Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (99)

Me? I want the blood of my enemies. Nothing less will suffice.

“And what if I’m not different?” I ask impassively.

“You’re not your father.”

“That’s just it,” I growl. “I am my father. He wasn’t loving or kind or understanding. He wasn’t compassionate or patient. But he taught me to be strong. To be in control.”

“You know the thing about control?” Camila says, her tone hardening. “You never know if the people in your life are there because they want to be, or because they’re forced to be.”

“This is not a fairytale, little girl,” I snarl. “It’s not a fucking book. Real life is an entirely different beast. And I don’t give a fuck about what other people want. Their desires, their opinions, their thoughts mean shit to me.”

“Including mine?”

“Including yours,” I snap immediately, without leaving even a second of silence between the question and the answer.

She rears back as though I’ve struck her. Her eyes pool with hurt as she tries to grapple with who I am. With what she means to me. Or, more precisely, what she doesn’t mean.

“You’re never going to let me go, are you?”

“So you can go back to him?” I scoff. “No, I’m not.”

Her eyes cloud over. “You really think that’s what I’m going to do if I get my freedom back? You think I’m going to scamper straight back to Maxim?”

“Well, you were just advocating for me to abandon my plans where’s concerned,” I point out. “It’s a loyal gesture. I might even go so far as to say it’s a loving gesture.”

Anger and hurt burn in her eyes and for the first time, I see a spark of hate ignite her features. She looks like some lost and broken siren who’s been pushed to the brink.

“You bastard,” she seethes. I’m impressed that her voice doesn’t shake. Not even a little bit. “After everything… after everything… you still think I’m manipulating you into letting me run back to Maxim?”

“Everything?” I laugh cruelly, exclusively to twist the knife a little harder. “It was just a few meaningless fucks, Camila.”

Her jaw drops, her cheeks flush, her bottom lip trembles. The gesture is so innocent, so honest, that it takes me off guard.

“To you, maybe,” she says finally, without offering anything more.

She turns and walks towards the antique table where she set her books down. She picks them up, one by one, with slow, jerky movements.

I want to stop her. Call out to her. Tell her that I’m not used to backing down or giving in. I’m used to the fight. It’s the whole reason I can’t stop my pursuit of Maxim. It’s the reason I can’t rest until I know that my cousin is no longer a threat.

I am more my father’s son than I ever cared to admit before.

But now, I’m faced with the glaring truth. I’ve become the man I despised, because that’s what it takes to run a successful Bratva.

It’s the reason my uncle failed. He was a kinder man, possibly even the better man. But he was weak, and weakness cannot be allowed to exist in this life. It has to be extinguished early on, just like Yakov Vorobev was.

Once she’s got all her books gathered in her arms, she turns to glance at me over her shoulder. She’s about to say something, but she changes her mind at the last second.

Her green eyes are flushed with disappointment. Hopelessness has replaced the excitement that had flourished in the days past.

It’s all gone.

Maybe that’s for the best.





38





Camila





The flight back to London is nothing like the one we took getting to Scotland.

For one, Isaak and I are not speaking. He sits on the right side of the private jet, nursing a glass of whiskey and a broody expression, while I opt for as far away from him as I can get.

The atmosphere is tense, prickly with the heat of a fight that never really reached its full potential. Every few seconds, I think of another comeback I could have thrown at him, and curse my own inability to land a punch when the opportunity is right in front of me.

The only thing that hasn’t changed about the flight is the stewardess, the leggy blonde with eyes for Isaak. She orbits his space as though she can’t keep away.

And this time, she doesn’t have to pretend to be interested in me at all, because it’s clear that Isaak’s not going to call her out on it.

I grit my teeth as Marissa walks towards me. I’m parched. I need a glass of water and a blanket, but she’s not overly concerned with my comfort.

Instead, she veers predictably towards Isaak’s seat and leans in unnecessarily. Her outfit hasn’t changed, but there is an extra button she’s neglected to fasten.

I can’t help but notice that she’s taken a little more care with her appearance this time around, too. Her hair seems more voluminous, and there’s definitely more makeup on her face.

I’m annoyed that she’s gone the extra mile, but I’m even more annoyed that she’s pulled it off. The makeup is subtle, her body is droolworthy, and I feel like a troll in comparison.

“Can I get you anything at all, sir?” she asks Isaak.