Page 47 of Bratva Prisoner
“Alyssa?” I knock softly on the doorframe. “Can we talk?”
“Come in.”
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap like a schoolgirl waiting for detention.
“How did that go?” she asks without looking up.
“About as well as could be expected. They want to meet you properly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sunday dinner. Family tradition. The wives will be there. Very civilized, very normal.”
“Normal.” She lets out a laugh that lacks any humor. “Right. Because sitting down to pot roast with the Russian mafia is the definition of normal.”
“They’re not the Russian mafia. We’re Bratva, and there’s a difference.”
She tilts her head at me as she asks, “Is there?”
“To us, yes. We don’t just take what we want and damn the consequences. We have rules, codes of conduct. Family comes first, always, but we don’t hurt innocents.”
“Unless they get in your way.”
“You’re not in our way, Alyssa. You’re family now, whether you like it or not.”
“I’m not family. I’m a problem you picked up at a nightclub.”
“You’re the woman I’m falling for.”
The words surprise us both. I didn’t plan to say them, considering I haven’t even admitted the truth to myself until this moment. But watching her pull away from me, watching her dismiss what we have as meaningless, forces the confession out of me.
“Maksim…”
“Come to dinner. Meet the people who matter to me. Let them see what I see when I look at you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Someone worth fighting for.”
She studies my face for a long moment, searching for something I hope she finds. Finally, she nods once.
“Okay. I’ll come to dinner.”
Chapter 14 - Alyssa
Meeting your boyfriend’s family is terrifying enough without them all being members of the Russian mafia.
I smooth down my dress for the hundredth time as Maksim parks in front of what can only be described as a palace. The estate makes Ravenshollow look quaint by comparison.
“Nervous?” Maksim asks, though the question sounds rhetorical given how I’m practically vibrating in the passenger seat.
I draw in a long breath and ask, “Should I be?”
“They’re going to love you.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
He reaches over and takes my hand. The gesture should comfort me, but instead, it reminds me of last night and this morning and all the reasons I should be running instead of walking voluntarily into the lion’s den.
