Page 18 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Questions are still swirling through my head when I hear the door to my room open and shut. I make sure my breast is put away and sit up, putting on a smile.

“Doctor, I have a few quest—”

My words die on my lips, however, when a group of three grimacing men rip aside the curtain.

They’re definitely not doctors.

And they’re definitely not here to help.

Dima

Arya’s Apartment

I ease open the apartment door and slip inside with my gun drawn.

A quick search of the rooms comes up empty. No one here but me.

I sigh and relax—but only the tiniest fraction. I can’t stay here for long. Too many people hunting for me. Too many skulls for me to crack open as soon as I get the chance.

It’s also pretty fucking clear that I don’t belong here. This apartment is laughably domestic. From the “Hello There” welcome mat to the unopened car seat and pyramid of diapers stacked high in the corner.

Cute. Cozy. Completely normal.

And then here I am—covered in blood and grime and carrying a weapon that’s been used many times over to kill my enemies—sinking into a seat on the worn couch in the midst of it all.

I close my eyes and rest my head back for a moment. Immediately, I start thinking about how goddamn good it’s going to feel when I catch up to Zotov and wrap my bare hands around that bastard’s throat.

He thinks he can take what’s mine. Thinks he can be me.

But there’s only one Dima Romanoff.

And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.

Revenge will come in due time, though. Right now, I need to focus on immediate next steps.

With a growl, I open my eyes again and take to my feet. I strip off my bloodied clothes and hop in the shower, turning the water up as hot as I can stand. It’s a far cry from the palatial shower at my mansion and it sure as hell wasn’t meant for someone my size.

Every time I turn around, I knock some more shit to the ground. A bottle of pomegranate body wash explodes all over me.

Teeth clenched in distaste, I make quick work of the clean-up and step back out.

My discarded clothes are lying crumpled on the floor where I left them. The pants are mostly usable, but my shirt is a repulsive mess. I go searching for an alternative option.

In the back of the closet in the master bedroom, I find a box of hoodies folded neatly. The smell of dust is strong when I crack the lid open. Whoever these originally belonged to, they haven’t been touched in a while. I shake out a big gray hoodie and shrug it on.

As I pull on my pants, I feel the wad of cash in my back pocket. And a feeling I’m not altogether familiar with rises to the surface.

Guilt.

This is all the money I have until Gennady can get me some more or I can take care of the Zotov problem. But the thought of leaving a new single mother with a car to replace and one less sweatshirt seems needlessly cruel.

I toss a stack of crumpled bills on her dresser and curse at my damned bleeding heart. It won’t buy her anything fancy, but it’s better than nothing.

“Consider it my baby shower gift,” I mumble to the empty room.

As if delivering the baby wasn’t gift enough.

It doesn’t matter anyway. In a few hours, both the woman and her baby will be a memory. I’ll just be a story they repeat each time the topic of the boy’s birth comes up.

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