Page 80 of Ruthless Bratva King

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus, to push down the storm of emotions rising within me. “Elena,” I say, my voice low but firm, “I’m getting you out of here.”

My hands work swiftly to untie her bindings, my fingers trembling ever so slightly against the coarse rope.

As soon as her hands are free, she shoves me back with a force that catches me off guard.

“Don’t touch me!” she snaps, her voice trembling with fury and heartbreak.

“Elena—”

Her eyes are ablaze, glistening with tears that refuse to fall. She’s on her feet now, standing just inches away, but it feels like miles separate us.

“You lied to me,” she hisses, her voice breaking. “You killed them. My family. You?—”

Her voice falters, but she catches herself, shaking her head as if trying to clear the thought. “You slept with me. You looked me in the eye and you lied.”

Her words cut deeper than any blade could.

“Elena, listen to me.” I try to keep my voice steady, but the desperation leaks through. “Do you really believe I would do that? That I would hurt you like that?”

Her laugh is bitter, sharp as shattered glass. “What am I supposed to believe, Dmitri? What? You disappear, you come back with blood on your hands, and now Peter’s dead at your feet!

“Everything you’ve done—everything you’ve said—how can I believe a single word? All you wanted was to take his job, that much is clear. Congratulations, you win.”

For a moment, I’m silent. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I can see she’s not ready to hear it.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded slip of paper, stepping forward and holding it out to her.

She doesn’t take it right away, her glare unwavering. “What is that?”

“An address,” I say quietly. “Go there. Then decide who I am.”

57

ELENA

The subway car rattles around me, a hollow, metallic echo.

I grip the address Dmitri gave me, the paper crinkled and damp from my clammy hands.

The destination stares back at me in sharp black ink, as if mocking the questions swirling in my head.

Did he kill them? Is he the monster Peter says he is? Or was it all a lie—to Peter, to me, to himself? What do I want to believe?

The train screeches to a halt, jolting me upright. My stop. I shove the paper into my pocket and step out into the cold, grim streets.

Broken windows, graffiti-smeared walls, trash-strewn alleys—this is a place where survival outweighs living. The air smells of pure desperation.

The address leads me to a crumbling brownstone at the end of the block. Its shutters hang loose like broken wings, and the front steps sag with decay.

I stop at the base of the stairs. My hands tremble, not from the chill but from the storm of emotions inside me. I’ve never been here, but it feels hauntingly familiar—this sense of being on the edge of something that will break me.

The answer I’ve been looking for is in this building. I know it is.

My mind flashes back to the conversation with Dmitri. The cold way he told me he’d killed my family. The unshakable mask he wore, even as my heart cracked in his presence.

I inhale deeply, forcing the air into my lungs, and start climbing the stairs. They creak under my weight, each step a countdown to the truth.

When I reach the door, I hesitate, hand poised to knock. My knuckles hover, but I can’t bring myself to connect.

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