Page 84 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I suppose, but killing me wouldn’t bring your son back to you or win you the respect of your men. After all, killing me before you’ve even completed the first Trial would make it look like you were too afraid to compete.”

“I already completed the first Trial several times over. You know that.”

He purses his lips. “The points you score before the game starts don’t count, Dima. You know that.”

My heart sinks, but I do my best not to let it show on my face. “Why are you doing this, Ilyasov? Any of it? Why challenge me and take my son? Why now?”

“Because I want what belongs to me,” he says simply. “My birthright.”

“That’s not what you said when Father died.”

“We both said a lot of things when Father died. Only some of them were true.”

I stare at him. “I thought after all we’ve been through—after everything we’ve done together—we were better than this. Closer than this.”

Ilyasov snorts. “Idiot. I’ll never understand why Father chose you in the end. You’re a fucking fool. Even now, you don’t see what’s happening right in front of your face.”

He smiles at me for a beat and then looks around the room as though he’s assessing the place to see if he’d like living here.

Then he turns to go. Before walking through the door, however, he stops and turns back.

“By the way, I killed the Irish don.”

“Bullshit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you might say that. I left the head on your kitchen table for proof.” He chuckles low, then starts to whistle as he struts away. “You better catch up, Dima!” Ilyasov calls over his shoulder. “Clock’s ticking.”

29

Arya

There’s a car waiting for me at the airport when I arrive. The driver doesn’t say a word to me as he helps me into the backseat and drives through the city streets. After so many betrayals, I can’t help but be nervous about where I’m being taken. I worry it’s a trap or a trick. Something Ilyasov set up to capture me.

But then the car pulls through a wrought iron gate and stops in front of a two-story white house with pillars along the front, jutting balconies, and massive windows.

Dima is standing in front.

He opens my door and pulls me in for a kiss as soon as I’m standing. His hand curls around my lower back, pulling me against him, and his other hand rakes through my hair.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he murmurs against my lips.

“I sense that,” I tease, poking a finger into his rock-hard abs. “Anything interesting happen while I was away?”

Immediately, the smile slips from his face.

My stomach twists. “What? What is it?”

He tips his head towards the house. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”

The house is huge. And somehow, even more grand inside than it looked outside. The ceilings are high with matching windows that let in long shafts of daylight. Dark wood floors and rich, jewel-toned walls make me feel like I’m in a palace. Technically, I might be.

“Is thisyourhouse?”

“My family’s. Passed down to me. I redesigned it a few years ago.”

The place is a dream. Antique furniture and portraits give the mansion a sense of history, but modern light fixtures and touches keep it present.

It’s nothing like I imagined.

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