Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

11. Elena

11

ELENA

I t was hard to know what to do next apart from bail and not come back.

Are we safe anywhere? This Dmitri guy could find us no matter where we were. I can tell; he has that aura. A man who can, and will.

We had no choice but to return to Veronica’s and try to calm down. I can’t think straight, and as for Vee, she’s gone from gung-ho to anxious in the blink of an eye. She’s leafing through my sketchbooks and avoiding the subject for now.

“Please,” I say. “I need your help. Come with me to check out the address from the note. No one else will help me; it’s gotta be you.”

Veronica sprawls out on her couch, tossing one of my old blueprints to me. “You know, Elena,” she says, ignoring my question, “this one could make you famous.”

I add it to the stack of sketches in my lap. “Famous for what? Designing a building that’ll collapse in the first windstorm?”

“Pfft.” She waves me off, sitting upright. “You know that’s not true. This one—” she holds up the blueprint of my library design, complete with its spiral staircase and glass walls—“could’ve been on the cover of Architectural Digest.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s just a draft. And it’s old.”

These designs were part of my application portfolio, the one I never got a chance to submit. I spent months poring over every detail, pouring every ounce of myself into them.

Then my dad got hold of them. Told me all the things wrong with them, how I couldn’t design for shit.

“That’s not how the world works, Elena,” he’d said, sneering as he held one of my designs up to the light. “You think someone like you has a chance at making it? Stick to reality, kid. Girls don’t design things. Hell, you can hardly cook a fucking omelet.”

The memory tightens my chest, but I shove it aside as I look at Veronica. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. My portfolio is outdated, and the deadlines?—”

“Stop.” She cuts me off with a sharp tone I don’t hear often from her. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you sabotage yourself before you even try.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she barrels ahead.

“You’re afraid to fail, and I get it. But you know what’s worse than failing? Not trying at all.”

Her words hit harder than I want to admit. I glance down at the sketches in my lap, the intricate lines blurring as my eyes sting.

She scoots closer, resting a hand on my knee. “You’ve spent your whole life letting them hold you back—your dad, your sister, your mom. But they’re not here anymore. This is your chance to take control. To do something for you .”

I swallow hard, staring at the design in my hands. It’s the library, my favorite piece. I can almost hear the echoes of my father’s cruel laughter in the back of my mind, but Veronica’s words drown it out.

“What if I can’t do it?” I whisper. “What if he’s right?”

She squeezes my knee. “What if he’s wrong? He’s not exactly an oracle of genius, is he?”

The question hangs in the air.

“I could update the portfolio,” I say quietly, more to myself than to Veronica. “Maybe add some new designs. If I start tonight…”

Her face lights up, her smile so wide it’s almost blinding. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!”

Her excitement is contagious, and despite the anxiety swirling in my chest, I feel a flicker of hope. For the first time in years, the idea of pursuing architecture doesn’t feel impossible.

“I’ll do you a deal,” I say. “I can’t focus on my future until I get to the bottom of this mystery.” I pull out the scrap of paper and pass it to her. “I’ll apply for college if you’ll take me to that address.”