Page 3 of The Bratva Betrayal

“Lisichka,” she repeats. “What does that mean?”

“You’re on my brother’s laptop; look it up.”

She glances down at it and pushes her cheek out with the tip of her tongue. “How do you spell that?”

I’m going to throttle this woman.

If she thinks I’m an idiot, her father keeps her far too sheltered. I kill people for lesser things than breaking into laptops of men in the Russian mafia.

She knows what she’s doing, who she’s dating, and what kind of mess she’s getting herself into. Playing cute doesn’t do it for me.

“If I tell Benedikt Volkov you’re in here, doing what you’re doing, Lisichka,” I say, my voice lower now, and more controlled. “Your father’s got a problem he doesn’t walk away from.”

Her expression stills with recognition.

Good.

She knows what that means.

“If I tell my brother,” I continue. “You’ll be out of this house before morning.”

She’s pissed.

“And yet,” she says quietly, “you’re still just sitting there.”

“Tell me what you’re doing, Cady.”

I use her name on purpose.

Her lips part like she’s about to answer, but she stops herself. I see the thought process happen in real time: what she can say, what she can’t, what she’s willing to risk.

“If I don’t?” she asks.

“Then I decide you’re a problem.”

“And?”

“And I deal with problems.”

She holds my gaze as something shifts behind her eyes.

For the first time since I walked in, there’s a crack in her control. It’s small, but there.

“Misha says you’re Benedikt Volkov’s enforcer,” she says.

This time, I smile. It’s not the kind to make her feel nice and comfortable in my home but one to remind her of what I do daily.

“I’m his everything.”

The way her fingers curl a little against the edge of the laptop claims she’s not immune, and that’s good to know.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” she asks.

There’s a softness to her voice that doesn’t match the words. It’s almost curious.

“It should,” I tell her.

She hums under her breath, like she’s considering it.