Page 12 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
Her mouth falls open in shock, then I can see every emotion flitting across her face as she lines up all the evidence in her mind. Disbelief, understanding, dismay. Hurt.
“He wanted a girlfriend that wasn’t really a girlfriend.” She says it like it makes horrible sense. “To cover his tracks.”
I nod grimly. “It seems Camden were raising the stakes and the cost week by week. But he couldn’t afford for me to find out.”
“Why not?”
My mouth sets in a harsh line. “My silence cannot be bought. Ivan knew he would pay in blood.”
“Oh.” Her eyes go wide. “His expenses kept on rising, so he was looking to cut costs. Not having a girlfriend anymore, clawing back some of the money, and maybe…”
Neither of us complete that thought. If he was paying so much to Camden that he needed her gifts returned, he might also have decided to hunt for victims closer to home. Payton would be an obvious person to take out his sadistic anger on.
She fidgets and looks away, picking up and putting down her half-finished orange juice that she asked for after the glass of Champagne.
“That’s enough high-drama,” I say. She’s safe, at least for now. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”
Payton’s eyes fill with worry, and she hesitates before replying, “Truth.”
Pity. I’d have liked to dare her to kiss me. That could have distracted us both very effectively.
“Tell me something that you love doing,”
She blinks, taken aback, then replies, “Swimming.”
I grin. She’s going to adore the beach house. “Where do you swim?”
“At an outdoor pool in Richmond.”
I nod slowly. “There’s one in Beckenham too, and a big park.”
I don’t mention the clear blue waters around the island I’m taking her to. I’d rather enjoy her surprise as she sees it for the first time.
“Is that it?” she asks when I don’t follow up.
“Da.” And I brace myself, because I sense that my respite will be short. “You can ask another question.”
“Where’s Ivan’s mother?” she says immediately.
My heart sinks. This whole conversation doesn’t cast me in a flattering light, and I’ve discovered that it matters very much what she thinks of me.
“And what happened that he ended up…” she trails off, unsure how to say the awkward thing.
A monster. My son is a monster, even amongst mafia bosses.
“He turned up on my doorstep, aged eighteen,” I reply. “His mother had told him my name, after years of keeping it a secret from him, and he came to find me.”
I’d stared into the face of my younger self that day. I hadn’t even asked for a paternity test. Ivan had insisted, so I’d bled onto the sample and sent it off. But the result was never in question.
He had my chin, and eyes, and all the arrogance I’d had when I was eighteen, but without any of the natural ability for mafia work. None of the instincts, and definitely zero skills.
The blood lust though. The cold, vicious streak. He had that, and I tried to tell myself at the time that it was normal.
“I didn’t know what to do with him,” I admit. “I insisted he go to university because I thought it would give him an opportunity to grow up. Mature. And maybe be useful to Beckenham afterwards.”
“He was studying computer science,” she says, evidently still processing all this, since I already know that.
I nod. “There isn’t a degree in mafia management, unfortunately.”
