Page 44 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“Once.” Her expression turns distant. “When they were boys, Dmitri would break something and Roman would take the blame. Dmitri would start a fight and Roman would finish it. Roman thought that was what brothers did.”

“Protected each other.”

“No.” Oksana looks at me. “Roman protected Dmitri. Dmitri learned to let him.”

Something cold settles beneath my ribs. “When did that change?”

“It didn’t happen all at once. That was Dmitri’s gift—nothing ugly ever did.” She turns her spoon slowly between her fingers. “First he learned Roman would lie for him. Then that Roman would bleed for him. Eventually, he wanted to know how much more his brother would give.”

“And Roman kept giving?”

“Until Dmitri asked for something he wouldn’t.”

I wait, but Oksana says nothing.

“What?”

Her fingers go still around the spoon. “That,” she says quietly, “is the part you should ask Roman yourself.”

I stare at her. “Konstantin knew what was happening between them,” I say. “He knew what Dmitri was becoming.”

“Of course he knew.”

“Then why didn’t he stop it?”

Oksana gives me a sad smile. “Because Dmitri wanted his father’s approval.” She pauses. “Roman wanted his respect.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Dmitri could be controlled by withholding the first.” Her eyes meet mine. “Roman could not be controlled at all.”

I stare down at my coffee. “And when Dmitri framed him?”

Oksana’s expression closes.

“Roman told me about the betrayal,” I go on. “About Siberia.”

“Then you know what it cost him.”

“Ten years.”

“More than that.” Her voice softens. “He lost his family long before he came back.”

I look at her.

“Exile doesn’t begin when they put you on a plane, Vera. Roman spent years learning there was no place for him in that house unless he became someone his father could control. And he wouldn’t.”

The café is warm around us, but I feel cold. I think about Roman as a boy, questioning his father. I think about him in Siberia, learning to survive in a place designed to break him.

The rain hasn’t stopped by the time Oksana and I get back to the penthouse. I spend the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch, trying to read the same book I’ve been attempting for days. The words blur together, my mind too full of Oksana’s warnings to focus on anything else.

Around six, I hear the front door open. I don’t move from my spot on the couch, but my body goes on alert. It’s a habit I picked up from three years of marriage to a man who could turn violent without warning.

“It’s me.”

Roman’s voice comes from the hallway. A moment later, he appears in the living room doorway, shrugging off his coat. His hair is damp from the rain and there’s a bag in his hand that smells like garlic and tomatoes.

“Reading again?”