Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(41)

“Because I disagree with you about how he should be raised.”

“He’s Bratva, Willow. There’s no escaping that fact.”

She shakes her head. “I want him to be more than just Bratva.”

“It’s an all-encompassing life, an all-consuming world. There won’t be time for anything else.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“You realize that this child is Bratva on both sides, right?” I ask. “He’s a Solovev, but he’s also a Mikhailov. Just because you decide something different doesn’t mean everyone else will. It won’t save him. It hasn’t saved you.”

She stares at me, and for the first time, I see understanding bloom in her eyes. “Belov will never stop coming after him, will he?”

“That’s right,” I agree. “He will never stop. Would you rather I have him? Or Belov?”

She takes a step forward, fear and desperation dripping from each word as she says, “Are you sure you can trust that woman?”

I suppress a sigh. “Yes.”

“She knows about him. She knows I have a son.”

“Brit wouldn’t say a word to Belov.”

“How do you know?” she growls. “How can you be sure?”

I move closer. We’re inches from each other now. So close that I could bend down and our lips would be pressed together.

“Do you think I’m stupid, Willow? Do you think I’m a fool?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “No. But smarter men have been duped by a pretty face.”

I snort with derisive laughter. “There’s so much you refuse to understand.”

She flinches, then straightens up to her full height and says, “You clearly care about Brit very much. How can you trust that she’s not a double agent?”

“Because I do.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“That’s because you don’t want to. You’re letting your jealousy cloud your judgment.”

Her eyes go wide with betrayal. “You don’t know the first thing about what I’m feeling, Leo.”

“Then why did you choose to storm out of dinner just now?”

She grapples with an excuse, but I’ve caught her off-guard. She’s struggling to find a lie that she can half-believe enough. “I wasn’t hungry.”

I smirk. “Then you wouldn’t have even left your room.”

“You don’t know me, Leo.”

“Denial again? Don’t make that a habit, Willow. People who live in denial never have a handle on reality. In the Bratva, that can get you killed.”

“And wouldn’t that make things easier for you?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Is this the part where I’m meant to reassure you that I would be lost without you if you died?”

“You’re a complete fucking asshole.” She stomps over to the window, staring out for a moment before she looks back at me. The moonlight streaming in turns her blue eyes silvery. Her skin glows.

With her blue eyes and dark hair, Willow is a match for Ariel any day. Problem is, she just doesn’t know it.

“Brit is loyal to me,” I say, doubling down on her anger. “And as you know, I value that above all else.”

“I was loyal to you once, too,” Willow whispers. “Then I found out that the only reason you wanted me at all is because you were using me in some macho power play.”

“It was necessary.”

She rolls her eyes. “You and Brit deserve each other.”

“If you believe that, then why are you so affected by her presence?”

“That has nothing to do with you,” she snaps. “The woman tortured me in that cell they kept me in for days.”

“She was being watched. She had to—”

“Don’t!” she practically screams. “Don’t do that. Don’t make excuses for her.”

“They’re not excuses if they’re true.”

“Do you love her?” she demands.

“Would it matter to you if I did?”

She shakes her head. “No. I told you before: I stopped loving you a long time ago.”

“Then what, Willow?” I ask calmly. “What’s got you so riled up? Is it the thought that I’m fucking her?”

Her eyes narrow dangerously, and I know that she’s reached her limit. One more little push and she’ll go tumbling right over the edge…

“Because if you need to get off, all you have to do is ask,” I tell her.

Oops. How clumsy of me.

Her lips turn up in a twisted, furious smile. “If I want to get off,” she says slowly, “I can handle that myself.”

Then her fingers curl around the edges of her shirt and she pulls it up and over her head. The bra she’s wearing underneath is red and lacy. She discards it unceremoniously. Her breasts spill out, and I admire the soft swells.

She unzips her pants and pulls them down her legs. Once they’re off, she kicks them to the side. The panties she’s wearing aren’t modest like I’m expecting. They match her bra. Red, lacy, and just sheer enough that I can see the milkiness of her skin through the fabric. She pulls them off too and flings them onto the window seat behind her.