Page 29 of Devil's Vows

“My balloon!” Katya cries, but Gabriella manages to get it for her.

I watch Gabriella take the few stairs to the front door, leading Irisha in by the hand, Katya clinging to her where she’s perched on her hip, quiet but with tear-stained cheeks.

Not the welcome I’ve envisioned for my little bird to her gilded cage, but it doesn’t get more real than this.

I face Milana where she’s circling on the spot, hands strangling her hair, sobbing uncontrollably, cursing in Russian. The tension between us has twisted ever tighter over these past few weeks, and this isn’t going to help matters. She was a flight risk, and there’s no way in hell I’ll let her go back to Russia, not now she’s safely back in the States.

Not with what Sergei revealed last night.Chertnikov.

She doesn’t know half the shit that went down while she was away. I managed to keep Nikolai Chertnikov’s greedy paws off the Petrov Bratva’s businesses, even though he tried to steal it via proxy, planning the move for six years. His mole kept him abreast of our old Pakhan’s health issues, and they started planning for the perfect moment to strike.

His informant might be dead, but Chertnikov is very much alive, cozy in Russia where he is basically untouchable. I don’t know what his next move is going to be. The Fourth of July was one battle—ironically for our independence—but this is war.

I sensed Milana would make a run for it as soon as I was out of the house with the girls, but I needed to keep her here no matter what it takes. I can’t risk her leaving and walking into a trap.

She closes the distance between us and hits outs with her fists, beating at my chest as only a woman does, and yet I hug her close, gently gripping her fists and gathering them in one hand.

“Shhh, shhh,” I try to soothe her. “You’ll only hurt your hands, and then you can’t play.”

She’s always so precious about her fingers as playing piano is her whole life. Chertnikov would chop them off one by one if it got him what he wanted: the Petrov Bratva on a platter, our operations under his control.

I try to calm her, her body stiff in my arms, unwilling to yield or acknowledge what I’ve said many times: there’s no going back.

“It isn’t safe in Russia, Milana,” I say as I cup her head to my shoulder. “You know that. I need you here otherwise I won’t sleep, I won’t breathe for fear of what he’d do to you if he finds out you’re there. Please. I have Irisha and Katya and I—we—need to think about them, too.”

The mere thought stalls my breathing. Chertnikov will use Milana as a negotiating tool, as bait, and kill her if I don’t cave in. My closest family is all here, safe. I’d do anything to keep it that way. Even lock up my sister.

She sobs into my chest, seeming to collapse against me as

“I hate you. So. Much,” Milana whispers, her face pressed to my chest, her hands still fisted, but the fight is out of her.

We stand like this for a long time, me holding her safe to ground her, eventually collapsing my grip to a tender hug.

It breaks me that my choices led us here, but I’ve got nobody to rely on when it comes to my sister, and putting her life in danger is a risk I’ll never take. If jailing her here makes me a hardened fucker, then so be it. It’s what this Pakhan needs to do.

It took us months after the attack to sort through the men in my organization, to figure out who were the moles, who were the double—triple—agents, and even now, a pile of bodies later, I’m still hesitant to trust anybody.

“I know,malyshka.” I’d rather live with her hating me than with her being dead. “Let me take you to your room. Take a shower, and if you feel like it, come meet Gabriella. She’s the nanny, for now.”

Maybe Gabriella and Milana can form some connection, and my sister won’t feel so isolated.

“I’m fine. If she’s the official nanny, she’ll still be here tomorrow.”

She pulls away from me, and as much as I don’t want to let her go, I have to.

“Okay. Have you checked in with Papa today?”

“What do you think?” she throws back at me, not sparing me even a glance.

I watch her rush up the stairs, her robe flirting with the breeze. She bangs the front door closed so hard, it’s a miracle the jamb doesn’t splinter.

I grind my teeth. It isn’t just Russia. It’s this whole situation with Papa and the guilt we’ll never shake. I suffer the same. It’s the knowledge that there’s nothing we can do for him.

For the first time in my life, I’m powerless.

15

GABI