Page 1 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

1

OLIVIA

Things are close to breaking.

Rob is on edge. Emotionally, of course, but somehow, it feels almost literal. Like he’s teetering on the precipice of some huge, dark canyon and wondering whether he should just jump.

I’m terrified that anything I say or do could push him. It’s why I’ve stayed silent since we got in the car, even as his knuckles whiten from the death grip he has on the steering wheel.

In the before time—before Isabella, before Aleks, before the plane ride that changed my life—I would’ve backed away and let him simmer down on his own time. Even now, I’m considering doing just that. Rob is a pressure cooker, and with every new betrayal he learns about, the temperature ticks one degree hotter.

But we don’t have the luxury of time.

Not anymore.

And I’m not the same girl who was wrenched from her family three months ago. Being away from them, having to take care of myself, has made me stronger than I ever knew I could be.

“You need to listen to me, Rob,” I say. “I lived with Aleks. I spoke to Jennifer. I’m telling you the truth about what happened.”

“Stop calling her that,” he snaps.

“It’s her name. I know you don’t want to hear it. Believe me, I understand that denial is easier—”

“You think I’m in denial?” He wrenches the wheel in such a sharp turn that I smack up against my window.

“What would you call it?” I snap. “She’s not who you thought she was. Jennifer came into your life pretending to be Isabella because you were the agent assigned to the Makarova case. He sent her to get—”

“I can’t believe you, of all people, believe that motherfucker’s lies,” he says.

I almost want to laugh. Rob’s philosophy is as simple as it gets. For years, he has divided the world into two kinds of people: “good guys” and “motherfuckers.”

Good guys follow the rules; motherfuckers break them.

Good guys love their families and their friends and their country; motherfuckers hate everyone and everything.

Good guys rescue kittens from trees and help old ladies cross the street; motherfuckers steal candy from babies and push old ladies into traffic.

He’s branded lots of people as motherfuckers. But now, he doesn’t have to specify which one in particular he’s talking about.

There’s only one who matters anymore.

“We need gas,” Rob mutters under his breath. His face is set with determination. I’ve seen that face before, right before every game he ever played. Football, basketball, swimming—if he tried it, he was good at it, and if he made that face, he won.

The trophies are still sitting up on the mantel in the house, front and center so every guest can see it. They’re testaments to the man he was always meant to become. Early proof that he was going to be somebody.

Robert Lawrence: smart, capable, handsome young man.

And he delivered on his promise. Decorated FBI agent. Devoted servant of the law. A man who had his shit together and the world at his fingertips.

Except right now, I don’t see any of that. All I see is a desperate, haunted lone wolf who’s been chasing the same demon for so long that he’s unwilling to accept that it’s the wrong one.

“I haven’t been brainwashed, if that’s what you think,” I say calmly.

I wince as Rob whips us off at the next exit and squeals into position at the first gas station pump. He gets out of the car without a word.

I take a deep breath before I climb out of my own door.

“Where are you going?” Rob demands over the hood of the car.

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