Even if that makes me a monster or a f*****g masochist.
“I get it, Isaak,” she says. “The Bratva is your life. But Jo is mine. I may not have been the best mother to her all these years, but I want to be. God, I want to be that so bad. I want at least the chance to be.”
Almost unconsciously, my hand nestles along the curve of her neck, against her jaw. She looks up at me with tears swimming in her pearly green eyes.
“I don’t want her to hate me,” Camila whispers, unable to suppress her sob. “And I’m running out of time to convince her that I’m not just some absentee mom who’s chasing freedom instead of providing for her.”
“That’s not what you’re doing.”
“But how is she going to know that?” Camila demands. “She’s young now. She doesn’t know any better. But one day, her questions are go
