Page 122 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

The room around me swirls in the sea of alcohol coursing through my veins.How long has it been since I’ve drank? I think, lifting the bottle back to my lips.

The vodka Gennady bought Arya for the baby shower is good shit. It goes down easily. Perhaps too easily.

My father was the drinker. Not me. He was the one who drowned his rage in vodka—only for it to rear its ugly head again as soon as he’d had enough. Ilyasov inherited that gene, too.

I’ve never needed anything to control my inner demons. I’m only just now starting to see that maybe it’s because they’ve always controlled me.

I go to set the bottle back down on the desk. But everything is fuzzy and doubled. I miss and the bottle goes tumbling through the air.

It crashes against the ground. Expensive vodka glugs out onto the carpet. Shards of glass rain everywhere and, as I fall to my knees in a belated attempt to prevent the accident, they slice me open.

Blood leaks from the cuts in my hand. I fall on my ass and lean back against the desk with a grimace. One thought runs through my head again and again:This is Arya’s fault.

I thought I loved her. I thought she needed my protection.

I was so fucking wrong about both of those things.

I don’t love her and I don’t need her. She sure as fuck doesn’t need me. Maybe it’s time to do what I should’ve done a long time ago. As far back as the day I turned down the wrong road and saw her giving birth in her car: gone my own way.

That’s the final thought in my head before I succumb to the darkness intruding at the corner of my eyes.

In the morning, I’ll say goodbye.

Forever.

* * *

In the morning, the headache is back—with a motherfucking vengeance.

Before I even open my eyes, I feel it pounding behind my lids, crashing through my temples, exploding through the top of my head.

There’s also something jabbing into my hip bone. I start to lift myself up, but the movement makes my stomach jostle and my head swim. I slow down and grimace my way through the motion. At some point, I realize that I’m lying slumped across my desk.

“What the fuck?” My mouth feels like cotton and tastes like sour vomit.

I slide off my desk and lean back against the wall, a hand pressed to my forehead. As I do, the events of last night start to come back.

Drinking. Cursing Arya. More drinking. And apparently, smashing the vodka bottle to pieces and slicing my hands into ribbons.

I push myself upright with a pained groan. Arya didn’t do this to me.

Idid this to me.

My phone buzzes on my desk. I fumble for it up, squinting against the glare of the screen. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but the message is clear enough.

Trial #3.

That’s all it says. But that’s all it needs to say.

Ilyasov completed the trial.Blyat.

I have a choice to make now. The thought leaves a sick feeling in my stomach.

I’ll do this for my Bratva. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it. No matter what Arya may think of me, I don’t enjoy causing pain. I’m not Ilyasov. I wouldn’t throw my family into the fire just to gain power.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. If Ilyasov seems to be willing to sacrifice everything he loves to win…

Perhaps I should put that to the test.

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