Page 94 of Dark Promise (Suvorov Bratva 1)

Or inside my Bratva.

Everyone watches me, waiting. I stand and nod toward the door. “Dismissed.”

I touch Stepan’s shoulder to keep him from moving. The rest of my brigadiers shuffle from the room, defeat clotting the air that’s left behind.

“A fuckingnightmare,” I snap while dropping back into my seat. I don’t look at Stepan. I don’t acknowledge him. I’m still trying to swallow the fact that Volodya is gone.

I’ve lost brigadiers in the past. I’ve watched my father lose brigadiers too.

But this one is too close to home. It hurts.

I wipe my mouth and shrug. “I know Cardona did this, but how?”

“It’s obvious that it’s Kiril, Pasha.”

A grunt of frustration rattles my chest. “I don’t want to believe it.”

“Why?”

“How could someone who was so loyal betray us like this?” I shake my head. “Honor is all we have, Styopa.”

He sighs and nods, tapping the table rhythmically as he stares at an unknown point across the room. “You took the only thing that mattered to him—his stars.”

I close my eyes and swallow hard.

“And now,” he continues. “He has nothing to lose.”

“While I haveeverythingto lose.”

He nods. “Precisely.”

“I have to go. I have to think.” I stand abruptly, leaving my most trusted brigadier at the table. I turn back to him while buttoning my blazer. “Thank you, Styopa. As always.”

“As always, Pavel Sergeyevich, it’s my pleasure.”

I nod to the door. “Will you make sure the boys get what they need? I’m going upstairs for the rest of the evening.”

The bow of his head is all I need as confirmation. I trust Stepan to lock up my office and march toward the elevator, my head vibrating with ideas.

And hatred.Somuch hatred. I’m bursting with volatility when I walk into my penthouse suite.

I make it two steps into the living room when I pause. A decadent aroma greets my nostrils, rich with warmth and flavor. Spices. Wine. Vinegar. Meat sizzles in a pan, drawing me to the kitchen.

“Viktoria, that smells incredible. What are you—?” I stop in my tracks when I see Liya standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a tray in her hands. It takes me a moment to realize she’s the one cooking. “Oh, I thought…”

“She’s resting.” Her face whitens, and then she rushes to add, “I mean, her knee was acting up again and I didn’t want her to hurt herself. And I haven’t cooked yet. Foryou. And I thought maybe you would like…”

She peers down at the tray as if she’s just realized she’s holding rib-eye steak.

After all that mess, all that chaos downstairs that tore me to pieces, I come home to the brightest light I’ve ever seen—Liya. She’s frazzled by my silence and I shake my head, trying to put on a grateful smile as I take the tray.

“Get the rest,” I tell her. “I’ll put this on the table.”

She quietly returns to the kitchen and gathers everything else: baked red potatoes, steamed baby carrots, and kale salad with vinaigrette. The meal is impressive—and it looks like she’s spent the last hour perfecting it.

My stomach rumbles when I take my seat. She sets up two plates and then serves us both, moving fluidly around the table. I can tell she’s done this a million times or more. The bartender in her appears when she pours me a glass of wine. I study her features, the concentrated frown, the slight flare of anxiety in her cheekbone where the flesh twitches, and the way her tongue pokes through her lips.

The brightest light, I think.For miles around.

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