Page 120 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

How the hell can I feel pleasure from that?

I cup my stomach, nausea slamming into me at full force.

How can I feel satisfaction from someone’s death?

How can Inot?

When Jonas died, my feelings were all over the place. I was relieved. I was angry. I was sad.

And now, I feel those things less. They’ve dulled over time, shifting from shame and guilt into a steady march forward.

Because that’s all I can do with guilt.

It’s all anyone can do.

My limbs grow heavy, but I manage to peel myself off the bed and head for the bathroom. Relief washes through my system as I use the toilet, wash my hands, and then splash cool water on my face. I peer into the mirror, trying to remember the precise moment when Liya Bernadetti died for good, and in her place rose Liya Suvorov, the heartless bitch whose hands are dripping with the blood of the ones she loves.

Liya Suvorov, the helpless wife forced to watch as her husband slowly transforms into a monster she can hardly recognize.

This is what it’s like to get pushed out.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

The only thing I can do is wait for Pavel to come upstairs.

Chapter Thirty

Pavel

The gun is warm in my hand. The pungent smell of powder stings my nostrils. The scent of Sharp soiling himself fouls the air shortly after.

Death. Destruction. It’s all the same to me. It’s all a means to an end.

But this is different. This demanded that his blood be spilled. This is the cost of taking from the Bratva.

I am judge, jury, and executioner. I am Sharp’s end. And I will make sure he’ll never get another beginning anywhere else.

My cheek twitches as I stare at his lifeless corpse. His eyes are only slightly dull, life still left in those irises yet. Soon, they’ll gloss over, pale, and wither.

But for now, he stares at the ceiling.

He stares at where Liya hides.

He stares beyond her at the gates of heaven—a place that he’ll never visit.

Maybe not me. And maybe not Liya either.

But for now, we’ll never have to deal with him again.

I turn to Kostya. “Process him.”

“Yes, Pavel Sergeyevich.”

Kostya and Stepan float to the body. Their movements are reverent, respectful of their craft more than they are of the vessel that once housed life. My two most skilled processors are fit for this job, for shoving the remains somewhere that only God can find.

And animals.

Circle of life.

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