Page 4 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

I peer through my window at a legion of tall buildings clustered down the block. All gleaming glass and black metal, with the kind of distinctly regal, unfriendly vibes I associate with the rich and infamous. A sign just above us readsTHE IMPERIALin swirling ivory font.

“Mom and Mia have been staying at The Imperial?” I exclaim.

He nods. “In side-by-side suites.”

“Jesus,” I breathe.

When we enter the hotel’s grand lobby, I’m hit with the scent of fresh flowers. Roses, lilies, and orchids cluster in arrangements on every ledge.

The hotel staff wave to Rob as he drags us through the lobby toward the elevators. We bypass the regular ones and step up to a pair of special, shining brass doors twice as tall as me.

“Are you sure we can use this one?”

He pulls out a keypass and presses it against a scanner I didn’t even notice. “Very sure. After you.”

“Wow, secret elevator,” I say as we step in and he presses a rapid combination of buttons. “You must be important.”

He doesn’t so much as smirk. His easy humor has slowly disintegrated over the last year and a half. My heart breaks a little bit the longer I look at him.

The feeling in my gut is the same one I had the day of Dad’s funeral. That inexplicable sense that someone I knew and loved and trusted is gone forever.

“Did you tell Mom or Mia that I called you?” I ask. The elevator glides upwards smoothly.

“No, but Donald knows.”

“You’re on a first name basis with the millionaire?”

He throws me a glance. “He’s a billionaire, actually. And yes.”

“How friendly of him.”

“He’s thrown a lot of resources into protecting us, Liv,” Rob says. He sounds like a parent, sternly reminding me to say “please” and “thank you” to nice strangers. “Maybe be polite when you meet him.”

We’re both saved from further conversation when the elevator doors whisk open.

The room beyond is large with plush carpets and gilded ceilings, but I barely get a chance to admire it before Rob is cutting a hard right and heading for another door. I hurry after him.

The first door he opens leads to an even larger, more opulent space. Tasteful furniture fills the room and floral arrangements like the ones in the lobby top every surface—side tables, the bar, the coffee table.

But the view is what catches my eye. We’re sixty-plus stories up and the city is laid out before us like a toy set, glimmering in the sunlight.

“Olivia!”

I turn in the direction of the deep, friendly voice.

The man walking towards me is every bit as charming as he appears on TV. He radiates calm charisma. The camera hides some of his grays, but honestly, that does him a disservice. Donald Hargrove is attractive, plain and simple.

“I’m Donnie,” he says by way of greeting. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from your brother.”

I glance at Rob. “That’s surprising,” I remark. “He’s not really the type to open up much to strangers, especially about his family.”

“Well, I like to think we’re more than strangers, Olivia! But have no fear—nothing has changed in your absence,” Hargrove says with a wink. “It was actually your sister who can’t stop talking about you. She may be your number one fan.”

That warms me. But it raises a few questions, too. None of which I feel comfortable asking in Hargrove’s presence.

I notice two men standing to the side of the room. They’re dressed in black suits and, despite the fact that we’re indoors, they both have wraparound shades on.

“My bodyguards,” Hargrove says, noticing where my gaze is placed.

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