Page 60 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“You are a beautiful woman, Olivia. And you have a beautiful figure. So why are you trying so hard to hide it?”

I frown. “Because I have no interest in being objectified.”

“Is that the real reason?”

“Are you my friend or a therapist?” I ask. “I have no interest in being analyzed, either.”

Yulia strokes thoughtfully at her chin. “I don’t know, dear. Changing your style might do you some good.”

“That’s rich,” I scoff. “As if you care about what’s good for me.”

She sighs. “I wish I could do something to help.”

“You can!” I say, lunging toward her desperately. “Forget the clothes, Yulia. Convince your son to let me go.”

She takes both my hands in hers. “Darling, believe me when I tell you this: I have no voice in this Bratva. Not anymore. My son rules with an iron fist. If anyone questions or crosses him, he will come down on them. That includes me.”

“But… but you’re his mother. You brought him into this world.”

“What did I tell you about him when we first met?”

“He is ruthless,” I recite.

If “your son is an asshole” was the understatement of the year, then that is surely the runner-up.

She nods. “He didn’t earn that reputation without cause. I’ll do what I can for you—but I have to work within the system to do so. I can make sure you’re comfortable. I can make sure you’re not hurt. Not hurt badly, at least.”

“Gee, thanks, how comforting,” I drop my hands and sink down to the tufted settee in the middle of the walk-in. “You do know what he’s doing is wrong, don’t you?”

“He’s doing what he thinks is right,” she counters.

“That wasn’t my question.”

She steps over to me and strokes the back of my head tenderly. “I’m an old woman now, Olivia. This is my life, whether I like it or not. I can’t convince Aleksandr to let you go. But I can help you navigate this world for as long as you’re in it. I can give you the advice that I was never given.”

“What’s the advice on this occasion?” I mutter sarcastically. “I’m hoping it’s something like ‘sharpen your toothbrush into a prison shiv and stick it right in his eyeball.’”

She smiles sadly. “Not quite. Put on a pretty dress, go down to dinner, and charm him.”

“Charm him?” I balk. “How the hell do I do that?”

“Have you never tried to impress a man before?”

“Not on purpose.”

“Let’s start with the dress, then.” She gets to her feet and rifles through the rows of dresses. “Ah-ha. Here we go.” She plucks one off the rack, peels aside the plastic wrap, and shows it to me with a flourish. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

“Jesus,” I breathe.

It’s a short, strapless dress, but every inch of it is covered in tiny beads. Blues and greens woven between swirls of silver. It’s magical, shimmering, like a mermaid’s tail.

Then I notice the tag dangling from the hem. “Holy hell! This dress is six thousand dollars.”

“It’s Elie Saab, Olivia,” Yulia says with amusement.

“I… I can’t wear that.”

“Why?”

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