Page 86 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

I nod. “That’s theonlything we can do.”

“Pavel…” She stifles another cry and covers her mouth. “That family is…was…”

I tuck her under my wing, holding her through an earthquake of sobs. They’re not as hard as the ones that erupted after I shot Jonas, but they certainly come close.

Who else could feel so deeply?

No one. Liya is the only woman I know to have such depth of character, to have such complexity.

I never want her to lose it. But in this moment, I know that she must lose it.

Because otherwise, she’ll lose herself completely.

I smooth a lock of hair away from her face. “It’s going to be all right.”

“How do you know?!”

“I don’t.”

She sniffs, her eyes flashing—whether from tears or anger, I can’t tell.

“So, you’re lying.”

“It’s the truth, from a certain point of view,” I explain, but I have a hard time believing it. I can practically hear my father’s voice saying the same to me when I committed my first kill.

“What about the next step? What are we supposed to prepare for now?”

My face darkens as I whisper, “The blow-back.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Liya

The news is all I can watch.

It’s only been a few days since the incident, and madness has descended upon the city, every news channel reporting the state of horror lurking around every corner.

Just like the bad guys.

And I’m one of them.

My stomach twists as I mute the television. I can’t listen to the anchors speak anymore. I don’t want to know what’s happening. I just want it all to go away.

It’s a crackdown. That’s what the NYPD is calling it.

A city-wide criminal crackdown.

The mayor is certainly using it to his advantage, subtly referencing his reelection campaign between the wordsabsolutelyandzero tolerance. The whole thing makes me sick.

My cheeks sour with the familiar threat of morning sickness. I cover my mouth, trying not to think about the pretty cream white carpet getting ruined from my inability to make it to the bathroom.

I take a few tentative steps to the hallway. An explosion of Russian vibrates Pavel’s office door. He’s been locked in there at all hours, trying to tie up loose ends.

Because of me.

Because of my mistake.

Once I regain control of my stomach—and what little food is in it—I turn off the television and shove my phone deep into my pocket.

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