Page 185 of Vicious Games

“Well, here’s the punchline, Frankie. Fedorov’s not the Bratva anymore.We are.Get it?” When I still look confused, he lets out a sigh and tries to explain himself another way. “All I know is that Katya would have never wanted this life for you. She knew what it meant to bring a child into this world, under these circumstances. She protected you. She kept you hidden. From all of us. Not just that asshole Fedorov. And I think that was intentional.”

I swallow hard as I search his eyes to see if he’s just messing with me. But every word that comes out of his mouth feels like it’s weighted with truth.

“Don’t get me wrong. I love my brothers. But that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous men. Thatwearen’t fucking dangerous. And you know what dangerous men have in common? Enemies, Frankie. And a whole ton worth too. Misha has been lucky so far that no one knows where he lies his head at night, but luck runs out. And when it does, do you really want to be caught in the crosshairs?”

I shake my head, too stunned to form words.

“I didn’t think so.” He lets go of my hands with a relieved sigh. “So when your boyfriend leaves, go with him. I’ll breathe easier knowing you’re out of this mess.”

“You do know Lucky’s a Romano, right? His family runs Chicago. Danger’s baked into their lives back home too.”

“The Romanos aren’t like us. Believe me, Frankie. They don’t force their kids into the life. They step into it only if they choose to. But us? You and me? We don’t get a choice. We’re Bratva, whether we want to be or not.”

“And you don’t want to be.” My voice is barely a whisper as the pieces click into place.

“Fuck no. I hate this place. I hate everything it represents. If I could, I’d leave tomorrow.”

“Then why don’t you?”

He looks at me with something like regret.

“Because I don’t have free will, Frankie. Not anymore. And believe me… if you stay in this house long enough, you won’t either.”

“Kira! Kira! Has anyone seen Kira?” Aleksandr’s voice rings out from the hallway, causing Kostya to swear under his breath.

“Well, that’s my cue.”

He presses a kiss to my cheek, walks to a massive painting on the wall, and pulls it open—revealing a hidden passage to the next room. Without another word, he disappears, the door clicking shut behind him, just as the door to this room opens.

“There you are,” Aleksandr says, smiling wide when he sees me. “Did you get lost? Elena’s been looking for you.”

“Sorry, Uncle Sasha,” I lie smoothly. “This house is so big, I got a little curious and ended up… exploring.”

“Well, remind me to give you a proper tour next time.” He smiles, only for it to slip off his face, as he starts to eye the room like he’s missing something.

“Uncle Sasha? Isn’t Aunt Elena waiting for us?”

“Yes. Yes. You’re right. We should go,” he says, his smile not as genuine as his first one. He then guides me out, but just before we move on, he pauses—his hand landing on the doorknob of the room Kostya is still hiding in.

Panic flashes through me and without thinking, I grab his forearm.

“Uncle… Do you think we’ll have time to visit Red Square today? Or maybe see some monuments in Moscow? Elena said the city comes alive this close to the end of the year.”

Aleksandr looks at me for a beat, then drops his hand from the knob, his features softening.

“You should see it in the spring. There isn’t a more beautiful city in the world.” He pats my hand gently, then continues leading me downstairs. “Though St. Petersburg comes in at a close second,” Aleksandr says wistfully. “I can’t wait to take you there.”

“Me neither, Uncle Sasha. Me neither.”

He beams at me like I’ve just made his whole day, and I smile back, even though a small pang of guilt nudges at my chest.

I hate lying, especially to someone who has been nothing but genuinely kind to me. But something tells me he and Kostya don’t see the world—or this family—in quite the same light.

Aleksandr keeps talking, his voice full of love for his country, describing rivers that freeze over like glass, palaces that glow under the snowlight, and golden cathedrals that shimmer against gray skies. He stops talking just long enough to help me into a heavy fur coat—fake, I hope—and leads me outside to the waiting limo.

Inside, Elena is already seated, stunning as ever in a matching white fur coat and pillbox hat. She looks like she walked straight off the set of Doctor Zhivago.

“There she is, my beautiful niece!” she exclaims, cupping my face with her gloved hands and kissing both cheeks twice. “Dobroye utro.”

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