Page 58 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

LATER THAT AFTERNOON

“What would you do, Mia?” I mutter to myself.

I try to channel my sister as I pace between the door to the hallway and the doors to my balcony. Mia has always been the confident one; I was the shy wallflower.

It’s what everyone always said about us. So often that Mia had a ready response for them.

“We’re a team. I have enough confidence to help Liv through her awkward days. And Liv has the imagination to help me solve my hard days.”

“I need you, Mimi,” I whisper to the empty room. “I need some of your confidence. I need you.”

I stop in front of the bed and collapse down onto it, face-first. The mattress is so soft I feel like I’m being consumed by a cloud. But whatever relief it gives me is short-lived.

The door opens and Yulia walks in with two maids pushing a trolley between them. It’s filled with packages neatly wrapped in brown butcher paper that gives no indication of what’s inside.

“What’s this?” I ask, rising up onto my elbows.

“Looks like you’ve had a productive day.” Yulia glances around at the strewn pillowcases and the messy bed.

“If you’re waiting for me to turn into a gracious prisoner, you can just keep right on waiting,” I snap. “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

Yulia smiles before turning to the maids. “Wheel that into the walk-in and then leave us.”

“Clothes?” I ask. “He sent me clothes?”

“No, this is the kind of chore my son saves for me. I purchased the clothes for you.”

“Good. If they were his choice, I’d tell him to cram a stiletto up his ass.”

Yulia chuckles. “I take it the meeting didn’t go so well.”

“Understatement of the year.” I shake my head. “No offense, but your son is an asshole.”

The maids throw me anxious glances as they scurry out of the bedroom. The last one out snaps the door closed behind her, leaving Yulia and me alone.

“He is a Bratva don,” she says.

“I don’t think those things are mutually exclusive.”

“It means there is always a reason for his actions. You’ll get used to him.”

I look at her with alarm. “I don’t want to get used to him. I want to get out of here.”

“He’s not going to hurt you if you don’t give him a reason to.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“No, dear,” she says quietly. “It has never been my job to comfort.”

She sobers and stands still for a long moment while some memory or another works itself out of the recesses of her mind. It’s almost humanizing, in a strange way, to watch her suffer at the hands of the past like I do all the time.

Then she straightens up. The vulnerability disappears and fixes me with the same imperious gaze she’s worn from the start.

“Anyway, you must have done something right this morning,” she says. “Because you have an invitation to dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“I believe you’ll find it’s the meal after lunch,” she chides sarcastically.

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