Page 75 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

She puts her hand over her heart for a moment. “This is wonderful news, Aleksandr. How does Olivia feel about it?”

“She’d feel better if Hargrove was out of the picture.”

She sighs. Her hand falls back to her side. “I’m no spy, my son. And in this case… He’s a good man. He is.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Do you really believe that? Donald Hargrove,a good man.We should all be so lucky as to know him.”

“You’re saying it sarcastically, but he is.”

“You can’t be that naïve,” I growl, failing to keep my impatience in check any longer. “Not all monsters look like monsters. Some of them hide behind the guise of honor.”

She doesn’t look swayed. I didn’t really expect her to be. Still, it’s disappointing.

“I won’t force you to do this,” I say at last. “If you can’t—”

“I’ll do it,” she says abruptly.

“You will?”

She takes a deep breath. “My loyalties were never in question, Aleksandr. Donald may be my friend. But you are my son.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m touched.”

“I ask for only one thing in return.”

“Which is?”

“I would like us to do better,” she says softly. “With each other, I mean. I want a relationship with you. A real one. I want us to be better than we have been.”

“I can agree to that.”

She smiles and gives me a nod. “Okay then. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

She gets up, the smile still on her face, and walks out the door with a new bounce in her step.

Once she’s gone, I pick up my phone and give Demyan a ring, wondering how things are going with Olivia.

“Yo, brother,” Demyan says.

“How’s she doing?”

“Held it together pretty much until the ceremony was over. Then she didn’t stop crying ‘til we got back here.”

I swallow the nasty feeling that that stirs up in my chest. A thought rips across my head like a comet, apropos of nothing:No one makes my wife cry.

“Anything else to report?” I rasp hoarsely.

“Tell ya in a sec.”

He hangs up, and half a beat later, the door swings inward.

“The fucker was there,” Demyan growls as he slumps into the seat across from me and tucks his phone into his pocket. “A wolf in sheep’s clothing if I ever saw one. It was disgusting how everyone at that wake was fawning all over him.”

“They think he’s an upstanding citizen. A pillar of the community,” I say, remembering my own mother’s opinion of him. “He plays the part well.”

“Maybe you should take notes,” he says. I flip him the bird, and he just grins wider. “Your wife, though… she was a fucking triumph.”

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