Page 46 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Her words settle over me, heavy and unwelcome. “Peace,” I say bitterly. “That’s not exactly in the cards for me right now.”

“You say that now, but things won’t always feel so hopeless,” Vera replies, her voice steady.

I look at her, a lump forming in my throat. It’s been so long since someone spoke to me like this—with kindness, without an ulterior motive.

“Do you… like it here?” I ask hesitantly.

Vera tilts her head thoughtfully. “It has its challenges,” she admits. “But I’ve made my place here. I’ve learned to focus on the good. I’ve learned that even in the hardest circumstances, there’s always something worth holding on to.”

Her gaze lingers on me meaningfully, and I realize she’s offering something more than words—an unspokenunderstanding, a lifeline in the overwhelming sea of my own thoughts.

Vera settles into the chair opposite me, her hands clasped neatly on the table. She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting around the kitchen as if gathering her thoughts. The air feels warmer here, less suffocating than the rest of the mansion.

“This house,” she begins softly, “has always been a strange place to live. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Grand and imposing, but… cold, in a way.”

I nod slowly, unsure of how to respond.

“It wasn’t always like this,” Vera continues. “When Makar was young, this place was alive. His parents hosted dinners, there were celebrations, and the staff—well, we weren’t just workers. We were a family, of sorts.”

I glance at her, intrigued despite myself. “What happened?”

Her smile falters, and a shadow crosses her face. “Time happened. Loss happened. The world outside these walls grew harsher, and the family had to adapt. Makar’s father… he was a good man, but strict. He believed in discipline, in responsibility. He passed that on to his sons.”

I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table. “Makar had a brother?”

“Anatoly,” Vera says, her voice softening with a tinge of sorrow. “Younger by a few years. The two of them were inseparable as boys. Makar was always the responsible one, taking care of his brother, making sure he stayed out of trouble. It was almost as if he thought it was his duty.”

I try to imagine Makar as a child, running through the halls of this enormous house, laughing and carefree. It doesn’t fit with the cold, controlled man I’ve come to know.

“Even then,” Vera continues, “he was serious. He always felt the weight of the family’s expectations. But there was a lightness to him too. He was… kind. Protective. When Anatoly died….” She trails off, shaking her head. “It changed him. Hardened him.”

Her words are heavy with meaning. I think of the man who had kissed me with such intensity last night, who had laid down rules with an iron will this morning. I can’t reconcile that man with the boy Vera describes.

“Do you think…?” I hesitate, unsure if I want the answer. “Do you think there’s still a part of him that’s like that? Kind.”

Vera’s smile returns, faint but knowing. “I do,” she says. “It’s buried deep, but it’s there. I’ve seen glimpses of it. You might too, if you look hard enough.”

I snort softly, shaking my head. “I doubt that.”

“Give it time,” Vera says simply.

Her words stir something in me, but I push it aside. “What about you?” I ask, eager to shift the focus away from Makar. “How did you end up here?”

“I’ve been here since I was very young,” Vera replies, a touch of pride in her voice. “I came when I was just a girl, working under the housekeeper before me. I’ve seen this house through many seasons, many changes.”

I nod, her story comforting in its simplicity. She’s steady, a quiet anchor in a place that feels like it’s constantly shifting beneath my feet.

Without thinking, I say, “I used to have something like that. A sense of stability, I mean.”

Vera tilts her head, encouraging me to continue.

“My mom,” I say quietly, my gaze dropping to my hands. “She used to make this dessert—cinnamon rolls with cherrieson top. I’d come home from school, and she’d have them ready. They weren’t fancy or anything, but… they made everything feel normal. Safe.”

My voice falters, and I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to push them back, ashamed of the vulnerability slipping through.

Vera reaches across the table, her hand resting gently over mine. Her touch is warm, grounding. “That sounds lovely,” she says softly. “Food has a way of bringing back memories, doesn’t it? It’s not just about the taste—it’s the feeling, the comfort it brings.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “I haven’t had them since she passed.”

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