“Luca’s.”
Slava goes still. His shoulders stiffen and his eyes drill into mine. I watch his face cycle through a range of emotions, and for once, he’s not pinning me down with his gaze. And for a brief moment, a new emotion flickers through his eyes, one that looks almost like pain.
“Luca had a child?”
“Yes.” My throat feels tight. “A son. Six years old.”
“But why is he with you?”
“Because I’m all he has left.” The words come out harder than I intended. “His mother died giving birth to him, and you murdered his father.”
In the suffocating silence that follows, Slava’s eyes catalogue every detail of Anthony’s existence.
“I didn’t know,” he says finally.
“Of course you didn’t fuckingknow.” The words explode out of me. “Why would you know that Luca was a father? Why would you even care? You kill people because it’s convenient. Because it’s what your life requires. Because someone’s in your way or they’ve crossed you or they’vebreathed wrong. But it’s people like me and Anthony who have to pick up the pieces that you leave behind.”
I’m shaking now as I talk, and I know I look absurd right now: wearing only the top half of an already scandalously tiny bikini, snarling and snapping at a Bratva boss who was seconds away from fucking me.
“You want me to change?” I wipe angrily at my eyes.Jesus, when did I start crying?“Fine, I’ll fucking change. You can either wait here or you can wait outside or you can go to hell. I don’t really give a shit which you choose.”
I feel his gaze lingering on my back as I walk to my bedroom, half expecting him to follow. But he doesn’t, and when I turn around, I see a glimpse of understanding—or something close enough that it doesn’t matter—in his winter gray eyes.
And for the first time, he’s looking at me differently. Not with possessive hunger, or a simmering hate, or the barely restrained lust.
But like I’m a real fucking human being.
Like I matter.
For a single dizzying moment, I might almost be fooled into believing that he understands my pain.
“I’ll wait outside,” he says, and the moment passes. “Take your time.”
He turns and walks out of my apartment, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
What the fuck just happened?
I just won, didn’t I? He left without a fight, and even showed me something that could be interpreted as weakness.
Isn’t that a victory?
So why does it feel more terrifying than any of my losses so far?
Why does it feel like the floor has just dropped out from under me, leaving me freefalling into nothing but air?
Three hours later,I’m bouncing up and down on Slava’s speed boat as we skim across the waters of Long Island Sound towards the yacht in the distance.
I’ve changed into a more modest navy one-piece with a higher neckline. Over it, I’m wearing a knee-length sundress in pale yellow and a cream-colored shawl that covers my shoulders and most of my arms.
And for some reason—maybe because I need his presence more than ever—I put the stolen necklace on.
Slava hasn’t commented on the outfit change.
He hasn’t said much of anything since we left.
But every once in a while, I glance over and catch him looking at me. And when I do, it makes me uncomfortable in a way I can’t quite name. His gaze is simultaneously softer and harder at once.
Softer like he’s seeing me as more than just his enemy’s little sister. Harder because he might see me as something else I’m too afraid to name.
