Page 92 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

Victoria

I press my forehead against the cold wooden floor, blinking sleep away. I don’t know whether it’s day or night, but everything feels sluggish. In this awful neighborhood, the only sounds from outside that I recognize are crickets. No passing cars, no shouting pedestrians, nothing.

I want to sleep again, to pretend everything—this awful house, Rogers, all of it—doesn’t exist. But I can’t force myself to do it.

I push up from the ground. The room that Rogers put me in doesn’t have a bed. My body groans in protest.

I tried to fight him off when he shoved me in here. When I thought he wasn’t looking, I made a break for it. But he was too big, too strong. He grabbed me around the waist, slapped me hard across the mouth, and threw me to the cold floor. I can still taste the blood.

I wanted to save myself. I wanted to overpower him and break free from this hellhole, but he’s made it clear that I can’t.

He wants me to think I’m alone. To break me. But I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

Even though things are looking bleaker by the second. Mentally, I know that my odds of making it out of here aren’t good. I just have to remind myself that I’m doing this for the right reasons.

For Nikolai.

For Matvei.

They need each other more than either one realizes. They’re each the only family that the other has left. I can’t let Rogers kill either one.

The mental image of Nikolas standing at Matvei’s casket flashes through my mind and I put my head to my knees, sobbing. He doesn’t deserve this. If Rogers succeeds in killing us both, he’s going to take Nikolas and disappear. He’ll bring Nikolas up to be just as insane as he is. The thought reduces me to even more tears.

When the chains on the door start to jangle, I wipe my eyes and push myself up from the floor, bones and joints popping and cracking. I straighten up and stare directly ahead of me, watching the door as Rogers slowly eases it open.

He carries a plate of food in his hand. Nothing fancy. A Styrofoam cup of water. A place of bread and some weird meat that looks like it came from a can. No utensils. Just a paper plate and napkins.

“Here,” he says, handing me the tray. He drags in a stool and takes a seat. Tentatively, I cross my legs on the floor and grab for the bread, taking a small bite. It has no taste, but right now, my stomach is roaring for something. I can’t be picky. If I don’t eat this, nothing else will come. I’ll have no strength and no hope at that point.

“Thank you for this,” I say, looking up at him. I make a show of eating a piece of meat with the bread, then drinking the water. “It’s really good.”

Rogers narrows his eyes at me but says nothing.

I eat in silence, trying to take my time and savor every last bite. It could be my final meal.

He rises from the stool and approaches me, but I keep my head down, focusing on my eating. When he’s close enough, he drags his fingers through my hair. Since I’ve been here, he’s grown more and more comfortable with touching me, and each time he does, it makes my skin crawl. I don’t know what he’s going to do if this thing lasts any longer, but I know that I won’t put up with him hurting me that way. I’ll go down fighting before I let him violate me.

Thankfully, he stands up straight again and says, “I’m beginning to wonder if Matvei really isn’t coming.”

I swallow a big piece of bread, my throat raw as it goes down. “Why?”

“I’ve been watching him for a long time now. That’s what I spend most of my time doing. He seems to be going on with life as usual. It’s very disappointing, truly.”

I refuse to let the light of hope reignite in my chest. Matvei is not coming to save me. He’s going to take Nikolai and hide, run, fight back—whatever it takes to keep the boy safe. I might die here. But at least I’ll die knowing I did the right thing.

I look up to meet Rogers’s eyes. “Why are you disappointed?”

“Because I would have thought Matvei would make a move by now. His brother was the reckless one, true, but Matvei came running to stop him from getting to the factory. This kind of scenario deserves a show of love,” Rogers murmurs. “Him bursting through the door, risking his life to save the woman he cares for. I mean, it writes itself, truly.”

I finish the soggy meat and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, chewing thoughtfully. “You talk a lot about love,” I note.

“It’s the only thing we have in this miserable life,” he replies.

“I … I just have to ask. If you loved Brianne, why did you kill her, too? She was the only woman who ever treated you right, that’s what you said. But you went and shot her?”

A flash of anger sparks on Rogers’s face, and I prepare myself for him to yell at me. I’ve gotten to a touchy subject and he’s not ready to talk about it. Instead of screaming at me, though, Rogers takes a seat in the chair he dragged inside.

“Morozov surprised me. I didn’t expect him to be there. He caused me to shoot her on accident.” Rogers wipes his mouth and looks away, his knees bouncing with a noticeable nervous energy.

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