Page 82 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

This time, the pause on the other line is deliberate and calculated. “She appeared during the meeting with Ozol and then again with Murray. You don’t think…?”

“I know how it looks,” I interrupt. “It seems too suspicious to be coincidental.”

“How much do you know about this woman?”

“Hardly anything,” I admit. “Apart from the fact that she was clearly running from something—or someone—the night I met her.”

“And then a year later you meet her again… and she has a baby,” Kian continues. “That’s…”

“Yes.”

“How sure are you that the kid is yours?” he asks bluntly.

“He looks like me.”

“For fuck’s sake, kid, you think that’s enough? Is the kid a spitting image or have you just gone soft in the head? Any definitive proof at all?”

“I… well, no,” I admit. “He’s dark-haired, though.”

“And I’m assuming she’s not.”

“No.”

“That doesn’t prove a goddamn thing.”

“I’m aware.”

“And yet you believe the child is yours?” Kian asks.

“Why would she lie?”

“Jesus, nephew, there are a million reasons she would lie! You’re Phoenix fucking Kovalyov!” he points out. “Claiming the child is yours definitely comes with strings attached.”

He’s right. I know he is. But he also hasn’t met Elyssa. He hasn’t seen the innocence in those amber eyes.

“She doesn’t seem like the manipulative type,” I say.

“What the fuck does that prove?” Kian bellows. “Christ almighty, I taught you better than this! A talent for deception is the most valuable asset a recruit has. If she’s a plant, then you can bet your ass she’ll be a good one.”

“A plant,” I repeat.

“A plant,” Kian repeats back to me like I’m dumb. “An Astra Tyrannis plant. You’re smarter than this, Phoenix.”

I bite down on my tongue, trying to look past my attraction to Elyssa and see things from my uncle’s perspective.

But I can’t.

Because I keep seeing her fucking doe eyes. I keep seeing the kid. Those dark features. Those long eyelashes.

“He looks like Yuri did,” I say softly. “When he was first born.”

Despite the fact that we’re thousands of miles apart, I can feel the change in my uncle when I say those words. He softens—as much as it’s possible for a battle-hardened don like him to soften.

“Fuck, Phoenix, I’m sorry. Temper getting the best of me as always. I never stopped to think what this may mean to you personally.”

I clear my throat. “It doesn’t mean anything to me personally,” I reply harshly. “It’s just an inconvenience I need to figure out how to deal with.”

“Aye, certainly.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “Where is she, this woman?”

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