Page 50 of Married to the Bratva

“My mother,” he says flatly. The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. “She wasn’t who he thought she was.”

His tone is distant, like he’s forcing himself to look back at something he’s spent years trying to forget. I stay quiet, letting him continue.

“She was charismatic. The kind of woman who could make you believe in miracles. But underneath it all, she was a wreck.

“My father met her when she was at her worst. She was an addict, barely holding herself together. But he didn’t see that—or maybe he just didn’t want to. He saw someone he was sure he could save.”

I swallow hard, the image he’s painting settling uneasily in my mind. “Did she want to be saved?”

“She said she did,” he says bitterly. “And maybe she believed it for a while. He got her into treatment, stayed by her side, believed her every time she swore she’d changed.”

His lips press into a thin line, and I see the flicker of something raw in his eyes. “But addiction... it doesn’t let go so easily. And she she didn’t fight it. She just got better at hiding it. At lying.”

The pain in his voice is unmistakable now, and my chest tightens. I can see the boy he must have been, watching it all. The same childhood as me, despite all our differences.

“One night, she took money from him. A lot of money,” he continues, his voice steadier now but no less hollow. “He was furious. Thought she was using again. She swore she wasn’t, begged him to believe her. He forgave her. Told him she’d never do it again.”

“But she did,” I say quietly, already knowing where this is going.

“She did,” he confirms, his tone colder now. “And the next time, it was worse. She didn’t just steal from him—she betrayed him. She went to Federico, traded information for cash and a fix. She didn’t care what it meant for him, for us.”

I blink, stunned. “What happened?”

“She overdosed in the end,” he says bluntly, his voice devoid of emotion. “On the drugs they gave her. Federico’s drugs. I was the one who found her. I was just a kid, and I walked into her room, thinking she was asleep.”

“But she wasn’t?”

My heart clenches painfully. “Maxim…”

He shakes his head sharply, cutting off whatever comfort I was about to offer. “Don’t. She made her choices. And my father paid the price for believing in her. He never recovered from it—not emotionally, not financially. It broke him. Took me years of work to claw back what she sold so cheaply.”

He turns back to me, his gaze hard but laced with something deeper—something raw and unguarded. “That’s why I find it hard to trust people. Why I don’t believe in redemption or second chances. Because when you let people in, when you give them power over you, they destroy you.”

His words hang between us, heavy and unrelenting. I want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but I can see the pain etched intohis features, the scars left behind by a lifetime of betrayal and loss.

I realize just how much he’s had to carry—and how much it’s shaped the man standing in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, the words feeling inadequate but sincere. “No one should have to go through that. Especially not a child.”

For a moment, his gaze softens, and I see a flicker of something vulnerable beneath the hardened exterior. But then it’s gone, replaced by the same steely resolve he always wears like armor.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says finally, his voice cold again. “It made me who I am. And it taught me one thing: never trust anyone.”

“But you said you trust me.”

He shrugs. “You went through the same thing. You saw your mother die.”

“I didn’t find her body. My grandmother did. I was in school, came home to the ambulance outside, and a whole load of questions I couldn’t answer.”

I look up at him. “I tried trusting people, over and over. God help me, I’m trying to trust you, but I don’t know if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Maybe you are,” he replies, the shutters coming down again as he glances up at my laptop. “Your routine has finished.”

I want to tell him to keep talking but I know it’ll be pointless. He’s already on his feet getting dressed. “Next time you take a break, find me. I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”

36

SOPHIE

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