Page 149 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Gennady twists his mouth to one side. “You could believe that, but you’d be wrong. He’s a good guy.”

I curl my legs underneath me. “Okay, so convince me.”

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what Gennady tells me next.

Yes, Dima runs a Bratva. He deals in arms and drugs and shady deals. He threatens people. He tortures people. He kills people.

But he’s also made anonymous donations to orphanages all around the city. He sponsors after school programs for inner-city neighbors. He has taken a cut of every single dollar that has come through his door and given it back to the city, trying to do some good.

According to Gennady, Dima doesn’t think anyone will ever curb the illegal sales of guns or drugs. As long as human beings crave power, there will be bad people willing to exploit that to make a buck.

But someone can sure as hell use those systems to make things better for people.

Someone like Dima.

It’s not perfect. It’s not something that could be written about in the newspaper with his picture on the front page.

But it’s something. It’s a lot better than nothing.

And right now, when my feelings for Dima are already so complex—teetering on the knife’s edge ofIs he goodorIs he evil—it’s enough.

He’s the father of my child, he’s a mobster, and he’s a good guy.

Okay then…

What does that make me?

52

Arya

When Dima comes back that afternoon, he shoos Gennady away and holds out his hand to me.

“Are you ready to see what kind of man I really am?”

I grab his hand and decide against revealing everything Gennady told me while he was gone. Dima may do good deeds privately, but I doubt he wants anyone to know about them without his express permission. I’ll let him reveal his truth to me when he’s ready.

“If you take me to a sex dungeon and make me sign some kind of contract, I’m going to be very disturbed.” I’m joking with him, but the further down we go into the ground, the more uneasy I feel.

Memories of the explosion crowd my head.

I was playing in my childhood room when it happened. When the explosion shook the rafters of my home, of my world.

The ceiling came down and pinned me. I was trapped for so long. It felt like days, though it was probably only hours at most.

But I’ve never forgotten the darkness.

No matter how hard I’ve tried.

At the bottom of the stairs, Dima flips on the lights. There is a short hallway and then a single door with a flickering fluorescent hanging over it. It looks cinematic, important.

A million thoughts race through my head, unfinished and jumbled—possibilities for what could be behind the door.

Truthfully, though, I have no idea what to expect.

Dima slides a key into the lock, turns the knob, and pushes the door open. He beckons me inside.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. The room is much better lit than the stairwell or the hallway.

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