Page 59 of Captured By the Bratva

“So I can see your artwork.”

I followed him toward the door. Having an opportunity to spend time with him alone sounded like the dream I wanted to come true. “But why?”

“That’s the connection you had to Dom. And if Murphy is working with Dom or targeting him specifically, then that’s a direct way for me to get to him.” He paused at the door, stopping so suddenly that I slammed into him.

I craned my neck to look up at him, peering into his dark gaze.

“And the faster I remove him…”

I swallowed. “Then you can be rid of me? And Emily?” I had no right to pose that question to him, but I wanted to know. I had to know.

He tipped his head to the side, staring at me with such intensity.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, licking his lips as he locked his heated gaze on mine.

Breathing was difficult. My heart raced so fast. His direct attention unnerved me in the best of ways, but I felt overwhelmed, torn between answering honestly but not sounding too desperate and clingy.

“I want…” God, I couldn’t say it. I’d never been able to make a request or ask for anything for myself. Doing so felt dangerous, like he’d use the knowledge of my desire for him against me.

He sighed, taking my hand as he turned and left the room with me. “Margie can stay with Emily. Where is this studio?”

I told him, wincing when he shot me an incredulous look. “I know. It’s not a great area of the city.”

“Deep in the Cartel’s territory,” he commented with a hard look.

“It was my grandmother’s studio.”

After we checked with Margie that she’d gladly stay with Emily and watch her, I left with Ivan. It was strange to leave the house, and he noticed, still holding my hand.

“I’m not going to run,” I said as he led me to the car in the garage.

He held on tighter anyway. “I know.”

So… you enjoy holding my hand? For the hell of it?I fought a smile, too giddy with this one-eighty of attention.

Once we were in the car, I felt the heat of his gaze on me as I buckled.

“What?” I brushed my hair back as I looked up at him, unsure how to navigate this moment. He looked at me with such desire, but a guardedness he wouldn’t give up on.

“Nothing.” He drove, and after a few awkward minutes of quiet, he turned to me. “How did your grandmother get this studio?”

I settled into the seat, glad to talk about someone in my family I wasn’t ashamed of. “Her grandparents bought it for her. My mother’s side of the family is a long one of hardships. Coming to the US as immigrants, toughing out new beginnings and all. I believe the basement space was important for the prohibition times. My great-great grandfather was an officer, and he kept the area that his wife turned into a pottery space. The kiln had been updated, but the purpose of the room remained the same.”

“You come from a long line of cops?” he asked.

“Yes and no. Many of them served in law enforcement, but just as many didn’t. My grandfather was actually Steven’s boss.” My chipper mood fell. “They never got along, and no wonder. Steven is as crooked as they come. I still think he set up my mother to die.”

“How did she die?”

“In a car accident. It was right after my grandfather punished Steven on the force, and it seemed too convenient of a timing. Like payback. A week later, my grandfather passed away, probably the strain of grief of losing his only child. Then my grandmother had a stroke and could no longer get around well enough to see to my care. I was stuck with Steven, and that was that.”

He took my hand and squeezed it again. “I’m sorry.”

I sighed, loving his tender touch. “It is what it is.”

“I lost my mother too soon. And my father was killed by another family member.”

I shook my head. “I guess we’re not too different, after all.”

---