Page 172 of Sinful Blaze

He’s quiet for a while after that. “I’ll give you one of my secrets, if you give me one of yours,” he finally says.

I lean back in my chair, squinting at him. What is his game? “Go on.”

“This Daphne woman. Do you love her?”

Of all the questions he could have asked, he goes for the one that has nothing to do with him. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

“A secret for a secret. Pakhan to pakhan—well, retired, anyway—I know how important it is to keep your true feelings hidden from your own men. Or… even from her.”

He’s right. He’s right and he fucking knows it. I don’t want to play his game, but I also want to know what the hell his so-called secret is. “More than anything,” I concede at last. “I love Daphne more than anything.”

“If it came down to it, between her or the Bratva, which would you choose?”

“You said one secret. That’s two.”

“Answer the question.”

“No.” I shove my chair back and stand. “Get out of my office.”

He holds a hand up to stop me in my tracks. “Hold on, Pasha. You misunderstand.”

“You’re prying into my business?—”

“I chose the Bratva,” he interjects.

I pause. Mainly because something in his voice cracks, and that’s very unusual for a man as powerful as him.

“I chose the Bratva. Men like you and me, we always choose the Bratva.” Arlo rises, fixes his coat, and takes a step closer. “I’m telling you now, Pasha, before you ever have to make that decision: never choose the Bratva.”

This crazy bastard is out of his mind. “The hell are you talking about?”

He sighs, then starts tugging on his leather driving gloves. “I thought I made the right choice. I was young, I was stupid—and I lost everything. Now, I’m here, and I’m not leaving. Even if it’s too late to fix things.”

With one final, cryptic nod, Arlo Fedorov turns on his heels and slips out of my office.

“Pasha! What a pleasant surprise!” Mama beams at me and holds the door open wider. “Come on in!”

“I won’t be long,” I warn her.

“You will.” She takes my jacket from me, hangs it up, and pats my arm. “I know why you’re here. Arlo called me.”

Fucking Arlo.

“You two seem close,” I remark.

Mama smiles wistfully and leads me to her living room. “Come. I’ve made us some tea.”

When prisoners evade my questions, it’s because they know the answer will get them killed. When my own mother evades my questions, it’s because she knows that I’m going to hate what she has to say.

“Did he tell you how we know each other?”

I shake my head. “He said that’s for you to share.”

“Mm. He’s a good man. Always has been. Just like his father.” She settles into a chair next to mine and pours the tea. “I was born into his household, in a way. My father was one of Pakhan Fedorov’s vors. We lived in a house on his estate just outside Omsk, and my mother helped with the gardening.”

I accept the cup and saucer from her, but I don’t interrupt. Something about this feels too important to interrupt with questions.

For now.

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