“But…”
"I don't have a choice.” He rakes a hand through his damp hair. “He's destroying Volchya. You know it too." His eyes turn cold and calculating. “I wish I could’ve killed him years ago."
His finger rests on the paper with Yuri’s name on it, like he’s already decided what to do. My head is pounding now, harder than usual. It’s almost as if my brain is punishing me for doing this.
“Roman?”
He looks up, frowning when he notices my fingers pressed to my temple. "You’re in pain?”
I nod. “It’s my head. Three readings make it hurt.”
He’s out of his chair in an instant, returning seconds later with a glass of water and two pills. “Ibuprofen,” he says. “Go rest. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
I take them, drink the water and make it halfway to my room before I stop and glance over my shoulder. Roman’s still at the table, his body taut and his expression dark. I can almost see the pieces in his head moving.
He’s plotting murder.
None of this is normal. Nothing about this situation should feel calm or safe. I'm helping him build a list of allies so he can overthrow and kill his own father, and take control of one of the most powerful criminal organizations in Russia.
And somehow… I feel completely at ease.
CHAPTER 8
ROMAN
“Are you leaving?”
I look up from my phone. Nala stands in the hallway, barefoot, her hair loose today—dark curls fanning her face.
“Business.”
She nods, then her gaze drops to the gun holstered at my waist. When she looks back up, her voice is quiet. “Dangerous business?”
I pause, studying her face. For half a second I think I hear concern in her tone. It can’t be.
Better not be.
“Every day in the Bratva is dangerous,” I tell her. “The trick is knowing your way around it.”
She looks like she wants to say something else, but my phone vibrates.
It’s Lev.
Customs supervisor in Podolsk is becoming a problem. Rejected the first offer. Wants to meet with you in person.
Of course he does. I text back: I'll handle it today.
I grab my keys, head to the door then stop. This isn’tguilt, I tell myself. I don’t do guilt. I just don’t want her feeling used, even if that’s exactly what I’m doing.
"Anything you want me to bring back? I can stop somewhere on the way home.”
She shakes her head, then lifts a finger, calling out, “Wait. There is something I want.”
“What?”
“Candy,” she says, giving me a shy look. “I need sugar. I haven’t had chocolate in a long time. I want to see if I still like it.”
By a long time, we both know she means since before she got kidnapped.
