The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

And just like that, his amusement faded, replaced with a ruthless gaze that sucked all warmth from the room. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and shoved it into my face. I turned my head in revulsion at the photo on the screen, but he gripped my cheeks to hold me in place.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the image still burned into my brain.

Blood. So much blood.

Mutilated flesh.

Lifeless eyes.

He was only a boy.

“Your papa isn’t an investor.”

I shook my head, tears running down my cheeks. I didn’t believe my papa was responsible for . . . that. He couldn’t be.

“The boy’s name was Pasha. He was a good kid,” was all Ronan said, but I knew from his tone, somewhere in this man’s black heart, he cared for him.

I opened my eyes. Even though it was grossly unwarranted given the circumstances, I couldn’t help but feel compassion for that boy.

“I’m sor—”

I didn’t get to finish the word because he slapped my face. It wasn’t hard, but it turned my head in surprise nonetheless. I’d never been hit in my life, and the action stunned me speechless.

“I’ve told you before, you’re done with the apologies,” he said harshly.

My phone rang in his back pocket. Ronan watched me, letting it ring and ring, before he swapped the cell in his hand for mine. He answered the call on speaker and rose to his full height.

“Alexei,” he said. “I hope the weather has been nice in Siberia.”

“If you’ve harmed my daughter, I will cut off your cock and shove it down your whore’s throat.” My papa’s voice sliced like a knife through the room, so harsh and foreign it sent a chill down my spine. It felt like I’d been slapped ten times harder than when Ronan hit me a moment ago.

Ronan chuckled. “Creative as always, Alexei. Unfortunately, as you’ve just seen, my cock is much closer to your daughter than where you’re hiding out.”

My gaze settled on the tattoos on my captor’s fingers, and my stomach went cold. He had men who did his bidding, he was outrageously wealthy, and he had apparently been to prison.

What was the word for Russian mafia?

Bratva.

It explained the strange men who came and went from our home, my papa’s secrecy about his work, his refusal to allow me into Russia, and Ivan. It explained red paint leaking from beneath . . . no. I couldn’t go there. It just explained everything. Every suspicion I’d ever had. His secret family now felt like a welcome reprieve.

“She has nothing to do with our business,” Papa snapped.

“Semantics,” Ronan countered drily, his thoughtful eyes on me. “She could be Tatianna’s twin. Must be awkward you fucked a woman who looked just like her.”

The only one who made it awkward was this heartless bastard.

“Mila is nothing like her mother.”

“Now, that I believe,” Ronan drawled, leaning against the dresser. “I’ve heard she was a sadistic bitch.”

My throat tightened.

He was lying. He had to be. Though I couldn’t help but remember the odd reactions in response to her name, including Vera’s terror when she’d looked at me.

No. I wouldn’t let him ruin my mother’s memory—the memory I created at least.

“Enough,” my papa grated. “We both know what you want. I will trade myself for her.”