Page 35 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

ALINA

The next morning in Isla’s little apartment, her eyes widen. “You slept with him.”

“Just the one night,” I say, trying to brush it off, even though when she asked if I wanted to bring Albert over to say hello, I was bursting at the seams.

Heat burns over my skin, and I bite my lip as my smile breaks free.

The noise at Ilya’s last night sent Albert diving under my covers. It just sounded like the kind of ruckus that happens at Demyan’s, or did happen. I put earplugs in, hugged Albert, and went to sleep.

I hope he understood the note I left in his room, saying that it was late and I was tired, but I did miss him. And that tomorrow—today—we’d spend time together when he was done with work.

“We could have met at a café,” I say, trying to distract Isla.

Because now that I’ve said the truth out loud, it sounds so real.

I wait for the wave of guilt to wash over me.

I won’t deny there’s a touch of it there, like I cheated on Max, but it’s mild.

And since this is so new, I’m not shocked I feel it.

The thrill of sex and intimacy and turning a page onto chapters full of possibilities with Ilya far outweighs that feeling.

Of course, Isla isn’t one to be distracted. She rolls her eyes.

“Girl,” she says, “I’m meant to be working from home today. I am working from home, but I had to meet Albert. And now that you’ve spilled the beans, you can’t deny me all the filthy details.”

My face, I swear, almost bursts into flames.

“That good?” She grins. “Go, Alina!”

“You can’t tell anyone,” I beg.

“Who am I going to tell?”

“The whole world,” I say, “considering you basically have a megaphone and will shout it from the windows.”

“I’m sorry, but out of everything, I didn’t think you’d do that yet. And don’t get me wrong, if it’s what you want then you should be doing it. You and Ilya finally did it? Wow.” She grins. “But seriously, how was it? Is he hung? Did he know what to do with it? Did he rock your world?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Isla!”

Now it’s her turn to blush. “I was joking about the gruesome details. But I do want to know, emotionally speaking, of course.”

“It was…amazing,” I finally admit.

How can I not?

I wrap my hands around my mug. “I never thought I’d connect with someone after losing Max. And for me and Ilya, it just feels right.”

I look down and set my cup on the table, only for Isla to squeeze my hand.

“If anyone deserves to find love again, it’s you.”

“We’re not in love, Isla.” I roll my eyes, even as Albert whines. “Okay? ”

She just looks at me. “Well, what would you call it, then?”

“Sex?”

“No shit. And that’s not an answer.”

She’s got a point, but I struggle to come up with an appropriate answer. I can lie to her, but not to myself. Is there another answer that isn’t a lie? Or an insult to the beautiful and exciting thing that happened?

I remember what I said to Max, that I was falling again.

Why did I do that? Because here and now, it’s not something I want to think about, even though it’s taking up a huge part of my head.

I think I wanted to sound it out with Max, his ghost, his grave, the idea of him. I wanted it to be okay if it was true. Because at Max’s resting place, I’d know if it was wrong.

Inside. I’d know.

But again, it’s right in front of me. I’m falling in love.

Is that what the rushing swoop of emotion is when I see Ilya?

Am I falling in love with him? Honestly, truly?

Maybe.

Maybe I am.

I wait.

But for once, the idea doesn’t terrify me. It doesn’t threaten to drown me in guilt and betrayal and confusion.

Instead, it fills me with something new.

Hope.

When I get home, after a detour to the supermarket, where Gus waits with an anxious Albert, I start to prep my planned meal for Ilya.

Albert’s happy to supervise and investigate outside in the little herb garden outside by the kitchen doors. Of course, his tummy is full of fresh meat from the butcher, his reward for being good.

Svetlana hurries in to see if she can help. I swear she’s somehow related to Magda with her sixth sense of someone in their domain.

She may be the head of the house in terms of keeping it running, but Svetlana, like Magda, takes pride in cooking.

“Pelmeni!” She beams with approval when she sees what I’m making and lays out the appropriate essentials for me from the cupboards and the pantry. “It’s a good choice.”

I haven’t even opened up the recipe on my tablet.

“They’re Ilya’s favorite,” I say, pointing to the meat dumplings.

She watches me arrange things. “All from scratch?”

“I’ve made them before,” I say in Russian as I nod, then I bite my lip.

I could pan fry or just boil…

I pick up the sour cream like I’m examining the label. “I think I can do them justice.”

Svetlana takes the container and puts it in the fridge, then she goes to the cupboard with all her equipment in it and pulls out a digital pressure cooker.

She pulls a butcher-paper-wrapped package from the fridge. “Of course you can.”

“You think?” I don’t usually doubt myself when it comes to the kitchen.

I’m no genius, but I do okay.

“Candles, flowers. Romantic evening with Mr. Ilya? Yes, I think,” she says. “How about you do it in two parts? I will help. Just the prep and the stock.”

“Stock?”

I was just going to boil them and then decide to pan fry or not. I have frisee, micro herbs, tiny tomatoes, and baby cucumbers. Plus, fennel and goat’s cheese for a salad .

But Svetlana’s already unwrapping the chicken and putting it in the pressure cooker with water. “Yes, we make a chicken broth to cook them in, then pan fry, and serve him a three-course meal. Four if you want dessert.”

Together, we work over the next few hours, and she lets me make the dough. I also mix the ground pork with the salt, pepper, and finely diced onions.

It takes a long time to wrap each dumpling by hand. They’re easy to make but time-consuming. I suspect Svetlana may have a pelmeni mold, as I know any good Russian housekeeper or cook will, but she stays silent on it.

I want to do the work, to make and mold each one. And I think she senses this.

It takes the afternoon, and Albert snoozes in his dog bed—one of many—in a puddle of sun.

When I’m finally done, I sprinkle them with flour, and we cover the single layers with baking paper and store them in the fridge.

Next, I prep the salad and finally, I back-slice scallions for the pelmeni and chives for the soup.

Suddenly, after she adds the vegetables to the stock for a final cook, I turn.

“Dessert! I didn’t think of dessert!”

Svetlana suggest a simple platter of cheese and crackers and some strawberries for dessert.

One of the maids helps me string fairy lights in the smaller dining room, an intimate space made for the family when not entertaining. With the tablecloth, candles, and wine breathing, we turn it into a sweet, romantic place, and then I put on some music to set the mood.

The cheese board is out, and I’m ready, hovering, to pour Ilya a glass of wine to start the evening.

I hear his arrival first.

Russian slurs and creative insults fill the air as he marches into the living room, where I wait. He barely flicks a look at me as he grabs a bottle of whiskey and drinks from it.

“Ilya, are you okay? What’s going on?” I ask.

I haven’t seen him since yesterday, and after our text exchange, I haven’t heard a thing. I put that down to him being busy—taking on two high-level bratva jobs isn’t exactly a stroll in the park.

But now…

My stomach knots as he takes another swig. I slowly set down the wine glass and the bottle on the coffee table.

“I-is this about me not answering your calls yesterday? Because there’s a good reason for that. Nothing bad, I promise. Please… talk to me… Let me know what’s wrong.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and his savage expression melts into softness and warmth for me. “You’ve got something on your cheek.”

He puts the bottle back and crosses to me to wipe it away.

“Flour.” Ilya takes my hand. “And it’s nothing you did, malyshka . You are amazing as always. It’s just been a fucking shit of a day right after a shit of a night.”

“What happened?” I ask softly.

He lets go of my hand and rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes. “I fucked up. Trusted Santo and he double-crossed me. Got his men and mine killed. It was a bloodbath.”

With mounting horror, I listen to the events of last night, and the shouting and noise suddenly fall into place. Nausea rocks my stomach.

“And now I have work to do, a lot of work, to fix this mess.”

He offers me a small smile and kisses my cheek before stalking out and up the stairs. The door to his office slams.

Part of the pain of this horrible betrayal is having to call Pavel. Demyan probably knows, and Ilya thought my brother would look upon him as incompetent, unable to run his own bratva. And with all the deaths…

That part’s weighing down on him.

And Santo?—

I stop. Slowly, I walk out of the room and across the foyer to the stairs, staring up.

Santo may be a lot of things…but getting his own men killed to prove a point? To get revenge for… what? Maybe if he was Demyan, but even then, Santo doesn’t strike me as stupid. Going against Demyan is stupid. Starting a war with Ilya is stupid.

That look on his face when Ilya and I pretended to be engaged… He went from taunting to generally impressed and interested. And… almost excited.

It wasn’t malicious. Greed? Yes, but malice? No.

I don’t like the man, and I don’t trust him, but when you grow up in a bratva family as the so-called precious daughter, one who just may be bartered or sold off in marriage, one who’s vulnerable because of who and what she is, you learn to read people.

And Santo… I think the line he won’t cross is muddy and out there, but he also has his own code of honor. When he said what he said at dinner here, he was taunting Ilya, not me. He sees me as off the table as long as I wear Ilya’s ring.

Beyond his own dubious code, he also strikes me as the type to own up to his moves.

If he crossed Ilya, set him up, he’d let Ilya know. He’d get something for it. And I don’t think he’d throw his men to the slaughter.

He’d crow about it, not deny it.

With that in my head, I march upstairs, knock on Ilya’s door, then open it.

“I’ve been thinking about the situation,” I say, not giving him a chance to speak .

His smile is bemused.

“Santo’s not the type to deny something he did.

He’d consider this a triumph. And I assume his beef with this other guy is real.

I mean, he sacrificed his men. And you two shook hands.

He’s head of a mafia family that has a brutal reputation, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them being talked about as double-crossers. Not that Demyan ever works with them…”

“And you’re an expert?”

“Women talk.” I shrug. “I know some Italian and Russian princesses, and they gossip about the bad ones, the good ones, the hot ones, and the hung ones. The ones good in bed and who to keep away from.”

His smile grows. “Is that so?”

I nod. “And with it comes the rest. You learn to piece it together. I haven’t heard a thing about him, which is why it took me a minute to realize who he was when we met.

So either he doesn’t mess up in bed, doesn’t sleep with the princess pool, or he’s mediocre.

But the thing you always hear is when a high-up or an entire house is bad news. ”

“Really. And me?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I really don’t hang out much these days with anyone, only when I have to, is all.”

“So no one talks about me?”

“Ilya.”

He spreads his hands. “You’ll have heard. Tell me, is that why you decided to test run me?”

Ilya’s teasing me, but I can’t help tumbling into it, or burning up in shame. I have heard a lot about him, and my brother, for that matter. The girls who’ve slept with them always swooned after them.

“After what the Russian princesses said? I took a risk.” I then hold my thumb and index finger about a quarter inch apart .

He bursts into laughter.

But when he sobers, he says, “Gossip is all fine, but it doesn’t tell me a fucking thing. I still say he’s behind it.”

I nod. Ilya’s angry right now, but I know he’ll trust his gut.

“I’m sorry I said that about your…” I clear my throat.

“Alina, I deserved it for teasing you.”

“Well… if you’re hungry, I made dinner.” My face starts to heat again. “Pelmeni, your favorite.”

His smile is huge. “How can I say no to that? Lead the way.”

Downstairs, I make him sit in the dining room and fetch the bottle, the glass, and then the cheese from the living room.

I bring the salad and the plates, then I rush back to set the stock on the heat so it’ll be ready for the pelmeni.

I turn and almost bump into Ilya, who’s followed me into the kitchen.

“Go,” I say. “Eat.”

“It all looks amazing. Is this for me?”

I huff. “It’s no big deal.”

We go back in and start eating the salad.

When I make the pelmeni, he comes too, holding the bowls for them, and he watches as I spoon the soup into them and top it with the chives.

I butter the dumplings and arrange everything on a tray, including the sour cream and scallions, and he takes it all out to the dining room.

We don’t talk about anything important, just funny memories, and he challenges me to a poker game one day. He also tells me how he’ll take me dancing and how he likes the music that plays in the background.

“These are as good as my mother’s. I remember those, and none have ever come close. Not even Magda’s. But these…” He does a chef’s kiss.

When we finish, I get dessert, and Ilya follows once more. He loads the dishwasher, and then he slips a hand over my hair.

“I’m sorry, malyshka , for being in such a bad mood. You went to such an effort for me. Pelmeni from scratch with these talented hands… The pretty lights, the music, the candles…”

My breath catches in my lungs. “It’s fine. No big deal at all.”

“It looks like a big deal, Alina.” He raises my chin with a finger. “Dinner for two? With pelmeni? You clearly went to a lot of trouble for me.”

I tremble. “I wanted to do something nice to show you I don’t regret what happened between us.”

“Well, that’s good. Because neither do I.”

“I want to do it again.”

“ Malyshka , you’re reading my mind.” He kisses me, lifting me up and putting me on the counter.

Then he slides his hand up my dress and pushes my panties aside.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says.