Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles, #6)(16)

“I’m not getting cozy with anyone,” I gritted out, but I couldn’t deny the mutual attraction between Adamo and me. I’d noticed the way he checked me out, and I’d ogled him more than once too. “What could they gain from making me believe my mother’s alive, hmm?”

Dima leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving to the window. Was he buying time? A subtle tension had entered his body, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he knew more about my mother or because he was jealous of Adamo.

“Maybe they hope you’ll come to Vegas to find her. It could be a trap to get you in their hands. It wouldn’t be the first time that Remo Falcone kidnapped a high-ranking woman.”

“If he wanted to kidnap me, he could ask Adamo to do it. And I doubt Adamo’s the only racer with close ties to the Camorra. He wouldn’t have to lure me to Vegas to get his hands on me.”

Dima’s mouth tightened and he avoided looking my way. I rose from my chair and sank down beside him. His gaze met mine. “Dima,” I said softly, imploringly, and put my hand over his that was resting on the armrest. “If you know, you have to tell me. I need to know. You know I do.”

Dima’s face, which was usually all hard lines, like a piece of cubism art, softened. “Dinara.” The way he said my name reminded me of our past. He turned his hand and closed his fingers around my hand. I swallowed. I didn’t want to use Dima’s feelings, or whatever feelings he tried to convince himself of having, to get what I want, but this truth could change everything. I needed to know.

“Tell me,” I implored.

He leaned a bit closer as if to kiss me. I tensed. I didn’t want to have to push him away. I didn’t have to. Dima scanned my body and retracted a few inches. His fingers around mine loosened and his smile turned pained.

“What are you going to do with the truth?”

“The same I’ve always wanted, get closure.”

“And revenge,” Dima said quietly. “I’m not sure you’ll find closure on the path you’re on.”

Revenge was daily business in our circles. Every man lived and breathed for revenge if they’d been wronged, but women were supposed to let others handle their problems like helpless damsels in distress.

“Dima.”

My path was my business. I’d walk it alone if I had to. Dima let his head fall back. “She’s alive. Falcone told you the truth.”

“Why did you lie to me?” I asked, hurt. Dima was my closest confidante.

We’d shared everything, or at least I’d thought so.

Dima tilted his head. “Because your father ordered me to lie to you and because I wanted to protect you.”

I snatched my hand away. “I don’t need protection from the truth!” I got up, unable to sit still. I began pacing the aisle, my pulse pounding. A tiny part of me had remained doubtful after Adamo’s words, but now the truth glared brightly at me. It was my turn to accept it and decide how to proceed. “It’s my right to decide what to do with the truth. My fucking right.”

Dima nodded. “Your father might not agree. He’ll be furious if he finds out I told you.”

“You didn’t tell me. Adamo did.”

Dima let out a bitter laugh. “Your new hero.”

I glared and sank down on the seat. “Adamo’s not the hero in this story.

Nor are you or my father. I’ll be the hero in my story.”

I turned my gaze to the window, admiring the grim sky that matched my emotions tragically. Soon the clouds thickened and rain pestered the plane. I ran my palms up and down my thighs, lingering on familiar ridges high up.

The siren’s call now rang in my blood. My dark craving was a strong opponent, my greatest foe, but also balm and friend in my hardest hours. He made the unbearable bearable, if only for a few hours.



“You are stronger than it,” Dima said into the silence.

He knew my body language too well. I gave a terse nod. “I’m stronger than you and my father think.”

Thirty minutes before the estimated landing time, I grabbed the bag with my Chicago clothes and went to the bathroom to change. This had become habit, letting go of my style and freedom when I returned home, and becoming the girl my father wanted and needed me to be.



A black limousine was waiting for us when we landed on a Bratva-affiliated airport outside of Chicago. I got in without a word and let the ride pass in silence as well. I’d sent Dad a message shortly after we’d boarded the plane, announcing my arrival. Judging by his lack of surprise, Dima had informed him before I could.

We didn’t enter Chicago. Dad had bought four acres of land about twenty miles outside of Chicago because the home he had in mind needed space. The gilded gates slid open as we approached them. A long driveaway with grounds reminiscent of Versailles led up to a splendid white and blue mansion. It had taken almost two years to build this smaller version of Catherine The Great’s Palace, which Dad and I had visited in Saint Petersburg many times.

I wondered if it gave Dad a sense of home living in a mansion like this or if it only reminded him of what he was missing. Sometimes it was harder to live with a lesser version of what we missed than to lose it altogether.

The limousine parked at the base of the majestic staircase leading up to the front door where Dad was already waiting for me in his usual dark suit.