Page 88 of Scarred Bratva King

Elena appears at once against the counter, her sharp gaze fixed on me. “I heard it all,” she says.

I frown, my fingers curling around the coffee cup. “He said Maxim loves me. You think that’s true?”

Elena tilts her head, studying me. “Do you want it to be true?”

The question hangs in the air, and I feel the knot in my chest tighten. “I don’t know.”

Her expression softens, and she pulls up a chair, sitting across from me. “When I first fell for Dmitri, I thought the same things as you. I didn’t believe a man like him—a mob boss—could be good. I thought love and violence couldn’t exist in the same world.”

I look at her, surprised. “What changed?”

She smiles, a warmth spreading across her face. “He did. He proved me wrong every single day. He’s a wonderful husband, Veronica. And I know he’ll be a great father.”

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers tracing the edge of the letter. “What if Maxim can’t change? What if I risk everything, and he’s still him? He used me to get Marco.”

“And it worked. Life is about tough calls, Vee. You know that. We don’t get them all right but I know Maxim. He’s capable of change. Trust me.”

She leans forward, her hand resting gently over mine. “Change takes time, Veronica. But love can be the reason someone tries. If you love him, and I think you do, isn’t that worth fighting for?”

I bite my lip, tears welling in my eyes. “What if it’s not enough? What if I put my heart out there and he still walks away? What if he’s just like my mom? I’m scared, Elena.”

She squeezes my hand. “I know.”

41

VERONICA

The hallway leading to Maxim’s study feels longer than I remember, the air heavy with my hesitation as I grip the divorce papers in my hand.

My footsteps echo against the polished floor, the sound unnervingly loud.

When I reach the study, the door is cracked open, and I can see him sitting there, alone. He’s a shadow in the dim light, vodka glass in his hand.

His head is bowed slightly, his hair a mess like he’s run his fingers through it too many times. It’s the posture of a man at war with himself.

I push the door open without knocking. He glances up, and for a split second, his eyes widen, unguarded.

“Veronica,” he breathes, stunned, his voice rougher than usual. “You came back.”

I shut the door behind me and take a deep breath, my pulse thudding in my ears. “Tying things up before you leave the country?”

“You heard, then.”

“Why are you going?”

“Does it matter? Did you bring the papers?”

I scoff, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Do you think a divorce is all I wanted? That I could just walk away from you, and pretend none of it mattered?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. Finally, he looks away, his hands clasping together tightly on the desk. “You’re right about me. I am a monster.”

“You’re not.” My voice cracks despite my best efforts to sound strong. “You want me to believe you are because it’ll be easier than trying to change. I won’t let you take the easy way out.”

His eyes snap back to mine, and something flickers there—pain, frustration, something deeper. “Want me to burn down the world? I’d do it in a heartbeat. But order me to be a good man? I don’t know if I can. My father’s obsession cost this family dear. I don’t want you to pay the same price he did. What if my obsession gets you hurt? I used you to get Marco, remember.”

I hesitate, gripping the papers tighter. “He’s dead, that’s what matters. I refuse to raise a child surrounded by bloodshed and violence and fear.”

He exhales, leaning forward. “I’ll leave the Bratva.”

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