I hesitate, not sure whether I should lie or tell the truth. Somehow, I don’t think lying about this is going to get me anywhere, so I nod to him. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I don’t know what happened, but…”
But he hadn’t lashed out at me, in the end.
Maybe it’s because this is early days, when everything is good and perfect.
Or maybe he would never be violent to someone he genuinely likes.
To me.
“Do you want to talk about it? I won’t judge.” It feels heavy-handed, but like I’d told Adam, I’m no spy.
“It is nothing,” Ilya mutters as he sits down at the kitchen table.
I set the food down in front of him and quickly take a seat across from him.
Ilya takes two bites, then sighs again. “You didn’t have to cook. But thank you. I am feeling myself better.”
“I know I didn’t have to,” I tell him. “I wanted to.” I’m too rattled to be hungry, but I force myself to eat, too.
I’m used to doing that.
After his plate is half eaten, Ilya says, “I’m not a nice man, Mishka. I should hide this from you, but you already know this.”
“I do,” I say. There’s no sense in bothering to lie, and besides, if he thinks I’m somehow involved in the same sorts of things, he might be more inclined to tell me the truth of what’s going on. “It doesn’t bother me. I mean… I don’t know what you’re doing, exactly, but I know it’s not…” I trail off, not sure what word to use.
“Legal?” Ilya supplies. He smiles at me. “Did that pig—your cop—tell you that?”
I could lie about this, too, but I don’t. “Yes,” I tell him. “He tried to tell me not to trust you. He said you were with the, um, with the Russian mafia.”
“The bratva,” Ilya says. “The OPG. Yes. My father was big member of the bratva. If I did not go to jail, he would have let his men kill me. But now he’s dead, and I’m here.”
I swallow hard. Hearing him admit it isn’t what I’d expected. I’d thought he’d deny it, that I wouldn’t have to deal with the reality of it. “Did you… kill him?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer to that question but unable to stop myself from asking anyway.
Ilya bursts out laughing. “They think I did. The other leaders. They think I killed him, and they are happy but they are afraid. So I’m here, in charge of New Bristol, where I can’t try to take over my father’slegacy.” Ilya winks at me. “But I didn’t do it. He had a heart attack. I simply did not call the ambulance.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say about that. Who would?
I don’t even know if I’d call an ambulance for my own parents, and they hadn’t done anything even close to what his father had done.
“Now I’m here, and I like America more than Russia, and I’m tired of it all.” Ilya reaches out to touch my hand. “I kept thinking about you, and how nice it was to use the flogger, how much I liked it—and how much I hated everything else I was doing.”
“You mean everything with the bratva,” I clarify. I don’t know why it surprises me as much as it does. That kind of life seems like it would chew anyone up and spit them out.
“I don’t want to be my father. I didn’t feel like my father with you. But tonight, I did. I thought, this is what Vladislav Zima would do.”
I search his expression. “You didn’t hurt me,” I tell him, and I’m somehow sure hewouldn’t. Ilya might get angry, and he might even yell, but he’d never lay a hand on me. “You aren’t like him.”
Then again, I don’t know who did get hurt, or why.
Ilya sighs deeply. “You are too good to be with me, Mishka. We will find you a nicer boyfriend. One who is your age and is gentle.”
“I’m not,” I say fiercely. “I’m not too good. I’m not good at all.”
I’m a spy and I will betray him despite how good he’s been to me.
And for what?
“I don’t want a nicer boyfriend. I don’t want one who’s my age, who doesn’t understand the way the world works,” I continue. “I would never relate to someone like that. I wantyou.”
