Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles, #6)(74)

“My father doesn’t want war with the Outfit. That would hit too close to home, but if he agreed to a truce with your brothers, that might very well lead to a war declaration from the Outfit.”

“We don’t fight over the same territory,” I said. “Your father rules over the Great Lakes. We don’t have to declare truce to ignore each other’s existence.”

“You think ignoring each other’s existence is enough for you and me to be an official couple? Where would we even live? We couldn’t live in Chicago together because that would cause trouble.”

“Not to mention that the Outfit would have a field day if they got their hands on me again to finish what they started.”



Dinara stroked the scar on my forearm absent-mindedly as she continued, “And me living in Las Vegas would look just as bad. No matter what we said, people would consider me as part of the Camorra and suspect a truce between your family and mine, which would have the same result.

War between the Bratva and the Outfit.”

The Outfit had strong ties to the political elite in Chicago and Illinois.

Even if the Camorra and Bratva fought together to in attack it would mean a lot of unwanted attention. That wasn’t something we wanted or needed. But I wasn’t willing to give Dinara up over mob politics.

“I want us to be together. If we both want it, nothing can stop us.”

Dinara leaned her forehead against mine. “Let’s talk about this once we’re done.”

She still couldn’t say it. The last name on our list was Dinara’s biggest challenge.

“It won’t be easy. Maybe you can’t go through with it. And that’s okay too. That doesn’t mean you failed or that you’re still shackled by the past.”

“I have to do it,” Dinara whispered. “I have to kill her.” I kissed her temple.

Whatever it took to help Dinara, I’d do it.





Before I could go through with killing my mother, I needed to return to Chicago. Adamo was reluctant to let me leave, but ultimately, he understood and accepted my need to talk to my father.

I stepped into the foyer of our mansion. For a moment I only inhaled the familiar scent. I’d hated living in this golden cage and yet I always missed it.

Or maybe I just missed Russia.

Dad waited in his office. Even the tsar couldn’t have had a more magnificent workspace. Dad looked up when I entered.

Bloodshed was his profession. I had no illusions regarding the atrocities he was capable of. If you wanted to become anything in the Bratva, you couldn’t afford a conscience. But I’d always been his little girl, a precious doll he wanted to keep away from the terrors of his business.

Now I’d shown my true colors. I’d tortured and killed. I was a Mikhailov.

He didn’t get up from his chair, only leaned back, regarding me closely.

“You worked with the Camorra to dish out the revenge I could have dished out for you. Why would you ask the enemy for help but not your own father?”

Disappointment and anger rang in his deep voice. His eyes hit me with the full force of his disappointment. I walked toward him, my high heels clicking on the parquet. The Russian lady costume barely hid what truly lay beneath, a broken, messed-up murderer.

“Because you would have never allowed me to be part of the killings. My only chance to dish out revenge was to seek other allies.”

Dad hit the desk with his palm and shoved to his feet, towering over me.

“Because I didn’t want blood on your hands. I wanted to protect you from the evil of this world. And the fucking Falcones throw you right into the abysm of hell.”

I met his furious gaze. Grown men fell to their knees before this man but I’d never been scared of him. Maybe I was a fool for thinking I was safe from his cruel side. “Protecting me now, against my will I might add, won’t make the past undone. I know you feel guilty for being unable to protect me back then.”

The fury multiplied, his eyes practically burning up with rage but behind it guilt flared up.

“The Falcones never had the power to throw me into any abyss, because I’ve been living in a fucking hell for years, from the moment the first bastard raped me.”

Dad gripped one of the expensive Fabergé eggs from his desk and tossed it against the closest wall. It shattered with an earsplitting crash and every beautiful piece fell to the floor. The word rape was one we’d skidded around so far. We knew what had happened but somehow putting a word to it had threatened to make it worse. I took his hand, stepping closer. “You can’t save me, Dad. No one can. I need to claw myself out of the abyss my mother threw me into.”

“Don’t speak that name.”

“Killing those men felt good, so good. Their pain took away some of my own.”

Dad cupped my cheeks, searching my eyes as if he hoped to find the little daughter that he’d dressed in princess dresses. But that girl was dead, died many painful deaths to be reborn as something vile and vengeful. “If I could make undone what’s been done to you, I’d kill every single of my men just to get my little Katinka back.”

My eyes prickled. “I know. But she’s dead, and now I’m going to make sure every single person who killed her will be too.”

“A father never wants his daughter to become like him, not if he’s a man like myself.”