Page 53 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

“Nothing. Pass the mustard.”

“Turkey and lettuce? I see you’ve opted for the healthy option,” she teases, opening the Styrofoam lid of her pancakes swimming in syrup. “Big buff dude like you must wanna watch his figure.”

“I’ve got enough people who want to kill me. I don’t need my food to do the job for them.”

She snorts. “It’s funny to me you think about cholesterol at all when you are, quite literally, on the verge of death. I’d wager you’ll be assassinated before your arteries have a chance to clog.”

I stare straight ahead at the road. She’s not wrong. In fact, she doesn’t know the half of it. But it’s better that way. The less she knows about my work, the happier we’ll both be.

“I’m sorry.” Arya reaches over and lays a hand on my shoulder. A strange warmth surges through me at her touch. “That was mean. I shouldn’t have said that.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. It’s true.”

“I know it’s true,” she says, nudging my arm playfully. “Still, I shouldn’t have said it.”

Tension tightens between us. Like the air got sucked out of the car. I’m all too aware of her petite hand on my shoulder. Of the laughter on her lips. The taunting tease in her eyes.

She’s a fucking liability, Dima,I scold myself.Get her to Chicago. Then get rid of her.

For a change, my inner voice is right. This cannot last. It was doomed from the start.

I’ve reached a decision: as soon as we get to Chicago, we’re parting ways. I’ll send money for my son and his mother. I’ll look out for them from afar. But it’s best for us to untangle our lives as quickly as possible.

As if she can sense what’s happening in my brain, Arya’s hand retreats from my shoulder like I stung her. Her eyes cloud with confusion.

Then she sighs and looks down at her food. “I hate silence,” she whispers.

“Turn on the radio.”

She shakes her head. “Not the same. Car rides are for talking.”

I shrug. “Then talk.”

Arya glances up at me and scoffs. “You don’t talk back. It’s like trying to have a conversation with a brick wall on steroids.”

“Mhmm.”

“I rest my case.”

“Finally.”

She bites her lip, trying not to laugh. Then, glancing back down into her lap, she starts discussing the merits of fast-food pancakes as compared to pancakes made at home. She rattles on with the topic for an impressive amount of time. Size and density and syrup absorbance, more pancake particulars than I even knew existed. It’s like she’s jabbering just to keep from screaming.

Strangely enough, I’m alright with that. I like listening to her talk. It gets me out of my own head for a bit.

Maybe this shit all feels so weird because of what my normal life looks like. To be specific, it looks like one thing and one thing only: the Bratva. My role requires absolute dedication. I have too many men who rely on me, and too many other people—their wives, their children, their families—who rely on my men. One fuck-up means a lot of people get hurt.

I don’t regret that. I chose my world. I chose my life.

But it’s a burden no matter how you slice it. I feel that weight at all times.

Arya, though, is lightness incarnate. She can sit and talk about pancakes as if that’s all that matters in the world.

It’s like nothing else I’ve ever known.

* * *

We pull into the next gas station to use the restroom and take care of Lukas. As soon as I put the car in park, there’s a tap on the passenger side window. I look over and clench my jaw in immediate irritation.

---