Page 58 of Ruthless Bratva King

"Because," he says, his voice softening, "I need more drink and some food first."

42

ELENA

The aroma of the takeout Dmitri insisted on ordering fills the small kitchen, mingling with the tension still lingering in the air. I pick at my food, my appetite dulled by everything that’s happened.

Dmitri, however, eats with the calm focus of someone who has endured far worse than tonight.

After a while, the sound of his fork clinking against the plate slows, and he leans back in his chair, studying me. "You’re quiet."

"Just tired," I say, avoiding his gaze.

He tilts his head, unconvinced. "Liar. Come here."

Before I can protest, he stands and reaches for me, pulling me to my feet and wrapping his arms around me. His embrace is warm, strong, and unyielding, his body a solid wall against mine.

"I don’t want you carrying this on your shoulders," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head.

"Carrying what?" I ask softly, my voice muffled against his chest.

"All of it," he replies. "The fear."

"I need answers, Dmitri," I whisper, my hands resting lightly on his chest. "Who are you?"

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’ll deflect again. But then he exhales, his breath warm against my cheek. “Yes, I work for the Russian Mafia. A man named Peter Ivanov is my boss. I’ve done many things in my career but no more. I’m in the process of retiring. I just have one last job to do and then I’m out.”

"What kind of job?"

He hesitates, his gaze searching mine but he ignores the question. "I have enough money saved to walk away and never look back. Then, we might have a chance."

"Can you just retire from the Bratva like that?”

His lips curve into a faint smile, though his eyes remain serious. "It’s not as simple as handing in my two weeks, but yes. I’ve planned for this for a long time. I was going to disappear somewhere far away but now? Now, I want something different."

The way he looks at me when he says that makes my heart lurch.

"What do you want now?"

"A future with you, of course.”

43

ELENA

Dmitri comes out of the bathroom first thing in the morning, a towel slung low around his hips. The scars and bruises marring his muscular frame catch the dim light of the room.

A fighter’s body, a killer’s body. My throat goes dry as my eyes trace the lines of him—the broad shoulders, the lean waist, the way his muscles ripple with even the slightest movement.

“Is it bleeding again?” he asks, his voice deep and gravelly as he turns his back to me.

“No,” I say, sitting up in bed. “It’s fine.”

His eyes narrow slightly as he walks over. My heart thuds in my chest as he reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly over my cheek.

“You stitch well,” he says.

“Belief is what matters, right?”

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