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

51. Elena

51

ELENA

T he soft light of morning filters through the window, painting the room in golden hues.

I sit cross-legged in the armchair, a steaming cup of coffee warming my hands.

Across from me, Dmitri leans against the windowsill, his broad shoulders backlit by the early sun.

“What made you want to be an architect?” he asks out of nowhere.

I take a sip of my coffee. “My grandfather’s study was my favorite place growing up,” I say. “He was an architect, and his shelves were filled with books—blueprints, designs, structures from around the world. I’d sit there for hours, running my fingers over the pages, pretending I understood what I was looking at. He used to tell me it wasn’t work for girls.”

His brow furrows slightly, a small gesture that always makes me feel like he’s holding onto every word I say. “You taught yourself?”

I smile faintly. “Yeah. Eventually, I started teaching myself. I’d copy the lines from his blueprints, try to recreate the designs. It felt safe, you know? Predictable. Buildings made sense. People didn’t.”

He tilts his head, his gaze softening. “Why didn’t people make sense?”

I let out a small, bitter laugh. “Because people are complicated. They lie, they leave, they hurt you. But buildings? They stay. They’re sturdy. Solid. If something breaks, you can fix it. There’s no guesswork, no second-guessing intentions.”

His silence feels heavy, but not in a bad way. He’s absorbing my words, piecing together the puzzle of me. “That’s why you design buildings now?” he asks. “To create something unbreakable?”

“Maybe,” I admit, lowering my eyes to my coffee. “Or maybe it’s just because I’m good at it. It’s easier to focus on something tangible than to get lost in the messiness of everything else.”

When I glance back up, his expression has changed. There’s a depth there, something raw and unspoken. “You’re good at it because it’s part of you,” he says quietly. “Your way of making sense of the world.”

The vulnerability in his voice surprises me, but before I can respond, he crosses the room and crouches in front of me. He takes the cup from my hands, setting it on the small table beside us, and folds my hands in his.

“I get it,” he says, his voice low. “Not having something solid to hold onto. I never had that. No family, no home. Just surviving.”

I squeeze his hands, urging him to go on. His gaze drops to our joined fingers, his thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles.

“When you grow up without a home,” he continues, “you start to believe you don’t deserve one. That there’s no place for you anywhere.”

The words hang between us, heavy and fragile. I don’t know what to say, so I cup his face in my hands, my thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw. “You can have a home if you want it,” I whisper. “With me.”

I tilt my head, studying him, waiting for him to speak. His dark eyes flicker between me and the floor as if he’s searching for the right words.

“When I was a little kid,” he begins, his voice low and steady, “I used to pretend I was invisible. It made it easier to get through the day.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Invisible?”

His lips quirk into something that almost resembles a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If no one could see me, they couldn’t hurt me.”

My chest tightens. “Dmitri…”

He holds up a hand, silencing me. “It’s fine. I don’t think about it often. Or at least I try not to.” His gaze shifts to the window, the light catching on the hard lines of his face. “But growing up with no one? There’s no such thing as stability. You’re always moving, always adjusting, always preparing to lose everything that matters to you. Soon enough you stop getting attached to anything.”

I stay silent, my heart aching for the boy he must have been—alone, unprotected, and invisible.

“I’d watch other kids with their families,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “See how they had parents to hold them, to tell them they mattered. And I’d wonder if there was something wrong with me. If maybe I didn’t deserve it.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Eventually, I stopped wondering. Stopped caring. You can’t miss what you convince yourself you were never meant to have.”

The pain in his words cuts deep, but his expression remains composed, his jaw tight.

“And now?” I ask softly.

His grip on my hands tightens as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against mine. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmurs. “How much I need you. But I have to go do something I don’t want to do. And it will either fix everything or destroy it all.”

My heart feels like it might burst. I raise a hand to his face, brushing my thumb along his jawline. “What do you have to do?” I whisper. “Tell me.”

His eyes search mine, filled with tenderness and something deeper—something unspoken. “I will,” he says, his voice thick. “But not now.”

The words send a ripple of unease through me, but I force a smile, knowing better than to push. “Okay,” I say softly. “Just come back to me.”

“Whatever happens, promise me you’ll become an architect.”

“I promise.”

“I have to go,” he says quietly, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of something I can’t quite place.

I try to keep my expression neutral, but my chest tightens. “Is it business?”

He hesitates, his dark eyes meeting mine. “It’s just something I need to handle alone. One last thing.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. One last thing. My stomach twists. I want to ask him what he means, to press him for answers, but the look in his eyes stops me. There’s a shadow there, a weight he’s carrying that he’s not ready to share.

Instead, I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

He steps closer, his gaze softening as he studies me. “You’ll be safe here for now.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes the unease inside me grow. Safe. Safe from what? From whom?

He cups my face in his hands, his touch warm and steady. For a moment, we just stand there, locked in each other’s gaze, the silence between us filled with everything we’re not saying.

His lips meet mine in a kiss that steals my breath. It’s not rushed or frantic, but lingering, like he’s trying to memorize every detail, every sensation. My hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding on as if I can keep him here with me a little longer.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed. “I’ll come back to you,” he says. “I promise.”

I nod, my own eyes stinging. “You’d better,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, but it cracks on the last word. “I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down.”

I watch as he opens the door and walks out.

And as I sit there, waiting for him to come back, a single thought echoes through my mind: What if he doesn’t come back?