Page 104 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Same as you,” he says. “Her plan is too risky. It leaves us open at every angle and it’s only going to make the FBI double down on us.”

“Agreed,” I say. “So why do you think she suggested it?”

Demyan frowns. “Because she doesn’t have a head for strategy.”

I nod. “Which is exactly why I’m beginning to regret involving her in this.”

He waves away my concerns. “She’s not your only card to play. You’ve got me. You’ve got Jen.”

“That’s true. But she’s my strongest asset at the moment.”

“Okay, I’m gonna ignore that insult because I realize you’re stressed at the moment.”

I smirk. “I’m just seeing things clearly.”

“Yeah, well, see this clearly, asshole,” he says, flashing a middle finger at me yet again. I’ll have to cut that thing off if he keeps overusing it like he’s been doing.

I glance out towards the garden, resisting the urge to check the time. It’s been a few hours since Olivia left with Jennifer. Surely they should have finished by now?

Right on cue, I get a message on my phone.

“Who is it?” Demyan asks when he hears the vibration.

I open up the text. It’s succinct.

JENNIFER: Didn’t go well. Just dropped Olivia off. I need a day.

“Fuck,” I snarl, getting to my feet.

Demyan moves closer. “What? What happened? Are they okay?”

“Jennifer just dropped Olivia off,” I say, leaving the sitting room and heading up the stairs to meet her.

“What else did she say?” Demyan asks, calling out after me.

“It went as we expected it would.”

“Shit,” he mutters.

I turn the corner at the landing and head straight for Olivia’s room. But when I open the door, it’s empty.

I turn around and walk further down the hall towards my bedroom. As soon as I step inside, I know Olivia is here. The smell of her perfume, subtle and seductive, tickles my nostrils.

Then I see her. She’s lying on my bed, her legs dangling over the side.

She looks hauntingly beautiful, but sadness radiates off her in waves. When she sees me, she pushes herself off the edge of the bed. Her toes dig into the plush carpet.

“Aleks…”

“Olivia.”

I move to stand right in front of her. She stands up, slowly lifting her face to look at me.

Her hair is coming apart from the messy bun she put it in this morning. Her eyes are puffy from crying.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she says softly.

The vulnerability in her voice is what gets me. What makes me crack.

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