Page 10 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

I don’t know how to answer that. For killing Dmitri? For offering me a way out? For making me feel something other than numb?

“Just... thank you. Don’t make it into a bigger deal than it needs to be.”

He nods and faces forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel. After a moment, he starts the engine. It purrs to life, a low rumble that I can feel through the seat.

“The house?” I ask.

“The house,” he confirms.

As we pull out of the parking lot, I catch a glimpse of the cemetery in the side mirror. I see the freshly turned earth where they buried Dmitri. The remaining mourners are just dark shapes in the distance now.

I turn away and face forward.

Roman drives in silence. His jaw is tight and his hands are tense on the steering wheel. I wonder if he regrets what just happened.

I don’t regret it.

4

ROMAN

Vera doesn’t speak during the drive. She sits with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes fixed on the passing buildings. The silence stretches between us.

I keep my attention on the road. Traffic is light, and we make good time through the city. The Volkonsky mansion sits in Lincoln Park, a sprawling estate hidden behind iron gates and mature trees.

Dmitri loved this place. I always hated it.

The gates swing open as we approach. The security system recognizes my car. I made sure of that two weeks ago.

I pull into the circular drive and kill the engine. Vera still hasn’t moved.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Fine.”

She’s lying. Her hands are gripped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles have gone white.

I get out and walk around to her side, opening the door. She looks up at me, her expression shifting for the briefest moment. Then it’s gone, and she’s sliding out of the car with practiced grace.

My hand finds the small of her back. The gesture is automatic, and I feel heat curl low in my stomach.

She stiffens slightly under my touch but doesn’t pull away.

The manor looms ahead, a beautiful brown building with ivy climbing the western side. Looking at it, you’d think it belonged to royalty.

The front door opens before we reach it. Oksana stands in the doorway, her gray hair pulled back in its usual severe bun. She’s been with the family for decades; she saw Dmitri and me grow up. Watched our father choose one son over the other.

Her eyes move from me to Vera and back again. Something shifts in her expression. “Mr. Volkonsky,” she says. Her voice is carefully neutral. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“I’m observing Zabota,” I say. “Vera will be staying with me.”

Oksana’s gaze sharpens. She looks at Vera properly now, taking in the wrinkled dress and the slightly wild hair. Vera’s hand goes to smooth it down, and I see Oksana notice that too.

“I see,” Oksana says. “Shall I prepare the guest room?”

“Yes. By the end of the week, we’ll move to my penthouse.”

Vera’s head turns sharply toward me, but she doesn’t say anything.