Page 89 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

“A family got…” I close my eyes and swallow hard. When the wave of nausea subsides, I open my eyes to the most understanding-looking Zoya I’ve ever seen. “Children, Zoya. There werechildren.”

She nods. “There will always be bystanders who get hurt.”

“I could have stopped it.”

“By doing what? Making yourself the target?” She huffs. “You can’t dwell on these things, Liya. That’s not healthy. You fuck up, you get up, you keep moving. That’s how we do it.”

My eyes gloss over and suddenly it’s a few nights ago in the bedroom—in the room I share with Pavel—and he’s telling me pretty much the same thing.

What did he say?The guilt doesn’t go away by lashing yourself.

Live with it. Let it be. It’s going to gnaw at me, but I can’t focus on that feeling. I have to do something else.

And just like that, part of the guilt recedes. It doesn’t fade, not entirely. But there’s enough space for me to take a breath.

My husband is right—and not because he’s a pakhan, but because he’s lived this.

And he really tried to tell me that.

I shake my head and chuckle.

“That’s funny,” Zoya whispers. “You looked like Jonas just then.”

The observation snaps me out of my mind, and all the amusement drains from my face. “What do you mean?”

“Jonas would drift deep into thought,” she recounts. “And then he would just randomly chuckle at something in his head. It was cute.”

My cheeks flush, and a pang rips through me. Fresh guilt foams to the surface. I take Zoya’s hand and whisper, “I wish things could have turned out differently.”

When she opens her mouth to speak, I squeeze her hand to silence her.

“No,” I insist. “Really. I mean it. There was never a need for the two of us to be enemies.” I smile shakily. “In another life, maybe we could have been close friends.”

A polite grin crosses her lips—and now I can really see why Jonas chose her. She’s sweet, but she won’t bullshit about her feelings. Something is bothering her, and she’s not about to hide it.

“I agree, but…” She looks away. “You’re patronizing me, Liya.”

I frown. “No, I’m not.”

She shakes her head. “Losing Jonas might weigh more on you than anyone because of your relationship,” she says. “But it doesn’t diminish the pain I feel from his death.”

I hang my head. She’s right. I killed the father of her child. And I have the audacity to say we would have been close friends?

“I’m sorry.”

Sadness flows through her tone as she says, “You did what you felt you needed to do.”

I shrug.

“The truth is that I would have done the same thing, Liya Frankovna.” Her hand drifts to her belly. “Every unthinkable thing.”

I dare to meet her gaze. She’s burning with grief and loss, and also the genuine meaning of her words. And this is precisely why I wanted to talk to her.

Because she gets what this life is about and how much we have to sacrifice as a result.

I don’t need to justify any of it.

Still, I squeeze her hand. I bow my head respectfully. I give us a moment to inhale the energy of our conversation.

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