Page 144 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

He shakes his head. “This isn’t normal life, Arya.”

“But what you’re going back to the city to doisnormal?”

He sits upright. “My entire life has been spent leading the Bratva. It is my family’s legacy. My destiny. You want me to walk away from that?”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything.”

“You couldn’t force me if you tried,” he says sharply. “I make my own choices.”

I bite my bottom lip. “It’s just that I’m not in a hurry to rush back into a world that got my son kidnapped and me sold into slavery. I’d rather start over somewhere else, lead a quiet life. Be with you and Lukas.”

Even just saying my son’s name makes me wince. It reminds that he’s still out there somewhere. Still in the arms of cold-blooded monsters.

I want him back, of course. But after that… isn’t it about time I got to write a chapter of my story on my own terms?

Dima’s eyes are black diamonds. “I’m going to get him back, Arya.”

My lip trembles. “But how, Dima?” I croak. “We don’t even know where he is.”

“There are some things it would be best for you to not know.”

I can’t help shivering when he says that. His voice is deep and harsh.

And cold. So fucking cold.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Deadly serious.”

“You can’t even tell me—”

“I’m not going to tell you shit, Arya. For your own good.”

“No.” I twist around to face him fully. “No more secrets. Tell me what you’re planning. I’ve been kidnapped, auctioned off, nearly raped and killed, and my son has been kidnapped. Whatever you have to tell me, I can handle.”

“I didn’t ask if you could handle it,” he snarls. “I told you it wasn’t for you to know.”

“I’m not a fucking wallflower, Dima!” I yell. I surprise even myself with the strength in my voice. I lower my tone and add, “Please don’t keep me in the dark.”

He looks at me for a while.

Weighing.

Considering.

In the end, he sighs. “I made a deal with my brother,” he says. “Right after I left you in Chicago.”

That’s a lot to process. “You have a brother? What kind of deal?”

“The kind of deal that only a man like Ilyasov could make. He needed a job done.”

“A job?”

“A man must die.”

I wince again and immediately hate myself for it. I mean what I said: I’m not a wallflower. I’ve done and seen far too much awful shit for that to be true.

But the way Dima talks about death so casually sets my teeth on edge. Those eyes are frigid. His voice is emotionless.

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