Page 57 of Ruthless Bratva King

"Just take your time," he says, his voice calm despite the circumstances. "I’ll guide you."

With trembling hands, I thread the needle and kneel behind him. The first stitch is the hardest; my fingers feel clumsy, and my stomach churns at the sight of the needle piercing his skin.

He lets out a low hiss but doesn’t move. "Good," he says, his voice low and steady. "Keep going."

When I finally tie off the last stitch, I sit back on my heels, my hands shaking and my heart pounding.

"It’s done," I whisper, barely able to meet his gaze.

He turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder at the crude but effective row of stitches. "You did well, Elena."

I want to argue, to tell him how reckless this is, but the warmth in his tone silences me. For a moment, I feel a flicker of pride amidst the chaos.

"What now?" I ask, my voice shaky but steadier than before.

"You drive," Dmitri says, pulling his shirt back on with a wince. “I finish the vodka.”

41

ELENA

Igrip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white as I guide the car through the empty streets.

Dmitri reclines in the passenger seat, his body tense but his expression unreadable.

I glance at him, his profile sharp in the dim light of the dashboard. His jaw is set, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Finally, I break the quiet. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me. Then he exhales, his voice low and measured. "The man who came to see you won’t be a problem anymore."

My grip on the wheel tightens. "What does that mean?"

"It means I dealt with him and his friends," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “No one’s reporting back to Peter about you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like I said, you’re under my protection.”

I glance at him again, trying to read his expression, but his face is as impenetrable as ever. "And your back?"

"One of them managed to get close with a knife."

The image of Dmitri surrounded, fighting for his life, sends a shiver down my spine. "You could’ve died," I say softly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

"But I didn’t," he replies, turning his head to look at me. His gaze is steady. "They did."

Silence settles over us again, but it’s far from comfortable. I hesitate, then ask the question that’s been clawing at my mind since I looked him up online. “Do you work for Peter Ivanov? The Bratva Boss?”

His head snaps toward me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What makes you say that?"

"I read about him online," I admit, my voice quiet but firm. "Are you his hitman? The one they talk about? Did you do those terrible things?"

He exhales slowly, his gaze shifting back to the road. For a long moment, he says nothing, the tension between us growing unbearable.

Finally, he speaks, his tone calm but laced with steel. "I’ll tell you the truth, Elena. But not now."

"Why not?" I demand, the frustration bubbling up despite myself.

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