Page 97 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

Something in his tone sounds dangerous, feral. “Don’t go Bratva on her,” I advise. “Bad move.”

“Why the hell not?”

I shake my head. “Because that’s the fastest way to make her double down on this decision. She left you because you were too Bratva, Demyan. You need to prove to her that you can be more than that.”

“Blasphemous words, coming from you.”

“I’m a realist,” I say. “And I know women.”

“Apparently, not all women.” Demyan throws me a smile. I ignore it completely. But of course he pushes on. “Have you spoken to her since the big day?”

“Don’t ask me questions you already know the answers to.”

He smirks. “Well, there might have been a conjugal visit or two that I wasn’t around for.”

“I didn’t marry her for the sex.”

“That’s just a delightful bonus, huh?”

“We haven’t fucked since we got married.”

“You’re subscribing to the traditional Bratva formula, then? Sexless marriages and unhappy wives. A tale as old as time.”

“Doing it the other way didn’t work out for you, did it?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

There’s a knock on the door. I glance at the clock and sigh. As late as it is, the days are never over when you’re don.

“Come in,” I call.

The door opens. Pyotr is standing there. His imposing figure takes up most of the threshold. He has a habit of lurking in doorways that I’ve spent years trying to break, to no avail.

“Come in, Pyotr,” I emphasize impatiently.

He trudges in and stops a few feet away from us with his head bowed. It’s his way of showing me respect, but I don’t need the formalities that my father insisted on. I know I have the respect of my men without all the damn melodrama.

“Sir,” he says to the floor beneath his feet, “I just thought I should let you know that the madam is on her way out.”

I frown, glancing at the Rolex on my wrist. “At this time?”

“She, um… well—”

“Spit it out, man,” Demyan growls.

“She’s dressed to kill,” Pyotr says, sounding supremely uncomfortable.

I exchange a glance with Demyan and then give Pyotr a nod. “Tell her to stop in before she leaves.”

The discomfort on his face only gets more pronounced, but he bows stiffly and backs out of the room.

The moment the door snaps shut, Demyan turns to me with curiosity. “Your mother leaving the house is newsworthy enough to report to the boss?”

“I asked Pyotr to keep tabs on her.”

Demyan raises his eyebrows. “Why in God’s name would you do that?”

“She’s been restless lately,” I explain. “And she’s been known to make poor decisions in the past. I don’t want her running amok when the FBI is still watching me.”

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