Page 13 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
That makes her snort with laughter, but her smile dies quickly. “Did you not know about Ivan, then? If he just turned up, it was good of you to accept him.”
Such a sweet girl. She’s trying to make me less culpable.
“I paid the money due and never saw him. I regret that. I was a bad father.” Guilt grabs me by the throat. If I had kids now, I’d be in their lives.
I can’t help my gaze dragging over Payton’s body, imagining her pregnant with a baby we both desperately wanted, and would dote on.
“Why did you have a child at all?”
“I didn’t mean to. But no method of contraception is perfect, and by the time his mother told me, we were having a child whether we liked it or not. And I didn’t like it.” I’d speculatedabout whether it had been accidental, especially because Ivan’s mother had informed me of the pregnancy at three months. But eventually I’d decided that the answer was not to take any more risks, and I haven’t since. My hand might not be as good as a cunt, but it can’t get into trouble. “I was far too young, involved in building a territory in London. I had experienced losing my family when a small Russian Bratva killed them and took me in when I was sixteen. My father had been dealing drugs, and tried to double-cross the Pakhan—that’s the name of the head of a Bratva, it means eldest brother—and found to his cost that it is a bad idea.”
I twist my mouth wryly. “I had only just destroyed that group from the inside out, like an apple rotting from the core. I wasn’t keen to experience any of that again.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” There’s distress in her voice.
“Thank you,” I reply mechanically. “It was a long time ago.”
“So you’ve given up on family? I can’t imagine life without my sisters.” She stares at her hands in her lap, obviously thinking of them. “You don’t ever want children?”
“No, it’s…” I don’t know how to answer her, but that’s wrong.
She turns back, waiting for my answer as though it’s important to her. And it is to me too.
“The truth is so much more complicated. Twenty-year-old mafia bosses shouldn’t have children.” I raise my eyebrows. “Ivan hasn’t had loss to make him realise the consequences of his actions.” I’m known for having no heart, but I have limits. Ivan could have been me, if I’d been coddled and indulged. Just vicious impulses with no empathy. “His mother raised a savage dog with my genetics, and I have to put it down.”
“I understand.” She tilts her chin up.
“But if I had children now…” I let the thought linger, careful to keep my gaze on her face, however much I want it to drop to her breasts, her waist, her hips. That place between her legs thatafter more than twenty years, I finally have an insatiable urge to taste. She was born the same year as Ivan, and it’s as though I’ve been waiting all this time for her.
“I’m ready now,” I say softly, and it’s true. “I’m forty-four. A lot has changed in twenty-one years, and I like the idea of stopping thinking of myself and my own achievements, and caring for a family.” The itch of discontent and loneliness has been growing for a long time now.
“Perhaps it took that long to heal from your family being murdered,” she whispers back.
My throat clogs, and I dip my head. “Yes,” I manage to get out, a bit strangled. “I’m powerful now. I could protect those I love.”
The roar of the jet’s engines is loud, but the thud of my heart as I look at Payton is deafening.
“What else do you like to do, aside from swim?” I ask eventually. And she accepts my change of subject gracefully, replying that she likes to read. We don’t need to exchange truth questions after that, because she’s telling me about the fantasy romances she enjoys, and then the true crime podcasts. She tells me her favourite unsolved cases, and my job is finally an advantage because I can explain how an “impossible” crime could have been carried out—and possibly was with one of my products—and we continue talking for hours, except to accept food and refreshment from the cabin crew.
It’s only when I check my watch and see we’re only half an hour from landing, and I notice her wince again, as though something hurts, and my heart lurches.
“What is it?” I demand.
“Pain,” she gasps, holding her fingers to her ears. Her face creases in discomfort, and panic, red and hot and sharp, floods my veins.
7
PAYTON
The pressure has been building up for a few minutes in my ears, but it’s harsher suddenly. It’s horrible. I’m a wuss about pain, admittedly, but why…? Tears threaten behind my eyes, and I slump in my chair, rubbing my temples.
“Payton, listen to me.” Feliks is there, cupping my jaw with his palm, and speaking low and urgently. “It’s okay. Your ears aren’t equalising. Swallow for me.”
“What?” I can’t think past how he’s touching me. His hand is warm, and his fingertips are a little rough.
He makes a frustrated sound, then the next second he has a bottle of water, the lid crunching as he twists it efficiently off. “Here. Drink.”
I take it from him dubiously, and when I go to drink, he tips up my chin as I do.
