All Chapters of A Taste of the Bratva King: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

TamaraThe leather seat is firm against my spine as Melor takes another sharp turn.My phone weighs nothing in my palm, but the echo of Jason's voice makes my fingers cramp around it.I know who killed your father.The words loop in my head like a broken record. I dig my nails into my thigh, trying to ground myself in something concrete. Something true."Who were you talking to back there?" Melor's question is innocent enough, but for some reason, I feel a surge of guilt in response. In the rearview mirror, his pale eyes find mine. Hold them."Just an old friend from Boston." I'm relieved that I can say the words without my voice trembling.He nods. Once. But those eyes don't move.Does he think I'm lying?Oh, for God's sake, Tamara, why would he think that?My conscience is turning everything into a drama.But Melor doesn't ask questions without reason. Doesn't speak without purpose. Every word from him costs something."American friend?" he presses."Yes." I glance away, focusing on

SergeiThe heavy glass doors of Beacon Hill Orphanage swing shut behind me with a finality that echoes through my bones.The sound might as well be the closing of a coffin lid— mine, his, ours. The conversation with Simpson plays on repeat in my skull like a broken record.Slava has been adopted.He is going to have an amazing life with great parents.Amazing life. Great parents.Not with me. Never with me.The rain hits my face the moment I step outside the building, cold and merciless as the truth I've just been force-fed. Boston's autumn weather has turned vindictive, the sky weeping the tears I refuse to shed in front of these people. Cold trails stream down my cheeks, but I don't bother wiping them away.What's the fucking point?My legs carry me to the bench just outside the ornate iron gate— the same gate that's now a barrier between me and the son who's being torn from me. The wrought iron is slick with rain, the metal cold enough to bite through my expensive suit, but I colla

TamaraThe driver doesn't speak on the way to the airport, which suits me perfectly.I need the silence to process what I've just done.I actually did it.I got out.The city lights blur past the window, each one taking me further from the man who's torn my world apart. Further from the twisted love that's been slowly destroying me from the inside out. The evening air seeps through the taxi's windows, carrying the scent of freedom and fear in equal measure."Terminal 2, yes?" the driver confirms again in heavily accented English."Yes." My voice sounds foreign to my own ears— hollow, determined.Just a few more hours and I'll be gone.Vanished.Free.But even as I think it, I know Sergei will come for me. Men like him don't let go of what they consider theirs. And God help me, despite everything, part of me still belongs to him.The part that's been slowly killing me.The taxi slows as we approach the airport, and my stomach drops. "I'm sorry, miss," the driver says, pulling to the cu

SergeiThe house greets me with silence.Not the comfortable quiet of people sleeping, but something else. Something wrong. I drop my bag in the foyer and listen to the emptiness settle around me. No soft sounds from upstairs. No hum of the refrigerator or whisper of air through the vents. Even the regular outdoor night bird sounds have gone silent."Tamara?" My voice echoes off the marble floors, bouncing back from the high ceilings. "Melor?"The echo mocks me with its emptiness.I move through the ground floor first, checking the kitchen where I expected to find evidence of dinner— maybe a plate left in the sink or the lingering scent of whatever she'd cooked. Nothing. The granite counters are spotless, the dishwasher empty. It's as if no one has lived here for days.The living room is equally sterile. Cushions arranged perfectly on the sofa, not a single book or magazine out of place. This isn't how Tamara leaves a room— she's neat but lived-in, always leaving small traces of herse

TamaraMy bare feet pound against the concrete, backpack thumping against my hip. Behind me, someone shouts: "Hey! The bitch is out!"Shit!Just keep going!The terminal— get to the terminal!More shouts ring out, but I don't look back. Can't look back. The terminal building grows larger with each desperate step, glass doors promising sanctuary and crowds and cameras that might keep bullets from flying.Inside, the chaos of Liszt Ferenc Airport swallows me whole. The terminal stretches endlessly ahead— polished floors reflecting harsh fluorescent lighting, massive windows letting in light from the runway, departure boards flickering with destinations in Hungarian and English. Voices blend into a dozen different languages: German tourists arguing over gate numbers, business travelers barking into phones in rapid Hungarian, children whining in French while their parents drag wheeled suitcases behind them.So many people.Too many witnesses.They can't do anything to me here, can they?I