“Why would I tell you about my plan?”
“Because I’m at the center of it,” she says. “You abducted me because you wanted information on Maxim. But he gave me none. I have nothing of significance to tell you. So why are you keeping me around?”
“To make sure he can’t get to you.”
“What does it matter if he does?” she insists. “Why do you care?”
I don’t know what she expects me to say here. Make some bold declaration of love for her? Tell her how important she is to me? Tell her that I can’t live without her?
I’m not that man.
And even if I could make myself form those words, they wouldn’t be true.
I can live without her. I was born out of my father’s ambition and his ruthless cruelty. I was born to lead the Bratva, and that is what I’ll do—whether Camila is by my side or not.
But I’m also starting to realize that letting her go is going to be far, far harder than it should be.
“Isaak!” she says, her voice rising fast. “Answer the fucking question. Why are you keeping me here? What are your plans for me?”
“My plans are my business.”
She steps in front of me as though she’s worried I’m going to leave the room. “Is all this worth it?” she asks, her expression turning from bitter to imploring. “What purpose does it all serve?”
“Purpose?” I repeat bitingly. “This is my life.”
“So change it,” she says, as though it’s the simplest choice in the world. “You can walk away from it all. You don’t have to be the Bratva don. You don’t have to live your life based on revenge.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know what you’re asking. You think I should just leave Maxim to his own devices? Call off the manhunt and let him do whatever the fuck he wants without consequence?”
“Yes,” she says fervently. “Yes, that’s exactly what I think you should do.”
She reaches out and takes my hand in both of hers. Her eyes are bright and desperate.
“You don’t have to be like your father, Isaak. I know being the ruthless, unforgiving don is what you were trained to be. But… you’re your own man now. You can choose to be different.”
She’s asking me to be someone else. Someone different. She wants me to transform into one of the heroes in the books she’s always reading.
And what do I expect? She’s not from my world. She doesn’t understand what it means to be Bratva. How can she? What we want is lightyears apart.
She wants peace and quiet. She wants the predictability of the mundane. She wants boring and stable. She wants to read books and hold down a good job and reunite with her sister.
Me? I want the blood of my enemies. Nothing less will suffice.
“And what if I’m not different?” I ask impassively.
“You’re not your father.”
“That’s just it,” I growl. “I am my father. He wasn’t loving or kind or understanding. He wasn’t compassionate or patient. But he taught me to be strong. To be in control.”
“You know the thing about control?” Camila says, her tone hardening. “You never know if the people in your life are there because they want to be, or because they’re forced to be.”
“This is not a fairytale, little girl,” I snarl. “It’s not a fucking book. Real life is an entirely different beast. And I don’t give a fuck about what other people want. Their desires, their opinions, their thoughts mean shit to me.”
“Including mine?”
“Including yours,” I snap immediately, without leaving even a second of silence between the question and the answer.
She rears back as though I’ve struck her. Her eyes pool with hurt as she tries to grapple with who I am. With what she means to me. Or, more precisely, what she doesn’t mean.
“You’re never going to let me go, are you?”
“So you can go back to him?” I scoff. “No, I’m not.”
Her eyes cloud over. “You really think that’s what I’m going to do if I get my freedom back? You think I’m going to scamper straight back to Maxim?”
“Well, you were just advocating for me to abandon my plans where’s concerned,” I point out. “It’s a loyal gesture. I might even go so far as to say it’s a loving gesture.”
Anger and hurt burn in her eyes and for the first time, I see a spark of hate ignite her features. She looks like some lost and broken siren who’s been pushed to the brink.
“You bastard,” she seethes. I’m impressed that her voice doesn’t shake. Not even a little bit. “After everything… after everything… you still think I’m manipulating you into letting me run back to Maxim?”
“Everything?” I laugh cruelly, exclusively to twist the knife a little harder. “It was just a few meaningless fucks, Camila.”
Her jaw drops, her cheeks flush, her bottom lip trembles. The gesture is so innocent, so honest, that it takes me off guard.
“To you, maybe,” she says finally, without offering anything more.
She turns and walks towards the antique table where she set her books down. She picks them up, one by one, with slow, jerky movements.
I want to stop her. Call out to her. Tell her that I’m not used to backing down or giving in. I’m used to the fight. It’s the whole reason I can’t stop my pursuit of Maxim. It’s the reason I can’t rest until I know that my cousin is no longer a threat.
I am more my father’s son than I ever cared to admit before.
But now, I’m faced with the glaring truth. I’ve become the man I despised, because that’s what it takes to run a successful Bratva.
It’s the reason my uncle failed. He was a kinder man, possibly even the better man. But he was weak, and weakness cannot be allowed to exist in this life. It has to be extinguished early on, just like Yakov Vorobev was.
Once she’s got all her books gathered in her arms, she turns to glance at me over her shoulder. She’s about to say something, but she changes her mind at the last second.
Her green eyes are flushed with disappointment. Hopelessness has replaced the excitement that had flourished in the days past.
It’s all gone.
Maybe that’s for the best.
38
Camila
The flight back to London is nothing like the one we took getting to Scotland.
For one, Isaak and I are not speaking. He sits on the right side of the private jet, nursing a glass of whiskey and a broody expression, while I opt for as far away from him as I can get.
The atmosphere is tense, prickly with the heat of a fight that never really reached its full potential. Every few seconds, I think of another comeback I could have thrown at him, and curse my own inability to land a punch when the opportunity is right in front of me.
The only thing that hasn’t changed about the flight is the stewardess, the leggy blonde with eyes for Isaak. She orbits his space as though she can’t keep away.
And this time, she doesn’t have to pretend to be interested in me at all, because it’s clear that Isaak’s not going to call her out on it.