Page 44 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

ALEKS

The door opens a crack, enough for me to see the swish of her long white skirt.

“Aleksandr?”

I recognize my mother’s voice. But even if I didn’t, no one else would dare walk into my office without knocking.

“Come in,” I tell her. “I’m alone.”

She walks in, her lips pursed, expression carefully composed. She made the same face when I was a child and I did anything she disapproved of. It had no effect then. It still does not—under normal circumstances.

But today, it irritates me.

She sweeps the room with her eyes, just like she does every time she walks into my office.

And it is my office. She was once the one who sat behind the desk, but that was a long time ago. Still, my mother looks at me as if I’m in the wrong seat.

I lean back in the chair and fold my arms behind my head. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

She lowers herself into the chair opposite my desk. “The girl you have locked in the upstairs bedroom…”

“What about her?”

“I just paid her a visit.”

I sit upright, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Why?”

“Because I think you’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

“It’s not advice,” she corrects. “It’s a warning. Taking the sister is not going to get the FBI off your back.”

“This is not about the FBI,” I say. “This is about him. The brother.”

“Then take him. What does this have to do with her?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I snap. “But taking that pompous fuck would only bring about more questions. The investigation he’s leading would take on a new priority. If I take his sister instead, he can close this little investigation as easily as he opened it.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “You think it can be that simple?”

“I know it can be. The case has no teeth, anyway. He’s under the false impression I have something to do with his fiancée’s disappearance.”

“Don’t you?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

I snort. “It’s the story I’m sticking with.”

“Holding her here is risky.”

“It’s riskier holding her somewhere else,” I counter. “I want her where I can keep an eye on her.”

“Is that so?” she asks, her tone dripping with far too much understanding.

I wrinkle my nose in distaste. I despise these little games my mother plays. “If there’s something you need to say, just say it.”

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “She’s rather attractive.”

“Chert voz’mi,” I curse in Russian. For fuck’s sake. I roll my eyes for good measure.

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