Page 61 of Bratva Sacrifice

“Your books,” I tell her. “You need more, yes?”

“I guess.” This does not pacify her. She is beyond being satisfied with such things.

“Then go. You meet me back here in half hour.”

She blinks, startled again, when I release her hand. “You’re—not coming?”

“For what purpose? You know where bookstore is. You don’t need my help to buy your books.” I cup the back of her neck, press a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t carry bags,” I tell her. “You need help, you tell them.” I jerk my head toward my men. “Important people have bodyguards, koshechka. You are this important to me.”

It does not mollify her in the way that I had hoped. But her face is less strained than it was. Her listlessness less pronounced. “Okay,” she says. “Half an hour.”

“Be a good girl,” I say, and I let her go. “When you come back, I will have gifts for you.” The phone and computer she asked for. Both of these things can be obtained easily here. If I want her to trust in me, I must offer this to her in return. These things, I think, will ease the sting she still feels, ease the hurt I caused her yesterday.

A small concession to earn her trust. It is not so much to sacrifice.

Chapter Thirty

Catalina

Alexei’s men don’t follow me into the bookstore. It’s not nearly as crowded as it was last time we were here, but it would still be obvious if they were following me around. So like last time, they wait outside near the entrance as I browse, and I don’t feel quite so suffocated or smothered. Even if I know they’re there, they’re unobtrusive.

I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about coming here again, even if the occasions I leave the house are rare. It felt like an outing designed to shut me up, to keep me quiet and complacent. A treat thrown in my direction to keep me from whining.

But now I think…Alexei is trying. Genuinely. I don’t think it comes naturally to him. I think it’s uncomfortable and maybe unpleasant. He’s not the sort of man who has ever had to consider someone else’s opinion. Maybe he’s not the sort of man who has ever cared about making someone else happy.

But he’s trying. And that means something to me.

It would have been so easy, last night, for him to manhandle me back to his bedroom from the one I retreated to. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before. But he didn’t. Instead he just crawled into bed with me. Wrapped himself around me and held me against his chest, like he knew I was hurting.

It wasn’t an apology, exactly. I don’t think he makes them often, even when they’re deserved. Instead I think it was just meant to comfort me. Somehow I think this man—this mafia boss—really does care about me. I think he sincerely wants me to be happy.

With him.

And I could be. I want to be. I want so badly to believe in him. To trust him.

So as I assemble a small stack of books from the shelves before me, I count the things that make me feel…not so much the captive I think I was once meant to be.

He cares when he hurts my feelings. Even if he’s shit at apologizing for it, he cares. He watches documentaries with me, even though they bore him out of his mind. He keeps me insulated from his mobstering so I don’t have to think about it. And he thinks nothing of sending everyone out of the house when I want his attention.

He always leaves a light on for me at night, because he knows I’m afraid of the dark. If I don’t like a meal that’s served to me, it never appears again. The fridges in the pool bar are always stocked with fresh mint and lime for my mojitos and bottles of the sweet white wine I like. Every morning when I come downstairs, the first thing he does when he sees me is to sniff my neck to find out what perfume I chose.

When I ask him, he helps me paint my toenails. He’s terrible at it, but he does it anyway, just because I asked. And I love that.

I love him. I love him, but…I don’t want to admit to it just yet. I don’t want to be in love with someone who might not love me the same way.

I don’t want to make my mother’s mistakes all over again, to trust the wrong person too much. And I know—I know she would tell me that even if she and Papa hated each other in the end, it was worth it for her, because she got me out of it. But I know how much easier her life would have been if Papa had never come into it. If I hadn’t. I know how hard she struggled as a single mother.

I don’t want to bring a child into instability, into a relationship that’s one-sided and uncertain. As indulgent as Alexei often is, I’m not even certain if I get that choice. If I’ll have to ask his permission just to go to the doctor when I’m due for another birth control shot in a few months.

But I love him. I want to give him the chance not to disappoint me. Maybe I want to give myself the chance to be happy. This relationship—whatever it is—isn’t traditional or conventional. But maybe that doesn’t matter, so long as it works for us.

And I want so badly for it to work.

I’m not certain how much time has passed—I don’t have a watch—but I don’t want to make Alexei worry. Or to force my bodyguards to come searching for me. These books will probably last me a week or two, depending upon how much of my time Alexei demands. Anatoli is due back from Moscow in the next week, so I expect that Alexei’s schedule will soon be less demanding.

I don’t want to make another conciliatory trip to the mall for more books to keep me occupied. So I’ll tell him that. He’s got until I’m done with my books to find a solution that works for both of us. That’s fair, I think.

As I bend to collect the stack of books that sits beside me, a hand falls on my shoulder. Something cold touches the small of my back. Something hard and metallic.