Page 128 of Dark Promise (Suvorov Bratva 1)

“Daddy, please.”

I cut his thigh.

“You’re killing her.”

Confusion shakes me out of my trance. I tilt the boy’s face up to prove to my daughter that he’s still alive, to show her that he’s just learning his lesson.

But it’s not a boy staring back at me.

It’s Liya.

And her amber eyes are lifeless.

***

I jerk awake, gasping for air like I’ve been suffocating for hours. The empty vodka bottle clinks when I knock it over. It thunders across the desk as it rolls. My head pounds viciously, and I bow forward to reach the trash can.

Whatever remains in my stomach from last night lands in the trash can. Sun pours over my shoulders, illuminating the putrid mess in front of me. The sight of it makes me hurl again, stomach clenching with every heave.

When I’m done, I lean back. I stare at my hands with round eyes that are dry and sore.

My palms are clean. My fingers aren’t coated with dried blood. There isn’t a knife nearby. There isn’t anything at all.

I pat down my chest, my pants, the desk. Where the fuck is my phone?

I find it on the ground next to the trash can. Two inches to the left would have buried my phone in dinner from last night along with several ounces of unabsorbed vodka.

My parched lips move, mumbling, “Only a dream.”

I check my texts. I see Stepan’s report about security. I see Gennadiy’s updates about Liya’s whereabouts.

She’s on the terrace having breakfast with Viktoria.

She’s alive.

Her eyes aren’t rolling on the ground at my feet like discarded marbles.

She’s alive.

“Only a dream,” I assure myself. “Nothing more.”

Yet something inside me makes me feel uneasy.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Liya

Willow touches my hand.

It’s weird to feel her warmth in this place. We’re sitting in a large den with windows lining the right wall. A gorgeous garden sits just on the other side of the glass, tended and cared for in ways that almost feel criminal compared to how little care I’ve received in the past few days.

Pavel hasn’t slept next to me. Not one night since our argument.

Part of me should feel relief, but there’s another part of me that feels betrayed. My eyes roam the room, noticing the tables overflowing with a delicious buffet of food next to a table piled with carefully wrapped gifts. There’s probably a crib or a baby bath in there somewhere. Clothes, rattles, bibs, binkies—the works.

I squeeze Willow’s hand. “Ducks were a good choice.”

It’s almost comical to see the brigadiers wandering around the room with plates covered in chibi ducks. Grown-ass men with massive muscles cradle plates of cake and tip back bottles of beer.

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