Page 44 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Fuck.

Arya…

Lukas…

I smash the gas pedal to the floor, praying I’m not too late.

15

Arya

The Motel Room—One Hour Earlier

I sag back against the headboard.

There is nothing good on TV mid-morning. It’s either local news, Westerns, or cheesy game shows. On the television, two cowboys are drawling on about how the town isn’t big enough for the both of them.

Lukas cried for a few minutes right after Dima left. He refused to eat or be soothed, but eventually, I swaddled his arms to his sides. That seemed to settle him down. He fell right to sleep and he’s been sleeping ever since.

If Dima comes storming back in here and wakes him up, I’ll murder the man with my own two hands.

Dima.The name alone inspires such an infuriating mix of emotions that I don’t even know where to start with processing them.

He’s irritating as hell, first and foremost. He told me to stay put—like I’m some mangy stray dog. Obviously, that means my first instinct is to immediately leave. Even though I have no way to escape, no idea where I’d go, and a body that’s just barely started to piece itself back together again, I just hate being told what to do.

Especially by an ass like him.

He’s the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. If he hadn’t burst into the vet clinic that night, I’d still be living alone, working eighty hours a week, and watching Netflix until my eyeballs bled.

It sounds bad when I say it like that. But it really wasn’t. It was better than watching garbage in a shitty motel room in whatever the name of this bumfuck town is, at least.

Lukas coughs twice suddenly. His little body jolts from the sudden attack before he settles back down without ever opening his eyes.

Which brings me to the other half of the dilemma. That life that Dima stole from me—the Netflix life, the simple life, the work-until-I-can’t-keep-my-eyes-open-anymore life?

It wasn’t better than this.

It wasn’t better than Lukas.

He’s perfect. Sleeping or crying, feeding or burping—everything he does is the greatest thing anyone has ever done in the history of humanity and deserves to be announced on TV 24/7. Preferably instead of this terrible movie.

And I have Dima to thank for that.

So I can’t hate him. Not entirely, at least. Maybe 99.9% hate—but there’s always going to be a little sliver of gratitude. That in itself is every bit as irritating as the rest of him.

And don’t even get me started on this mess of a situation he’s dragged me into. I woke up yesterday ready for a regular day.

I ended it with bullet holes in my car and a mob-boss-in-exile in the driver’s seat.

Who knows what comes next?

My mind flips back and forth every other minute on what to do. Who to trust. Whether I’m ever going to get out of this shit. But honestly, I’m so tired that I don’t know if I can trust my own mind anymore.

Everything’s fuzzy. Unclear. Uncertain.

So if I can’t trust myself and I can’t trust Dima, whocanI trust? There’s only one good answer to that.

I grab my cell phone from the bedside table and dial Brigitte’s number.

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