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I always liked being around Valentina. She gave me those innocent eyes, full of shy glances and rosy cheeks that let me know her attention was all on me. There were no other men in her life—by design, I’m sure, so that she was amicable toward our betrothal and subsequent marriage. But the machinations behind our union didn’t bother me. They’re just another part of Bratva life that you either get used to, or you swallow bitterly with your morning coffee.
No, I didn’t mind as long as Valentina was mine.
Some men would have found her insufferable. They don’t fuck with blushing virgins, preferring a more direct approach to physical affection.
But me?
I was as enamored with her as she was with me.
Or so I thought.
Standing at the altar awaiting your soon-to-be bride, subjected to the rising whispers and anxieties of the crowd wafting through the air like smoke, until finally your best man returns to whisper in your ear that she’s gone...will do things to a man.
Very dark, very bitter things.
I’ve spent the past five years chasing a ghost...but now she’s returned.
Mikhail studies my face as he gauges my reaction to the video footage he’s brought me. “She’s in the house, Andrei. She’s come to you, just like you said she would.” There’s a hint of respect in his voice, but he should have known just as well as me that the moment she stepped into the city, she was always coming here.
The only question is—why?
What is she after?
My heart clenches at the thought that she’s here for me, but I wall off the feeling as quickly as possible. By the time I’m taking my next breath, I’ve recovered.
She won’t receive a single shred of my feelings for her. I’m locking those up tight.
All that’s left for her is retribution.
Two pairs of footsteps gather toward the door, and I focus my gaze in their direction. My pulse quickens, but I steel my body and mind to keep my reaction passive.
She doesn’t deserve anything from me.
The handle turns down, the heavy, wooden door swings open, and there she is. Valentina Baranova.
The woman who ran.
Full lips, fuller figure, and eyes that flicker from false bravado to uncertainty in an instant. When Ezra rips the gag from her mouth, she throws a glare in his direction.
“Where’s my father?”
No. Her focus should be on me. I clench my fist behind my back to avoid gritting my teeth. My eyes catch on shiny silver zippers crisscrossing her thighs, ones that match Ezra’s exactly, and blood roars in my ears.
What the fuck is she wearing?
Ezra raises a brow, his attention wrongfully focused on her. “You said pakhan. He is here.”
“My father is pakhan, asshole. I want to see him.”
Ah, she doesn’t know. A hint of satisfaction curls in my chest. We have the upper hand in more ways than one.
“Your father is dead,” I say, interrupting them. “I am head of the Baranova Bratva, Valentina. You answer to me.”
As you always should have.
Her gaze whips in my direction, her dark hair tumbling across her shoulders. “You’re lying. Ezra only brought me here so you could fulfill some sick revenge fantasy.”
Ignoring her comment, I take in her appearance from head to toe, my lips twitching at the edges upon seeing those pants again.
