Page 8 of Bound By Hate (Born in Blood)

“I’ll call the cops,” I tell him.

Gleb only shrugs. “And tell them what? I work for the Bratva. We own most of New York and the police. I’m here to stay. Now, I would love some dinner.” He looks at me expectantly.

It doesn’t seem to matter where Mila or I go. We’re hunted by Bratva men, keen on hurting us. Gleb may say he wants to protect us, but he must have an ulterior motive. I know Bratva men. They don’t do anything out of the kindness of their hearts.

“I don’t cook.”

“That’s a shame.” He turns to Mila. “Can you cook?”

“Mila, don’t answer,” I snap when she opens her mouth. She quickly shuts it. “I’ll order something.”

Gleb nods once. “Sounds good.”

I grab Mila’s hand and hurry into the hallway. “What are we going to do?” she asks.

“We’re going to call Sofiya. She wanted us back in New York because she thought we’d be safer here. But Gleb proves we’re not.”

“So … what does that mean?”

“It means,” I say as I press Sofiya’s name in my phone, “we’re going back to Russia.”

SOFIYA

When I get the call my sisters are once again in trouble, I immediately tell Mikhail we need to bring them to Russia.

“But the last time they were here,” he says, “they almost died. Do you think this is wise?”

“I think they’re always going to be in danger. I’d rather them be here and in danger where you can help protect them than in New York in danger all on their own. Apparently, Boris had it in a clause for some other man to come in and be in charge of my sisters. We need to help them, Mikhail.”

He smiles down at me, making me feel instantly at ease. “Of course, we’ll help them.”

“Help who?” Aleksander asks, walking through the front door. Mikhail invited him over to discuss business. Aleksander is younger than Mikhail by at least ten years. But despite being in his thirties, he gives off the energy of someone much older. Harder. That’s it. Aleksander has a hard disposition.

“Sofiya’s sisters are coming back to Russia.”

Aleksander’s face doesn’t change, but there’s a slight lightening of his eyes. “Oh? I remember them. The quiet one.”

“Mila,” I offer.

“And the not-so-quiet one,” he continues.

“That would be Viktoriya,” I say with a sigh.

“I remember Viktoriya, all right.”

It puts me on edge the way he says that. The last time Vik was here, Mikhail threw a party, and Aleksander told her to dance, even though she still had a hurt ankle. She refused, and things became tense. I’m not surprised he remembers her—he seemed to have set his sights on her before.

“Aleksander,” I say, “I am asking you to leave Vik alone. She’s seeking safety here.”

He inclines his head. “Of course. I have no intention of making Viktoriya uncomfortable. I just don’t take too well to people with large egos.”

If there’s anyone I know in this life who has a large ego, it’s Viktoriya.

“Viktoriya doesn’t need to worry about me,” he says.

For some reason, I feel like he’s lying.

VIKTORIYA

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