, unflinching, until the small piece of lead comes free.

I drop it into the tray. Clink.

His blood still runs hot and fast, but I’m already stitching, my fingers sure and efficient.

I’m almost finished wrapping his side when my phone buzzes against the steel counter. I glance down. A single text glows on the screen. It’s from a restricted number, and it says, “You are being watched.”

The breath catches in my throat. My gloves are sticky with blood, but the chill that slides down my spine has nothing to do with the mess on my hands. A restricted number means I can’t reply. I can’t call back. Whoever sent it wants me to read it, sit with it, and wonder.

My heart beats faster, but my face stays blank.

Fear is a luxury here.

I press the last strip of gauze into place, tape it down, and step back. “Done.”

The two soldiers move in instantly, one under each of the man’s arms, hauling him up like a rag doll. He’s barely conscious, but it doesn’t matter. Patients don’t recover here. They don’t rest. They just get sewn up, handed back their gun, and shoved into the night again.

The door bangs shut behind them, leaving only the stink of blood and antiseptic. Silence presses in, but my mind isn’t quiet.

The message burns in my mind. You are being watched.

Anton flashes through my mind, his face twisted with anger the last time I saw him. He’d hated that I left, hated that I escaped to Chicago instead of playing the loyal little doll at his side. He’d promised I’d regret it.

He couldn’t chase me down here; that’s why I came here to hide my head. Being part of the Rusnak Bratva, he couldn’t come here to cause any trouble.

This is Niko’s city.

Nikolai Volkov-Rusnak governs the Chicago Bratva, and he does it with an iron hand. His shadow stretches across every street, every alley, every corner. I’ve never seen him, because he’s very elusive. Only appearing in person to make permanent messages.

But I’ve heard enough. Ruthless. Unforgiving. The kind of man other Bratva won’t even whisper about without lowering their voices.