“Yes, and you’ll be kept in relative luxury for your stay, so long as you are compliant.”
“What happens when I’m, inevitably,notcompliant?”
Sacha sits back, reaching conspicuously for the pistol holstered beneath his arm. He wraps one gloved hand around the grip, expression not changing.
“No,” I say mildly, giving Sacha a withering look. “If you were going to shoot me, you’d have shot me the minute we stepped off the plane in Moscow. If you were going to shoot me, you wouldn’t have me fed and housed me here. I’d be sleeping in your trunk.”
Without warning, Sacha’s hand flashes. The pistol catches me so hard across the cheek I see stars. As smoothly, he sits back down. Maxim, though his dark eyes flash, says nothing.
I gingerly prod the inside of my cheek with my tongue. “That was not very hospitable.”
“You’re not here for a vacation,” says Sacha, speaking at last, his voice gravel-bitten and low. He watches me from beneath hooded lids. “You’re here as payment.”
I smile. “And what is my blood buying?”
“Blood,” Maxim says quietly. “My blood.”
I feel my smile go sour. Who has my father killed now? Why? “You look fine to me.”
Maxim doesn’t blink. “My brother. Alexei. Your father shot him in the back.”
“Your brother should not have shown him his back.”
Crack!This time I get the back of Sacha’s leather-gloved hand. The blow leaves me temporarily silenced, blinking back tears. When I manage to sit back up, I find Sacha still standing over me. I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking hurt, or angry, or vengeful—even though I’m all three. Instead, I smile up at him.
“All of that machismo can’t cover your cowardice,” I say mildly. My jaw throbs. “Give me a gun and we’ll see which of us is the stronger man.”
He throws back his arm, but Maxim catches it. “Enough. What use is a beaten dog?”
Sacha’s jaw is clenched tight—that last comment struck a nerve, as hard as he’s trying to hide it. He jerks his arm free of Maxim and sits stiffly.
“Why did my father shoot your brother?” I ask Maxim. “Or, more to the point—why are yousurprisedhe did? You are rivals. Enemies. Killing comes with the territory, or did no one teach you that on your climb to the top?”
Maxim regards me with inscrutable eyes. “It doesn’t matter why. What matters is revenge.”
“So you’ve said.” I cast my eyes skyward and lie back against the pillows, playing at bored. “This is why I left Russia. With you men it’s all revenge and revenge and blood for blood, and doesn’t that get terribly boring? You’re always surprised when one of your own turns up face down in the river, but you know the gamble and you gamble anyway. I suppose you’re right. Thewhyof it doesn’t matter. All that matters iswhat.” I look sideways at Maxim and give him an acidic smile. “So, what do you want, Maxim?”
“Your life is not enough. I want to cripple the Snake’s entire operation.”
“Ah. An ambitious venture.”
“Hardly. He has been in decline,” growls a chagrined Sacha. “Last month his arms warehouse was raided—American police.”
I suppress the instinct to frown. If my father has stepped into international trouble,crippling the Snake’s entire operationmay not be such an ambitious venture after all. “And? Warehouses are raided, arms are lost. He will have others. Many others.”
Sacha straightens, suddenly alert as a dog on the scent of blood. “Where?”
“I don’tknowwhere,” I snap. When he rises, Maxim holds up a hand. Anger flashes through Sacha’s face, but he heels.Good dog, I think. “Not specifically. But I know they are everywhere. Over the border. North. Off shore. North America.”
“What good is the gun without the bullet?” growls Sacha. “We need to know where to strike. We need to be informed. What good are you if you do not have answers?”
“What good are you if you can’t find them?” I counter. It’s been a long time, a very long time, since I was forced to think in terms of the Bratva.I got comfortable. It feels like pulling on an old winter coat and finding it fits as well as it once did. “What else have you heard of my father lately?”
“Little,” admits Maxim after a moment. “He has been more slippery than usual. Less public.”
“Hm.” This is interesting. My father’s greatest flex was always his ability to walk the streets of Moscow like a king. He had the police in his pocket, informants as high as the federal bureaus. It was rumored even the American authorities heeled to his hand. If he’s making fewer public appearances or leaving the city frequently, something’s got him scared. “Your brother. What connection did he have to my father?”
“Does,” corrects Maxim. “He is still alive.”
