His smile is sharp. "After that, the game gets interesting."
"Rules?"
"Nothing's off limits. But whatever we say stays in this room. No using it against each other later."
I narrow my eyes. "And you'll honor that?"
"On Mikhail's memory."
The weight of that promise settles over us. He means it. Whatever happens in this room stays here.
"Fine." I take my glass and move to sit on the edge of his bed. The mattress dips under my weight, expensive and firm. "But I go first. How many people have you killed?"
He doesn't even blink. "Personally? Thirty-seven. By order? I stopped counting years ago."
Thirty-seven. Each one had a name, a family, a moment when they realized death had come for them. My mind automatically categorizes: guns, knives, hands? Quick or slow?
"Your turn," he says. "Same question."
I could lie. My fingers tighten on the glass as I calculate odds, advantages. But he'd know. He always knows.
"Twenty-one."
His eyebrows rise slightly. Not surprise. Confirmation. "The assassin rumors are true, then."
"I didn't say I was an assassin."
"Twenty-one kills isn't self-defense, kotyonok. That's a profession." He leans forward. "How old were you for the first one?"
"That's two questions."
"Fair." He drinks. "But I'm curious. Was number fifteen really a senator?"
My blood freezes. How could he know?
"You talk in your sleep sometimes," he says, answering my unspoken question. "Not often. But that one seemed to haunt you."
"He sold children." The vodka makes me reckless. "My brother Luca and I made it last three hours."
"Good." The approval in his voice shouldn't warm me. It does. He shifts in his seat, and the leather creaks beneath him as his shirt pulls across his chest.
"Your turn," I say, looking away from his chest, fixing my gaze on the window. "What did you overhear in the parking garage?"
"I didn't hear anything. I was across the street with a rifle scope, debating whether to put a bullet in your brother's head." He swirls his vodka. "I decided to let you play your game instead."
The casual admission of almost murdering Nico makes my hand move unconsciously toward where my knife should be. He notices.
"Relax. If I wanted your brother dead, he'd be dead."
"Why isn’t he?"
"That's your second question," he says. "I'll only answer if you drink."
I keep his gaze while I knock back another glass of vodka then hold out my tumbler for him to refill. "Go on, then. Answer."
He blinks once, slowly. "Because I wanted to see what you'd do. What information you'd pass. Whether you'd tell him about the Barone plot."
I snort, a less ladylike sound than I usually let myself make. I’m not used to drinking such potent stuff. "Barone Schmarone. Obviously fake."
