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

22. Elena

22

ELENA

I sit at the desk in the hotel suite, papers sprawled across the surface as I sketch out the lines of my dream home.

The house is sprawling but not ostentatious. A place meant for living a peaceful life.

A whitewashed house with wide porches that wrap around the sides, hugged by blooming hydrangeas in every imaginable shade of blue.

A red front door, bold and welcoming, stands at the heart of it all. The windows are tall and plentiful, flooding every corner of the home with sunlight.

I sketch the kitchen next—a wide, open space with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams.

A long butcher-block island sits at the center, surrounded by mismatched barstools that would be claimed by sticky-fingered children every morning.

I can almost smell the cookies baking in the double ovens and hear the sound of giggles bouncing off the walls.

The living room comes to life next, its soft, overstuffed couches begging for lazy Sunday afternoons.

A stone fireplace dominates one wall, its hearth warm and inviting, with a mantle covered in family photos.

In the corner, a tall Christmas tree sparkles, even though it’s not December in real life. It doesn’t matter.

My pencil slows, hovering over the paper as my mind drifts. I don’t know when it happened, but Dmitri sneaks into the picture. The vision shifts ever so slightly, and now I’m sketching a family home—not just mine, but ours .

I picture him walking through the front door in some tailored suit, a newspaper in hand like he’s stepped out of another era.

There’s an elegance about him that matches the home in ways I hadn’t anticipated. He sets the paper down on the kitchen counter and rolls up his sleeves, revealing those powerful forearms I can’t stop thinking about, as he helps me cook dinner.

The vision expands further. There’s laughter in the house—children darting through the hallways, one tugging at Dmitri’s pant leg while another holds up a crayon drawing for his approval.

He kneels down to their level, ruffling their hair, his deep chuckle filling the room like music.

God, I’ve lost it. I mean, what would Dmitri even do in this house? Take off his shoes and leave them by the door? Scrub the sink after brushing his teeth? The man probably hasn’t cooked a meal in his life.

I laugh softly at the absurdity of it, shaking my head. But it doesn’t stop me from sketching the master bedroom. Vaulted ceilings again, this time with a skylight above the bed to let the moonlight in.

A plush, oversized bed sits at the center, its white linens perfectly rumpled.

Our bed.

There’s a balcony off the bedroom, overlooking a backyard that feels endless. Rolling green hills, a lazy stream winding through the far end, and a tree swing hanging from a massive oak.

It’s everything I never had growing up in the cramped, damp apartment with its peeling wallpaper and the smell of mildew that never quite went away. Back then, I would sit by the single window in our living room and dream of places like this.

I never imagined I’d be designing one, let alone dreaming about someone like Dmitri in it with me.

I picture him watching me from the doorway of this house, his eyes soft but filled with that same intensity that always undoes me. “This is where we belong,” he says, his voice low and certain.

“Yeah,” I whisper to no one, my heart aching as I head through to the suite’s bedroom. “I know.”