Page 167 of Vicious Games

“I want to see her.”

“She’s currently being monitored by our family doctor,” Aleksandr chimes in for his brother. “I can guarantee you that she’s healing nicely. I can even take you to her when we’re done here. So, please…sit.”

I want to argue, but it’s clearly not a request. I take a seat, wishing I had one of Stella’s daggers on me. Frankie sits down next to me, placing a comforting hand on my thigh. It’s enough to simmer my rage at being kept away from my sister.

A minute later, Kostya joins us, flopping on the nearest couch beside us. Aleksandr checks his phone and then throws Kirill a look. And as if he had the capacity to read his brother’s mind, Kirill gets up from his seat and leaves, only to return a few minutes later, accompanied by a frail woman with a floral scarf wrapped around her head.

“Bozhe moy,” she breathes, covering her mouth as she stares at Frankie.

“She doesn’t speak Russian,” Kirill says softly.

“Of course not,” the woman replies in heavily-accented English. Kirill helps her to Frankie, who rises to meet her halfway.

“Hello…I… I’m Frankie.”

Tears well in the woman’s eyes as she embraces her. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

When they pull apart, I catch the quiet signs—the scarf carefully tied around her head, the absence of eyebrows, the way her blouse hangs a little too loosely on her frame.

She’s fighting something. Something that’s fighting right back.

And suddenly, this meet and greet feels a little more personal than I was ready for.

Hating the Petrovs was one thing…sympathizing with them… is quite another.

“I’m Elena. Misha’s wife,” the woman says gently, then turns to me, all smiles. “And you must be Frankie’s other half, Lucy. Did I say that right?”

I smile despite myself. “Close enough. It’s Luciano. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Petrov.”

“Call me Elena. We’re all family here.”

Family.

The word echoes, confusing and heavy.

And fuck. Is my Frankie related to the Petrovs somehow?

“Come, Kill. I saw my beautifulplemyannitsa.I’m happy now,” Elena says, and Kirill lifts her easily in his arms, like she weighs no heavier than a feather.

We watch them leave, but before we can speak, a presence steals the air from the room.

Because that’s when Misha enters.

ThePakhan.

The Black Shadow of Moscow.

Misha Petrov—dark blond hair cropped short, ocean-blue eyes that could freeze a man with a single glance. His face is all hard lines, the kind carved from war and power. He walks with command in every step, causing Frankie to go rigid beside me. I instinctively step in front of her, needing to shield her from him.

He doesn’t speak. Just looks at me.

Orders me to move, with nothing more than his eyes.

But before I can tell him to fuck off, Frankie steps around me.

And then, to my shock and horror, he pulls my love into his arms.

Not like a mafia boss. Not like a stranger.

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