“Your brother needs his privacy to focus on work,” she argues.
I set my glass down to prop my chin up with my fist. “I overheard three women—one of them Dima’s favorite hooker—bragging that Aleksy moved them in and gave them their own wing.”
My mother has always wanted to be the matriarch of the Bratva. She complained to Uncle Yaroslav about it regularly. She wanted the respect he received from other members.
While she may have their so-called respect now, she’ll never have mine, especially after not stopping Aleksy from forcing me down the aisle.
Aleksy cuts the music, stands, and raises his glass to make a toast. I slouch in the chair, rolling my head back, as he rambles on about loyalty, pride, and how the Morozovas will be the most powerful family in the city soon. I start to tune him out until I hear my name.
Everyone turns to look at me, and I grind my teeth.
“And to my dear sister Liliya,” Aleksy says with fake sincerity, “who’s made the ultimate sacrifice for this family. We appreciate everything you have done andwill continueto do.”
I rub at my elbows as my ears ring.
“To Liliya,” everyone says, raising their glasses.
I don’t bother with mine.
I don’t even smile.
He’s right about one thing: I have made the ultimate sacrifice for this family.
But what he’s wrong about? The Morozovas will never be the most powerful family in the city, even if I succeed in killing my husband.
The Bratva will die under my brother.
I have to make a choice. Am I a Morozova or a Lastro?
28
As much asI wanted to stay away from Yaroslav’s memorial shit show, I didn’t want one of the other men to have to endure it either. No one deserves that hell.
Which is why I agreed to drop Liliya off and pick her up.
At first, I hadn’t wanted her to go, but as I thought about it, if she did try to escape while in Bratva custody, it’d give me a great reason to murder Aleksy.
Right now, that’s all I need—a reason to end his life.
I don’t bother stepping out of the Range Rover when I arrive. I just shoot Liliya a quick text.
Me: I’m outside.
A few people pass, eyeing me, but I ignore them.
It’s dark, and I flash my headlights when I spot her walking in my direction.
She yanks open the door, drops into the passenger seat, and throws her bag onto the floorboard before slamming the door. Groaning, she rests her head against the window and lets out the longest breath I’ve ever heard.
“Rough day?” I ask.
“You have no fucking idea,” she snaps, massaging her temples.
“Aw, come on. Celebrating your dead Bratva uncle wasn’t fun?”
She scoffs. “No, andsomeone”—she pauses, lifting her head to glare at me—“took their sweet time picking me up.”
I pretend to check my watch. “My bad. Lost track of time.”
