Page 162 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

It’s better that I can’t see her face. If I could, I’d be afraid I’d lose my nerve. Because no matter what Brigitte has done to deserve this, I’m still me. We still have a history.

But no, doing it this way is better.

My future and Lukas’s future—and maybe even Dima’s future—depends on me following through.

So I will.

Brigitte claws at my hands. I feel warm blood flowing down my skin and wrist, but I don’t let up.

It’s time for her to die.

She’s thrashing in the seat, her legs smashing the horn every few seconds. Lukas is crying. Wailing. Screaming, really.

That’s all the motivation I need to pull the ties tighter. To end this as fast as I can so I can comfort my son.

With the last strength in my body, I pull the rope tighter around my best friend’s throat.

My palms burn, the rope digs into my skin, but I don’t care. Winning this fight is worth any pain, any inconvenience, any scar.

I can feel Brigitte is starting to lose energy. She’s flailing in the front seat, her hands slapping at mine rather than scratching and digging. Her movements are becoming less coordinated.

I hold on.

Then she goes still.

I know she’s probably just unconscious, so I hold the rope there for another minute, maybe two. It gets to the point that I’m afraid to let go. Afraid she’ll pop up as soon as I do and disappear with Lukas again.

But Brigitte is still in the front seat, her body slouching down like a sack of flour, and I take that as a good sign.

She’s dead.

I slowly loosen the rope from around her neck, barely even breathing as I wait to see what happens.

When she doesn’t move, I jump out of the car and run to the passenger side door.

Lukas is full-on crying now, red-faced and angry. It’s strange to both recognize him and not. I know he’s the same baby I gave birth to, but he’s so much bigger. So much rounder and fuller.

My heart aches at the time I lost with him, but I push down the pain and throw myself into taking care of him first.

That means grabbing the bottle Brigitte had for him in the diaper bag, getting him out of this car, and rushing inside to warn Dima.

If he’s still alive.

I push that thought from my head, too.

He has to be.

Carrying Lukas after so much time apart feels strange. It’s like picking up an instrument you used to play years ago. Your body remembers, but your mind is slow to catch up.

My body remembers Lukas. I know how it should feel to have him nuzzled against my chest or cradled in my arms. But my brain is telling me I don’t know how to do this. That I don’t have enough experience.

Lukas, however, seems happy to be held by me and fed his bottle at the same time. His tiny little fingers are clamped around the bottle, not strong enough to hold it up yet, but simply feeling the texture and the temperature, exploring it.

“My baby boy,” I murmur. Tears flow like waterfalls down my face.

But I don’t have time to cry. I have to hurry. For Dima’s sake.

I push open a wooden fence and step into a green square of grass. Paving stones lead to an outdoor kitchen on a patio and an all-glass back door.

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