Page 52 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

“Are you even listening to me? You do get a say!” Arya seethes. “If you want him to be in your life, then you have to make your life less dangerous. That’s my condition. It’s not crazy.”

Staring at Arya, I hardly recognize her. Her face is set, determined. She has made up her mind. There’s nothing I can do to change it.

Which means I have a choice: do I break her into submission? Or do I let her go?

Anger boils inside of me. I feel like I could breathe fire.

I open my mouth to say something. What to say, I don’t know, but I have to saysomething.Anything.

Before I can, there’s a knock at the door.

“Hello?” It’s Vera. “I hear you two lovebirds are leaving. Say goodbye before you go, okay?”

Arya takes the out and hurries towards the door, pulling it open and disappearing into the hallway.

Leaving me in the room alone—with nothing but my anger, my sins…

And one hell of a fucking choice to make.

18

Dima

Ilyasov accompanies us on the flight from Chicago to New York.

I’m not sure who I want to talk to less—him or Arya. She and I haven’t spoken since we left Chicago. Hell, she’ll barely even look at me. As soon as she got on the plane, she put on the headphones that were sitting in her seat and stared straight ahead at the screen in front of her.

Two hours later, the plane lands.

Arya hesitates at the bottom of the stairs. The wind is whipping across the runway, sending her hair flying out behind her. She gathers it in her hand and holds it over her shoulder.

“I’m going to take a cab,” she says. “I’ve talked to Ernestine and given her the number for my new phone. I wrote it down for you, too, in case… in case you need it.”

Like me, Ilyasov has a stash of burners sitting at the ready in a hall closet. He let Arya use one.

“I’m sure I’ll see you later,” she says. Her voice wavers like she isn’t sure at all.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I offer a dismissive wave. Arya walks over to the waiting cart, climbs on, and is whisked away towards the hangar.

Once she’s gone, the anger that has been bubbling just beneath the surface since back in Chicago erupts with a vengeance. I whirl around and throw one savage elbow into the handrail of the plane stairs. It bends with a metallic shriek beneath the blow.

“Suka!” I roar in Russian.

Behind me, Ilyasov lets out a long, low whistle. “That was brutal. Heart-wrenching, truly.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No, I mean it. I’m sorry. But I’m sure she’ll come around.”

“Are you now?”

He shrugs. “No, but you’re upset, and I want to help.”

I let out a bitter, humorless chuckle. “Since when?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re here in the city because I told you where Giorgio is and because I flew you here on a jet on my own dime. Don’t come at me like—”

“You’re right. You’ve helped a lot.”

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