Page 114 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Shutting you out implies you were inside in the first place,” I tell her harshly. “Which you most assuredly are not.”

Her face turns cold, but she doesn’t turn away from me like I expect. “What is your problem? Why do you have to be this way?”

“This is who I am.”

“If that were true, I would have never called you when I needed help.”

I scoff. “You called me because you had no one else. Because you focused on your codependent relationship with your judgmental siblings and forgot to cultivate a life of your own.”

“That’s… that’s not fair,” she stammers, blindsided by my tirade of bluntness.

“It’s the truth. Look at you,” I continue, wishing I could stop myself, but knowing I’m not going to. “You’re clinging to my family because you’re so afraid to be alone without yours.”

She looks shocked for a moment. And then the hurt washes over her face.

It’s exactly what I was going for, and yet it leaves me feeling hollow. Regretful.

And I never regret a thing.

“You’re such an asshole,” she hisses through tear-filled eyes.

“Olivia?” It’s my mother’s voice. A second later, she follows, walking into the room. She sees Olivia first and then her gaze finds me. “Oh. Aleksandr.”

Before I can order her to get out, my phone starts ringing. Ignoring the both of them, I answer the call. “Yeah?”

“I got her,” Demyan says. “Jen is okay. She couldn’t blow her cover, so she hung up on you instead.”

“She hasn’t been compromised?”

“No, she’s right here. Hold on.”

I wait as Demyan passes the phone over to Jennifer. “Aleks?”

“You okay?” I ask, aware that there’s a fat tear rolling down Olivia’s face.

My mother leans in and wipes it tenderly from her cheek. She whispers something to her, but my concentration is split and I miss it.

“I’m fine,” Jennifer says on the phone. “The guy who runs this place walked in. We’re not meant to take personal calls when we’re on the job.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a private room with Demyan. He hired me out for an hour.”

I nod. “You had something you wanted to tell me?”

“The name of the groomer,” she says in a heavy voice.

I close my eyes. I have a feeling this is not going to land well. “Say it.”

She whispers the name so low I almost can’t hear it, but it’s impossible to miss. I feel my heart plummet. And yet, somewhere in the back of my head, it makes sense.

“Thank you, Jennifer.”

She doesn’t bother replying before she hangs up.

I put my phone away and look down at Olivia. Her eyes are big and bright, still full of hurt. There’s anger there, too, but it’s weak. Tired.

She’s not looking at me. Gave up that struggle, I guess. Instead, she’s looking at my mother as though Yulia Makarova is her saving grace.

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