"Disappear, confess, or die." I say it matter-of-factly. "Depending on what's needed."
"And which one am I?"
The elevator doors open onto my floor.
"That depends on what you tell me in the next hour."
I carry her down the hallway to my suite, unlock the door with one hand, and step inside.
The space is ridiculous, all dark wood and leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the grounds. I barely noticed when I checked in earlier. Now, it feels too intimate. Too much like a seduction instead of an interrogation.
I set her down on the leather couch, then step back before the urge to touch her again can override my common sense.
She looks around the room, cataloging exits and weapons with the same practiced eye she used in the forest.
Then her gaze lands on me, and I see the exact moment she makes her decision.
"Emilia," she says. "My name is Emilia Markova."
The name hits me like a fist to the chest.
Markova.
Markov.
Oh, fuck.
Emilia
I watch recognition slam into him like a physical blow.
Good.
Let him understand exactly what kind of mistake Viktor Troskoy made six years ago when he thought he could erase my entire family and leave no witnesses.
"Markov." Konstantin says the name like he's tasting it, testing its weight. "Alexander Markov's daughter."
"You knew my father." It's not a question. Everyone in the Bratva knew my father.
"I knew of him." He moves to the bar cart in the corner, pours two glasses of something amber. "He was old-school. Honorable, by our standards. He didn't deserve what happened."
"No." The word comes out flat. "He didn't."
Konstantin crosses the room and holds out one of the glasses. I stare at it.
"It's not poisoned," he says, and there's dark humor in his voice. "You'd know if I was trying to poison you."
Fair point.
I take the glass and down half of it in one swallow. The burn centers me, reminds me that I'm still alive when I shouldn't be.
He settles into the chair across from me, his long legs stretched out, his red mask still in place. I left my mask somewhere in the forest, I realize. Lost it when he caught me.
Captured prey doesn't get to hide behind masks.
"Tell me," he says.
Where do I start? With the sound of gunfire? With waking up in the hospital and learning my entire family was dead? With the years I spent rebuilding myself from the shattered remains of a nineteen-year-old girl who believed in loyalty and honor and the Bratva's codes?
