Page 72 of Scarred Bratva King

“It’s not that simple,” she says, her voice cracking. “I killed someone, Maxim. I took a life.”

I turn my head, looking at her. Her eyes are wide, glassy with unshed tears, and there’s something raw in her expression that twists something deep inside me.

“It is that simple,” I say, my tone sharp. “He would’ve killed you, Veronica. Or worse.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t recognize me, and for a moment, I hate myself. But this is what I am. What I’ve always been. She just hadn’t seen it up close until now.

Her voice is barely audible when she asks, “How do you live with it?”

I exhale slowly, my hand sliding away from her waist as I sit up. I don’t look at her when I answer. “You don’t think about it. You move forward. That’s how.”

The silence between us is thick, suffocating. I stand, running a hand through my hair, and walk to the window. The city lights glitter below, a reminder of everything I’ve built, everything I’ve fought for.

Her eyes fill with tears, and I force myself to hold her gaze, even though it feels like I’m being ripped apart.

“Maxim…”

“Get some sleep,” I cut her off, my voice soft but firm.

As she falls still, I leave the bed and sit in the armchair by the window, staring out at the city. When she wakes up, I’ll tell her the truth. She has a right to know.

My phone buzzes. I glance down at it. Vito Lombardi.

Meet.

I type back.

When and where.

Now. Eddington. Floor Six. Abide by the Code.

I hear the soft creak of the garage door before it opens. I don’t turn immediately. I know it’s her.

“Maxim.”

Her voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it—a sadness she’s trying to bury. “Where are you going?”

I turn, meeting her eyes. She looks tired, her hair loose around her shoulders, her hands clasped in front of her as though she’s bracing herself for something.

“Go back to bed,” I tell her. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“We need to talk now,” she says, stepping further into the room. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I unlock the car. “Can’t it wait?”

She hesitates, and for a moment, I see something flicker across her face—uncertainty, maybe, or resolve. “You’re going to kill Vito, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say simply. There’s no use sugarcoating it.

She lets out a slow breath, her fingers flexing. “And what happens after?”

I kiss her forehead but I feel her stiffen at my touch. “We’ll talk when I get back, I promise.”

The car glides to a stop outside the steel and glass building, its towering facade lit by cold, artificial light.

The place reeks of power, not the kind built on respect, but the kind that’s grown rotten. It’s fitting for a man like Vito Lombardi.

I step out, my gun tucked against my side beneath my coat, and nod at Ivan, who stays behind the wheel. “Wait here.”

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