Page 140 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Today, I’m concerned about her fragile heart.

What the fuck is this woman doing to me?

I need to get out of my head before my crazy thoughts deepen.

“Some vacation destination this is,” I say gruffly, eyeing the desolation of rural New York passing by the windshield. “You ever go anywhere with your family?”

“Me?” Arya asks, as if I could be talking to anyone else. “Um… no, I guess not. Not really.”

“You had to go somewhere. Everyone goes somewhere.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “No. Never. My family life was… complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“Dad wasn’t really in the picture.”

“No mom?”

“She died.” Arya’s hands have gone still in her lap. She stares down at them. “Even if she had the money for a vacation before she died, she would have spent it on drugs. She was an addict.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, Arya.”

“It was a long time ago,” she says. “I was little. I don’t even remember the explosion.”

Her words surprise me. “The explosion?”

Arya tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear. It’s rare to see her nervous. Even when I was roaring at her last night, threatening to ruin her life, Arya never wavered. She never showed fear.

Now, her fingers are shaking.

“She was cooking meth in the kitchen. I don’t know much about the process, but I guess it can be dangerous. Mom died. I got these.” She touches a series of faint scars along her jaw.

“Blyat.” The curse hisses between my teeth. “Arya, I had no idea.”

“I don’t broadcast it. Traumatic family histories aren’t exactly party chatter, you know? It’s something I’d rather forget anyway.”

I reach over and lay a hand on her leg. “You don’t have to forget it. You don’t have to run from the past.”

In my head, I’m laughing at myself.Don’t have to run from the past? That’s exactly what you did, Dima Romanoff. It’s what we all do.

She looks up at me, though her eyes have gone glassy. She clears her throat and stares out the windshield. “It all turned out okay. I grew up. Made it through school. I’m okay.”

We drive in silence for a while.

“What about your family?” she asks when the moment has passed. “Any big family history you haven’t told me?”

“Oh, big time. Family of tap dancers. We’re very famous in certain circles.”

She elbows me in the ribs and giggles. I’m glad for it. For one, it keeps me from delving into the true story of the Romanoffs. Into all the sordid shit that’s surrounded my family—my father, my brother, and me—for as long as we’ve ruled New York and Chicago.

For another, it makes this feel almost like a normal road trip. Like we’re heading on vacation instead of searching desperately for our infant son.

Just for a moment, things are okay.

* * *

Overall, it’s an hour’s drive to the Beachside Bed and Breakfast. By the time we get there, breakfast is in full swing and the room off the lobby is full of guests loading up plates at the breakfast buffet. Arya runs ahead of me to the front desk, scaring the employee behind the counter.

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