Page 13 of The Bratva’s Monster

“You’re coming home. Back to Iowa with me.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I don’t actually know if I want to argue the point. It would be the smart thing to leave with him. Pack all my things and head back to Iowa, away from the big city and the Bratva life. I mean, I have been thinking a lot about Yeva and her plan to go to Europe. I’ve since told her that I wasn’t going to come, but if I changed my mind, I’m sure that she would happily accept my tagging along.

But if I went with her, they could still find me pretty easily. If I went home…

They’d still find me. It would take a little longer, but they still would.

But none of that means that I shouldn’t try. Right? Right?

“I don’t know,” I say.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Elizaveta, you have to come home. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, but…” I pause, glancing around the crowded diner, and I switch to Russian. “They could still find me. They could still kill me.”

“You can’t be serious,” he says as he sets down his fork. He wipes his mouth and says in rapid Russian. “Those animals will kill you here if they want. They could do it at any time. They know exactly where you are⁠—”

“I know. Papa! Please!”

He stops, and I feel eyes on us in the diner. In English, I say softly, “Please, Papa. I know. I guess I just need some time to think about it.”

“What is there to think about?”

“There’s a lot to think about.” I sigh. God, I don’t know how to make him understand. I don’t even really understand. “Please, let me figure it out. I promise that if things get too scary, I will come home. I swear.”

He’s staring at me, his jaw clenched. “You promise?”

“I do. I swear, Papa.”

He nods, and he accepts that, but I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t really. If he could carry me out of here and stuff me in the trunk of his rental, he would.

But in the end, I have to be the one to decide to leave or to stay. And I just don’t know. Not yet, anyway. Honestly, I think I’m still in too much shock about the pregnancy to decide anything.

And… I realize, as I look down at my half cup of coffee and barely touched toast and eggs, I’ve never been the kind of person who runs from my problems. It seems strange that I’m even considering doing that now.

“Eat your food, darling,” Papa says in Russian. I smile at him and pick up the toast, taking a bite.

When I get home, I’m going to buckle down and go through Gedeon’s things. After that, I’ll decide whether to run or to fight. He left me money to survive. Maybe he left me something that will save me if I stay.

My father walks me out after paying the bill. We stand on the street in front of the entrance, and he takes my hand and squeezes it.

“You promised,” he says to me. “Please don’t break your word to me, and stay safe.”

I hug him, kiss him on the cheek. “I promise,” I whisper in his ear.

He nods and gives me this longing look, then he turns and walks to the parking lot behind the diner. I watch him until he turns the corner, then I make my way to where I parked on the street.

My car isn’t far, just a short walk across the street to the next block. Parking on the street in the city is almost always impossible. I can’t believe I even found a space⁠—

A man walking in the opposite direction runs into me. His shoulder collides with mine hard and nearly knocks me off my feet. I stumble back a few steps and glare at him.

Instantly, I know he’s Bratva. He’s young, maybe not too much older than I am, with dark hair that’s tapered around the sides and gelled in a sweep to the side on top. He’s got light stubble around his jaw and a dark expression under hooded eyes. He’s got on a tight black T-shirt and jeans and his arms are covered in tattoos. But even before I notice the Russian words and images on his skin, I know. Maybe it’s something in his eyes or the way he walks with broad, wide steps like he owns the whole sidewalk.

He meets my glare without fear and his face splits into a smile. A chill rushes up my spine.

“Excuse me,” I say automatically, even though he was the one to run into me. I go to turn away.

“Mrs. Pavlova,” he says, and I freeze. I look back at him to see that he’s cocked his head as he looks me up and down. “Damn. You know everybody says that the Rostovs don’t ever marry below a nine and I always thought that was bullshit.” He pauses as he licks his lips lecherously. “I was wrong.”