Page 92 of Killer Love

Yuri groans even louder.

“The ballet?” Luka parrots back at me.

“What? You don’t like the ballet?”

“I am a Russian mobster, Sofia,” he jokes. “I love the ballet.”

I laugh and settle beneath his arm. “Okay, no ballet. What would you like to do?”

His eyes fall down my body and that answer becomes obvious. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a few of these fancy American hotel rooms you hear so much about…”

“We did not come halfway around the world to waste time in hotel rooms, little brother,” Yuri scolds.

Luka’s lips brush my cheek. “Maybe you didn’t, Yuri…”

Yuri rolls his eyes and looks out the window at the passing city. “Fine. Be boring.”

I lean into Luka’s kiss, feeling my face flush red.

He opens his eyes and grins. “You are smiling, lyubov’ moya.”

“I am happy.”

“It looks good on you.” He kisses the edge of my mouth and tugs at my dress collar to peek inside. “Unlike this pesky and bulky—”

Yuri groans again and Luka glares at him with annoyance. “Save it for the hotel room, please.”

I put a little distance between us on the seat, still smiling wide. “Sorry, Yuri.”

Luka sits back and sighs, turning out his hand for me to take. I pause as fear forces me to stare at it.

My pulse slows, nearly halting completely with the passage of time. Black mist clouds my mind, threatening all that I think is real and true. I’ve reached for his disappearing hand so many times before and, for a moment, I wonder if all of this is just a dream.

I lay my hand in his and his strong fingers entwine with mine.

Luka Lutrova.

The boy in the garden shed with kindness in his eyes.

I’m finally home.

Chapter 28

Luka

I step into the warehouse and I inhale a deep breath. The air is thick and warm with that familiar stench of blood and sweat. Morning sunlight pours in through the windows, illuminating every black hair on his downturn head, and I smile.

The man sits in the chair at the center of the room with his hands bound behind his back. A black, tactical vest. Red blood dripping from his lips.

It’s almost nostalgic.

Stefan Petrovin stands nearby with Nikita and two of their men, looking just as eager as I feel. The hissing man killed Hans. Stefan’s son. Nikita’s brother. I’m not sure which of the three of us will enjoy this more.

Markov walks in behind me and slides the door closed. “Make it quick,” he says to me.

“We still have plenty of time, Markov.” I smirk.

His eyes flash with impatience, but he doesn’t argue.

---