Diamond Angel (Zakharov Bratva Book 2), page 1
DIAMOND ANGEL
ZAKHAROV BRATVA
BOOK 2
NAOMI WEST
Copyright © 2023 by Naomi West
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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CONTENTS
Mailing List
Books by Naomi West
Diamond Angel
1. Taylor
2. Ilarion
3. Ilarion
4. Taylor
5. Taylor
6. Taylor
7. Ilarion
8. Ilarion
9. Taylor
10. Ilarion
11. Taylor
12. Ilarion
13. Ilarion
14. Taylor
15. Taylor
16. Taylor
17. Ilarion
18. Taylor
19. Ilarion
20. Taylor
21. Ilarion
22. Ilarion
23. Ilarion
24. Taylor
25. Taylor
26. Taylor
27. Taylor
28. Ilarion
29. Ilarion
30. Ilarion
31. Taylor
32. Taylor
33. Taylor
34. Taylor
35. Ilarion
36. Ilarion
37. Taylor
38. Taylor
39. Ilarion
40. Taylor
41. Taylor
42. Taylor
43. Taylor
44. Ilarion
45. Ilarion
46. Taylor
47. Taylor
48. Ilarion
49. Taylor
50. Taylor
51. Ilarion
52. Taylor
53. Ilarion
54. Taylor
55. Ilarion
56. Taylor
57. Ilarion
58. Ilarion
59. Taylor
60. Taylor
61. Ilarion
62. Taylor
63. Ilarion
64. Taylor
65. Taylor
Epilogue: Ilarion
Extended Epilogue: Taylor
MAILING LIST
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BOOKS BY NAOMI WEST
Zaitsev Bratva
Ruby Malice
Ruby Mercy
Aminoff Bratva
Caged Rose
Caged Thorn
Tasarov Bratva
Midnight Oath
Midnight Lies
Nikolaev Bratva
Dmitry Nikolaev
Gavriil Nikolaev
Bastien Nikolaev
Sorokin Bratva
Ruined Prince
Ruined Bride
Box Sets
Devil’s Outlaws: An MC Romance Box Set
Bad Boy Bikers Club: An MC Romance Box Set
The Dirty Dons Club: A Dark Mafia Romance Box Set
Dark Mafia Kingpins
*Read in any order!
Andrei
Leon
Damian
Ciaran
Dirty Dons Club
*Read in any order!
Sergei
Luca
Vito
Nikolai
Adrik
Bad Boy Biker’s Club
*Read in any order!
Dakota
Stryker
Kaeden
Ranger
Blade
Colt
Tank
Outlaw Biker Brotherhood
*Read in any order!
Devil's Revenge
Devil’s Ink
Devil’s Heart
Devil’s Vow
Devil’s Sins
Devil’s Scar
Other MC Standalones
*Read in any order!
Maddox
Stripped
Jace
Grinder
DIAMOND ANGEL
ZAKHAROV BRATVA BOOK 2
Five years ago, I ran from the devil who got me pregnant.
I have a son now. A boy I’d do anything to protect.
But I left behind the sister I loved more than life itself.
So when Ilarion Zakharov finds me again, I have an impossible choice to make:
Do I go back with him to the world I left behind?
Or do I leave my sister to drown in the mess I caused?
Ilarion doesn’t make choosing easy.
With every touch, every kiss, every searing look from those blue eyes, he reminds me of the truth:
I love him. I’ll always love him. I can’t help but love him.
Even if loving him costs me everything.
DIAMOND ANGEL is Book 2 of the Zakharov Bratva duet. The story begins in Book 2, DIAMOND DEVIL.
NOTE: This is a light mafia contemporary romance. No cheating. Ends in HEA.
TAYLOR
FIVE YEARS LATER
It’s funny how someone can look so familiar and still feel like a stranger.
The high society blonde beaming at me from the photograph in the news article isn’t my sister. She’s wearing too many jewels, smiling too perfectly, holding herself too gracefully.
And yet she is. She’s Celine.
This is the sister who dutifully did my hair every morning when I obsessed over French braids. Who baked me cookies on the days I was too sick to go out and play. Who built blanket forts and read books with me by flashlight when Mom and Dad went out on their increasingly sporadic date nights.
I used to think I knew her better than I knew myself. How do decades get wiped away in five short years?
Not that they were short for me. The past five years have felt like a life sentence. I’m only twenty-seven, but in my bones, in my heart, I feel so, so much older.
“Good afternoon, Tater Tot,” Dad chimes, ambling into the kitchen.
He’s really committed to this whole suburban grandfather persona. Some might say he’s slightly overcommitted. Sweater vest, brown corduroys, the works.
He makes a beeline straight to the coffee pot and pours himself a mug. “Why the long face?”
I swipe out of the news app on the tablet and lay it facedown away from me. “Nothing.”
He frowns, clearly not buying my half-assed poker face. Taking the seat opposite, he drags the tablet toward him and flips it back over. I don’t want to watch him stumble across the exact same picture I was just obsessing over, so I let my gaze wander elsewhere. To the steam spiraling up from his cup of coffee. To the afternoon sun peeking through the window blinds. To his pale hand tapping on the tabletop.
He still wears his wedding ring. It makes my heart hurt to see that.
I’m jittery as hell, so caffeine is the last thing I need, but when I see Dad pull open the news app, I get up to refill my own cup.
I chose this house purely because of the kitchen. The garden window sits in front of the sink, which is big enough to bathe a toddler in. I tested it with Adam when we first moved in. He loved splashing around, blowing raspberries at the window, giggling when his rubber duck bobbed in the suds.
I cried when he got too big for it a year or so ago. He caught me with tears in my eyes, hugged me, and told me he’d squeeze himself back in it if it would make me smile.
I told him he didn’t need to. The image made me smile, and that was enough.
That’s my son, though. Kind-hearted. Sweet to a fault.
I decide against a refill, so I pour out the dregs and leave my mug to soak. When I turn back around, Dad has the tablet tilted forward, and I catch sight of the photograph I’d been staring at for the last half-hour before he walked in.
I’ve practically got it memorized at this point. But I still walk up behind him and look again. I’m becoming more and more of a masochist these days.
Celine is a vision, in a teal dress with a skirt made of shimmery fringe that seems to move even in the still image. The strapless corset highlights how much weight she’s lost since I last saw her. Not sad skinny, not scared skinny or sick skinny, but the toned contours of someone who’s worked hard to carve out the figure they want for themselves.
Diamonds glitter from her ears and neck, and the rock on her finger is big enough to sink a warship. Her blonde hair is lighter than I remember. It’s funny—we’ve got the same nose, the same chin, but on her, it looks glamorous and chic; on me, I just look ordinary.
Of course, as dazzling as this version of my sister is, it’s hard not to be distracted by the man standing beside her. The suit clings to his body like a second skin, and his features look harsher under the unforgiving flash of the camera. But rather than take away from his appearance, he just looks fiercer, more hauntingly handsome than I remember.
Dad closes the tablet and sighs. “You need to stop Googling them.”
I slide back into my seat. “It doesn’t affect me as much as you think it does.” I’ve taken years to home in on this tone of voice—something detached and uncaring, like, Oh, that silly stuff? It’s nothing. “It helps, actually.”
My father’s eyes are watchful and sharp. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?”
“That Celine is happy, so it’s all worth it.”
I can’t see the picture on the screen anymore, but the memory of her restrained smile is burned into my mind’s eye. I don’t know if I’d call her happy. Satisfied, maybe. Contented. But not happy.
“That’s not what I’m thinking.”
Dad shakes his head. “Yes, it is. But pictures are never a good indication of happiness.”
“And what if you’re wrong?”
He looks at me with sympathy. “Then her happiness came at the expense of yours.”
It takes a lot to keep my face from betraying me. That’s taken practice, too. “You’re implying that I’m not happy?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m coming right out and saying it.” He leans back with a sigh. “You are not happy, sweetheart. You haven’t been in years.”
I reach for an apple in the fruit bowl between us. “You read too much into things. I just don’t like having to hide. I don’t like living under an alias. And I don’t like looking over our shoulder every single second of every single day.”
Dad purses his lips and brings the mug up to his mouth. There’s a sadness in his eyes that I’ve grown used to by now. Most days, that sadness is for Mom. But sometimes, I think it’s for me.
“It’s that time again, isn’t it?” I ask quietly. “Time to leave.”
He strokes his chin. “We could manage another year here,” he muses. “Adam’s just settled into kindergarten. It would be a shame to uproot him now.”
“The alternative is what? Give him another year to form relationships he can’t keep? Make friends he’ll have to leave? What’s the point of that?”
With every passing year, I sound more and more angry. But if I stop long enough to examine my choices, I might have a full-on nervous breakdown. So I fall back on denial and hope that everything works out in the end.
So far, so good.
Well, good enough, at least.
“Just think about it,” Dad says calmly. “If you’re ready, I can have new identities sent our way by the end of the month.”
A little shiver runs down my spine. He references his old life a little more often now. Probably because I’ve slowly gone from fighting with him about it to just accepting it.
My dad was a bad person. The father I thought I knew did bad things and hid them from his family.
It used to be jarring. I’m numb to it now. I’m numb to everything, really.
“Priority customers, huh?” I say, rolling the apple in my palm without actually biting into it. “We’re probably keeping this guy in business single-handedly.”
“He’s a friend.”
“Can you even have friends in the underworld?”
“It’s rare, but it happens.”
“Have you thought about what might happen if your ‘friend’ decides to rat you out to Ilarion?”
He tilts his head to the side. “Is that something you’re hoping for?”
I set the apple down hard and shove myself away from the table. “Excuse me. I’ve got to get ready to go pick up Adam from school.”
“Taylor!” he calls after me, but I ignore him and make for my bedroom.
I lock the door as the sobs collect in my throat. I’m familiar with the taste of tears now. More familiar than I ever thought I’d be. I bang the back of my head against the door, trying to distract myself with pain. But just like all my other tricks, that stopped working a while ago.
I’m not sure what I’ll do when I run out of coping mechanisms.
I turn, put my back to the door, and slide down to a seat on the floor. Clutching my knees to my chest, I let the sobs shudder through my body.
And through the prism of tears in my eyes, I see something on the corner of my bookshelf.
I try not to look at the snow globe. Most days, I make a studied effort to look anywhere else but at it. Today, though, I’m drawn to it like it’s the only thing in the room.
It’s easy to remember things when I watch those snowflakes meander through the painted gray sky. I can almost smell the mountains again. Fresh bark. Pine-scented moss.
I told myself when we fled the Diamond like two thieves in the night that I’d leave the past behind me. I’d shut the door on my old life and burn the memories to ashes. What good would they serve me in the future? The answer is none. Not at all. So let them die, right? Let them wither away and disappear.
But that’s the thing about old memories.
They’re awfully hard to kill.
2
ILARION
“Kill me if you have to, sir. But don’t judge me for closing my eyes. I’ve never wanted to see death coming.”
I look down at the sorry bastard at my feet. His face is turned up toward me, but true to his words, his eyes are squeezed closed.
“You should want to see death coming, Osip,” I scold softly. “How else can you ever hope to avoid it?”
The man trembles as his eyelids flicker open. Fear has washed the murky blue into a mottled gray. “Some things can’t be avoided, sir. Death comes for us all.”
He’s a poetic little fuck. I’m in no mood for it, though. “Get to your feet. You’re not dying today.”
The man’s eyes widen. “S-Sir?”
“On your feet. Now.”
He glances to my left and then to my right. But neither Mila nor Dima, standing at my sides, offer any indication of whether I’m actually sparing him or if I’m just playing with my prey before I slaughter it.
“B-but the warehouse,” he stammers. “It burned down on my watch. Carelessness…It was my fault…”
I look behind him at the scorched skeleton of the warehouse. Black cinders coat every surface. The metal I-beams are twisted into grotesque shapes by the heat, though the fires have long since been put out. And in every corner, hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise has been torched to a crisp. A total loss.
“You were careless. You were negligent,” I agree. “But I’m not about to pin the entirety of the blame on you.”
Osip gulps. “Sir…?”
“The fire wasn’t an accident,” I tell him. “It was arson. Benedict Bellasio may have only rats at his beck and call, but they do the job well enough. They can slip in and out without being heard or seen. Long enough to do damage. Enough damage to fuck with me.”
I’m not really talking to Osip anymore. I’m more just thinking out loud, grappling with this shadow war that’s never quite taken off. Benedict has spent five years nibbling at the edges of my empire. A theft here, a fire there, a corpse turning up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It’s maddening.
“Osip.”
The man’s eyes snap to mine, scared all over again.
“You get one more chance. Mostly because Celine likes you,” I growl. “And she’d be annoyed if I killed you. But if you falter on the job again, I will kill you. And I’ll make you welcome death with open eyes.” He gulps and nods at the same time. I nod back. “I’m glad you understand. Now, get out of my sight.”
