Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(24)

“Yeah?”

“About… when it happened.”

I know exactly what he’s talking about. I know it from his broken tone and the look in his eyes. Hollow, desperate, filled with unresolved anger.

“It’s been eight fucking years, Leo,” he says. “Can you believe that?”

“I stopped counting a long time ago.”

“I used to watch Pavel with Petyr and Logan. I wanted to be like them.”

I smirk. “You got more than you bargained for, huh?”

He shakes his head and looks off into the distance. “I never imagined the three of us would end up in their shoes. It was so simple back then. They had the responsibility; we had the fun.”

I remember all too well. But I don’t comb through the memories much. Mourning is a waste of time. Purpose—action—revenge—that’s all that matters.

“It was right that they died together,” Gaiman says. “Petyr and Logan… there was no one closer to Pavel than the two of them.”

I thought about their wasted lives and the people they’d left behind. Sometimes, opportunities can be born of grief. I have weapons now because of what Petyr, Logan and Pavel left in their wake.

“What happened to their families?” Gaiman asks. “I never followed through like I probably should have.”

“It wasn’t your job to follow through. It was mine.”

“And did you?”

“Logan had no one. He was an orphan who found his home in the Bratva. Pavel and Petyr were the brothers he never had. Petyr was an only child raised by a single mother. Luda Yolkin was her name.”

He nods and strokes his chin. “Where is she now?”

“Trying to survive. Like the rest of us.”

I’m sick of talking. It’s not doing anything to clear the demons in my head. If anything, it’s only stirring them up more.

I turn and head back towards the house, but stop before I step into the trees. “I’m getting my son back, Gaiman. Belov will have to wait.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Gaiman sighs. “What if he doesn’t? What if he attacks us before we’re ready?”

“Don’t you know me at all?” I ask. “I’m always ready.”





In the cabin, I go up to her room. The door is cracked. When I peek through, I see her in a fighting stance, shadow-boxing with thin air. She’s so absorbed in it that she doesn’t notice me slip through the entrance and lean against the wall to observe.

She’s wearing tight black leggings and a black tank top. Her hair is twisted back in a high ponytail that’s just begging to be grabbed.

Her movements are lithe and efficient, obviously well-coached. The foundations are there, but there’s much more she needs to learn.

“You jump when you throw a punch,” I say. “Keep your feet planted.”

She whirls around, eyes wide, both fists raised. “Get out of my room.”

“My room, remember?” I remind her. “My house. My mountain.”

“Right—because everything’s fucking yours. Me most of all.”

“Glad you’ve finally accepted that.”

She moves forward as though she’s about to continue her punching exercise, but she stops a foot away and lowers her hands.

“What do you want?”

“Answers.”

She crosses her arms. “Then you might as well leave. You’re wasting your time.”

“You don’t think I have a right to know about my son’s birth? His name?”

“You’re not going to have a chance to know him, so it would be cruel to give you details.”

I smile darkly. “Anya really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

“This is not about her.”

“You’re not like her, Willow. Stop pretending.”

“The name is Viktoria,” she corrects, but even I can sense the half-heartedness of those words. “And I am not the powerless little girl you deigned to save from a bad marriage. As you so rightly pointed out, I do have a name of my own. And that name carries weight.”

I raise my eyebrows, impressed yet again. “And you’re planning on using that name, is that right?”

“Why not?” she asks. “If I can’t escape this life, then maybe my only other option is embracing it.”

“That was quite the change of heart.”

“I guess I can thank you for that,” she snaps. “You’re the one who made me realize that power is the only way to be heard in this world. And I’m done shouting into the abyss while everyone ignores me.”

“You’ve developed a penchant for hyperbole. Is that also courtesy of Anya?”

She narrows her eyes. “You have no idea how much I want to kick you in the balls right now.”

“She may be your mother, but that doesn’t make her any less of a monster.”

“How the fuck would you know?” she explodes. “You don’t know her!”

“Do you?”

She bites down on her bottom lip. I feel my cock come to life despite the fact that I still want to wring her neck.

Fighting or fucking—it’s always one or the other with us. Both options seem tempting right now. Especially with the way the tank top cups her breasts and highlights how hard her nipples are.