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

38. Elena

38

ELENA

I glance at my phone for the hundredth time, willing it to buzz, ring—anything to connect me to Dmitri.

After an hour, it does. The relief that washes over me is immediate and almost embarrassing. I swipe to answer so fast I nearly drop the thing.

“Dmitri?”

“Miss me already?” His voice is low and calm, that edge of smugness tugging at the corners of his words.

“Not even a little,” I lie, pacing back and forth.

He chuckles, a warm sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “A man is about to knock on your door,” he says. “The laptop will be left on the step. They’re under instructions not to come inside. Only open the door once they’ve gone. I’ll call you later.”

He hangs up the same instant there’s a knock at the door. Peeking through the peephole, I see a deliveryman holding a slim box.

I open the door once he’s gone. The box is plain and unassuming, but the weight of it feels significant. Inside, I find a sleek silver laptop, shiny and new.

Setting it on the kitchen table, I open it and press the power button. The screen lights up instantly, and I’m greeted with a desktop that’s already customized—no setup, no delays. There’s a folder labeled Architecture Tools and icons for several advanced design programs. I smile as I spot Sims 4 amongst the other icons.

I sit down, running my fingers over the smooth keyboard. Of course Dmitri would think of this. He’s always two steps ahead.

For a while, I lose myself in the software, sketching rough designs of buildings and spaces I’ll probably never see built. The act of creation soothes me, the clean lines and symmetry giving me a sense of control I haven’t felt in days.

But soon, my attention drifts. My thoughts circle back to Dmitri, to the storm of emotions he’s stirred in me. My fingers hover over the keyboard, restless.

Before I know it, I’ve started Sims 4.

It’s absurd, really, but there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it. I dive into building mode, crafting a house I might want to live in—a sprawling, sunlit space with high ceilings, a cozy fireplace, and a garden overflowing with flowers.

When it’s time to name the occupants, I hesitate for a moment. Then I type: Dmitri and Elena.

The avatars look a lot like us. I dress them in clothes I imagine we’d wear if life were normal. Dmitri in casual jeans and a sweater, me in something light and carefree, a sundress.

I watch as they move through their pixelated lives, cooking dinner together, dancing in the living room, laughing by the fireplace.

It’s a fantasy, sweet and ridiculous, but it fills the ache in my chest for a little while.

As Dmitri and Elena sit on their simulated couch, holding hands and watching the virtual sunset, I feel a pang of longing so sharp it nearly takes my breath away.

This isn’t real.

And it never will be.