Page 91 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Bring me food and give me useless advice, you mean? How noble. Truly a resistance fighter.”

I know I should take it easy on her. She’s only trying to help me. But my anger hasn’t had an outlet in three days. Plus, I’m starving and the smell of fresh croissants wafting from the tray she brought in is making my head spin.

“You need to eat,” she tells me, as if reading my mind.

“I’m fine.”

“It’s only been three days and you’ve already lost weight.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed the time. Feels like I’ve just been on a little mini-vacation.”

The corner of her mouth twitches in what might be a smile before she quickly extinguishes it. “All expenses paid, too.”

I roll my eyes. I don’t particularly feel like bantering with the woman who birthed a psychopath, but the only alternative is staring at the ceiling and cursing my fate.

“Where were you all this time?” I ask. “I was surprised not to see you front and center at the ceremony. It was really a lovely affair.”

“I was out of town,” she explains. “I came back this morning to learn about what had happened.”

“Guess that makes me your daughter-in-law. Should I start calling you Mom now?”

“You are at liberty to call me whatever it is you want. Even if it’s not flattering.”

I almost smile at that. I can’t deny that having someone here talking to me does help quell the mania I can feel creeping in around the edges.

I exhale, but it doesn’t help. Not in the slightest. “Did you find out what happened to my brother?”

“He wasn’t harmed, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Okay. Okay then.” Lie or not, it makes me feel some relief. At least I can pretend, until proven otherwise.

“Lyubimaya,” she says gently, “starving yourself is not going to help anything.”

“Says you. I think it might.”

“Try a croissant,” Yulia insists. “They’re fresh from the oven.”

I can tell. The smell is teasing my nose and making my stomach growl. I dig what’s left of my nails into the wooden bedpost, but it doesn’t distract me from the hunger.

So, with a frustrated growl, I force myself to my feet and shuffle towards her. The tray is laden with croissants, butter, assorted jams, and a plate with scrambled eggs, fat sausages, crispy potatoes, still-sizzling bacon.

“You went all out, huh?”

“I had to convince you to eat somehow.”

“How do you know if I’m eating or not?” I ask. “You’ve been out of town.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I run this household, Olivia. Who do you think the maids report to?”

“I would have thought they reported to the Head Asshole in Charge.”

“He doesn’t concern himself with the less-important work,” she says. I notice a little twinge of humiliation in her tone. “He delegated those jobs to me when he took over as don.”

“Where is his father?”

“He had a stroke many years ago,” she tells me. “At the time, Aleksandr was in Russia dealing with our business interests there. It was a sensitive period and he couldn’t return right away. So I took over for my husband.”

“How enthralling.” But I can’t help the tiny bit of genuine interest that seeps into my voice. This woman has seen things, done things. She knows how this world works. Maybe I can learn enough from her to find my way out of it.

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