Page 120 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

I find drawers of sunglasses, drawers of gleaming wristwatches. The third one holds a bunch of scarves. I’m about to close it… when I notice a little flash of red that catches my eye.

“Wait.”

I pull out the red scarf. It’s not nearly as fancy as any of the other items in this whole room, but it makes my heart stutter in my chest.

I know even before I unfold it that I’ll find small strawberries embroidered around the edge.

Because I was with my brother when he bought it.

“It’s a little kitschy, ya know,” I warned.

“She’s going to love it,” he replied, grinning madly. “Isabella loves strawberries.”

He gave it to her that same day, a week before he proposed. She wore the scarf on her head every day for a month like a bandana.

That’s all well and good. But what is it doing here?

My heart hammers hard against my ribs. Aleks told me again and again that he had nothing to do with her disappearance.

But I’m holding in my hand proof that he lied.

Proof that I was as gullible as they come… because I believed him.

The scarf starts shaking in my hand and it takes me too long to realize it’s because my entire body is trembling.

Suddenly, the clothes I’m wearing feel too tight. It feels like they’ll strangle me to death if I keep them on much longer. So I rip the outfit off until I’m standing there in my underwear.

I put my own clothes back on and return the suit to the walk-in closet, though God only knows if it’s in the proper place.

“I… I have to get out of this room…” I stammer under my breath.

I want to take the scarf with me, but I don’t dare. While I’m under this roof, I need to play it safe. No unnecessary risks.

So I tuck it in the bureau drawer and lurch out, leaving the door cracked behind me.

I’m full-tilt panicking, I know that, but I can’t get it to stop. Maybe it’s the overwhelming feeling that that isn’t a room—it’s a tomb. A macabre time capsule of sorts.

Does this mean Isabella is still alive?

Or was she buried a long time ago?

I’m hurrying down the staircase when I hear footsteps coming from the landing below. I quickly assess whether I have time to hurry back up to the third floor and wait out whoever is approaching. But before I can settle on a decision, Aleks steps into view.

Even after what I just discovered, I’m no less aware of his beauty. He is physically perfect.

But the nervousness that jolts through me isn’t just from intimidation or awe—it’s raw fear.

“Olivia?”

Be cool. Be normal. Don’t let him know anything’s wrong.

“I… I was just exploring.”

My tone is stilted and wooden. My body language probably reflects the same. He walks up the staircase and meets me halfway. I clutch the banister, trying to suppress the image that pops into my head of him hurling me over the edge to the granite floors three storeys below.

“Exploring?” he repeats.

I nod, trying to smile. It doesn’t quite work. I pivot in a different direction. “Um… yeah, or at least, I was trying to. But then I started to feel a little… lost?”

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