Page 72 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
It seems wrong to discuss this while we’re surrounded by comfort and heat and the magic of the holidays. But it can’t wait. Cartier doesn’t speak. Her eyes search mine as if she can preempt what I’m about to say and stop the words from being spoken out loud.
“From what my sister was able to find out from our father, he and your father wanted to end the war and form an alliance. They arranged a meeting on neutral territory. But there was an attempt on my father’s life.”
“Who was it?” she whispers.
“Victoria is still working on it, Cartier. My sister is a lawyer; she won’t act unless armed with all the information.”
“But…?”
“But… My father suspected that it was your family.”
Her eyes grow large with tears, and she turns away to stare at the TV screen. “So, he retaliated.”
I lean across the sofa and take her hand, but she snatches it away. “Cartier, we don’t know for sure what went wrong. They were trying to form an alliance.”
“But they didn’t, did they? Because my father was killed, and your father survived.”
I’ve killed people. I’ve pulled the trigger and fired a bullet that would take someone’s life, and I’ve never lost sleep over it because those people were ruthless assholes who didn’t even understand the meaning of compassion.
I didn’t fire the weapon that killed her parents, but the heavy ache in my chest is guilt. I will find out what happened and I’ll atone for the loss of her family.
If she’ll let me.
“Cartier, I’ll do whatever I can to?—”
“You can’t bring them back though, Andrej.” Her voice is cold, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“No, but I can make whoever killed them pay.”
“How? By murdering them too? What if you find out that it was your father, huh? Would you kill him?”
I can’t tell her the truth until I know for sure. There’s no room for error. This is too personal … for both of us.
“That’s what I thought.” She stands up, and when she looks at me, it’s as if the fire inside her has been snuffed.
I rise too, closing the distance between us, needing to follow this through, to make sure that she believes me.
But before I can speak, she backs away. “I’m going to bed. Don’t bother following me.”
19
CARTIER
I curlup underneath the covers of the huge four-poster bed, knees drawn up to my chest. I try to picture my parents going about their life like a regular family, grabbing breakfast before beginning their morning commute to work, leaving me with a nanny during the day, planning the evening meal for the three of us. As a family.
Only it’s all make-believe.
They were Bratva. I was the daughter of a Bratva Pakhan. The daughter of a killer.
My eyes remain dry despite the heaving emptiness inside my chest.
How can I shed tears for people I never knew?
“I’m Cartier Black,” I mutter to myself, reaffirming my place within the universe. “I’m not an Asimov.”
But there’s no conviction in my tone, because I don’t even recognize the person lying in a bed that belonged to a rival Russian family, wearing clothes purchased for me by a Bratvaunderboss with money that he probably made from sacrificing people along the way.
I’m a healer, not a killer. I chose my profession because I want to help people. So, why did I have to go and fall for a guy who knows how it feels to take a life?
