But then reality comes crashing back.
I pull away abruptly, my hands on his chest, pushing him back. "We can't." I shake my head, my voice breaking. "Kazimir, we can't do this."
"Why not?" His voice is rough, desperate, and he reaches for me again. I move further back, away from his touch.
“Because Ilya will kill you for this. And then where does that leave me? You can’t protect me if you’re dead. That’s the whole point of all of this. So you shouldn’t have me here, we shouldn’t—” I can feel myself panicking again. “There’s nowhere I’m safe, and you’re not safe with me here. I?—”
"I can handle Ilya."
"No, you can't! You know you can’t. He won’t tolerate you betraying him, he—" I stop, breathing hard. "You've already lost a sister. You shouldn't have to lose your life, too. Not for me. I'm not worth it."
"Don't say that." His voice is sharp. "Don't you dare say that."
"It's true." I'm crying again, but I don't care. "I'm not worth dying for. I'm just—I'm just a broken girl you pulled out of a cell. I'm nothing. I'm?—"
He kisses me again, hard and desperate, cutting off my words. When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing.
“Not to me,” he whispers hoarsely. “You’re everything to me. You always will be.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts. But I can't.
"You need to leave," I whisper, my voice shaking. "Please. Just—just go back to your room. Give me space. I can't—I can't do this right now. We’ll talk in the morning, okay. When we’re not so?—"
For a moment, I think he's going to argue. I can see it in his eyes, the desire to fight, to push, to make me give in. But then something in his expression softens, and he nods slowly.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay. But Svetlana—this isn't over."
He stands up, and I watch him walk to the door. He pauses there, his hand on the handle, and looks back at me. "I meant what I said. All of it. And I'm going to keep proving it to you until you believe me."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the darkness, my heart racing, my mind spinning, everything inside me torn between hope and fear.
I lie back down, pulling the blankets around myself, and press my hand to my stomach. "I don't know what to do," I whisper. "I don't know if I can trust him. I don't know if I can trust anyone."
But even as I say it, I can still feel the ghost of his kiss on my lips, still hear his words echoing in my head.You're everything to me.
24
KAZIMIR
I'm not sure that Svetlana isn't worth dying for.
The thought keeps circling through my mind as I sit in the back room of one of Ilya's clubs the following evening, watching two of his men interrogate a low-level dealer who's been skimming off the top. The man's pleas for mercy fade into background noise as I stare at the blood pooling on the concrete floor, my thoughts a thousand miles away from this dingy room that reeks of piss and fear.
She's not worth dying for, I tell myself.No woman is.
But the lie tastes bitter on my tongue, and I know it for what it is—a desperate attempt to convince myself that I haven't already crossed a line I can never uncross, that I haven't already committed myself to a path that will likely end with a bullet in my brain or a knife between my ribs.
The truth is simpler and far more terrifying: I don't want to die. I want a future. With her.
The dealer's screaming reaches a crescendo, then cuts off abruptly. I glance up to see one of Ilya's men wiping blood from his knuckles with a rag, his expression bored. The dealer slumps in his chair, unconscious or dead. I don't particularly care which.
"Boss wants to know if you got anything useful," the man says, looking at me.
I shake my head. "Nothing we didn't already know. He's small-time. Dispose of him however you see fit."
The man nods, and I push myself to my feet, my muscles aching from sitting still for too long. Or maybe it’s from the tension that's taken up permanent residence in my shoulders ever since Svetlana came back into my life. Ever since I made the catastrophically stupid decision to bring her into my home, into my bed, into every corner of my existence until I can't remember what it feels like to breathe without thinking of her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I step out into the alley behind the club. The cold Boston air hits my face, sharp and clean after the stench inside. I pull out my phone, half-expecting it to be Ilya with another job, another reason to stay away from my apartment for hours longer than I want.
