My finger tightens on the trigger. "Who?"
But his eyes are already glazing over, his chest going still.
My blood runs cold. I never got the buyer's name.
35
ARIA
The commercial kitchen of Thyme & Tide feels different today, like I'm seeing it through someone else's eyes. My hands move through familiar motions, checking inventory, reviewing prep lists for next week's events, but my mind keeps circling back to Maya. To the handcuffs. To Nikolai's cold ultimatum. To the way my sister screamed that she'd never forgive me as security dragged her away.
I press my palms against the stainless steel counter, the cool metal grounding me, and force myself to breathe. She's alive. She's getting help. That's what matters.
"You're thinking too loud."
Cyril's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I glance toward the doorway where he's positioned himself, his pale blond hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. He's been my shadow all day, Nikolai's second-in-command assigned to guard duty while the Pakhan handles whatever business requires his personal attention. The scar running fromhis temple to his jaw stands out in sharp relief, and I find myself wondering about the story behind it.
"I didn't realize thinking had a volume," I say, attempting lightness I don't feel.
His lips curve fractionally, not quite a smile. "With you, it does. Your face shows everything."
I turn back to my prep list, heat flooding my cheeks. "That's a liability in your world, isn't it?"
"In my world, yes." He moves closer, his footsteps silent despite his size. "In yours, it's probably an asset. People trust honesty."
The observation surprises me. I study him more carefully, noting the way he holds himself with military precision, the constant awareness in his gray eyes that never quite settles on one thing. He's younger than Nikolai, maybe late thirties, but he carries himself like someone who's seen too much.
"How long have you known him?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Nikolai."
Cyril's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those colorless eyes. "Twenty-five years. Since I was thirteen."
The math makes my chest constrict. "That's a long time."
"He saved my life." The words come out matter-of-fact, no emotion bleeding through. "My father was executed for stealing from the organization. I was left to fend for myself on the streets. Nikolai took me in when he had no reason to."
I set down my pen, giving him my full attention. This is the most personal information anyone from Nikolai's world has shared with me, and I sense it's not offered lightly. "You were just a kid."
"So was he. Eighteen, but already rising through the ranks." Cyril's gaze drifts to the window, but I don't think he's seeing the street outside. "He taught me everything. How to survive. How to think three steps ahead. How to be loyal to something bigger than myself."
The devotion in his voice is absolute, and I understand with sudden clarity that Cyril would die for Nikolai without hesitation. The knowledge should terrify me, but instead I find it oddly comforting. My baby's father inspires that kind of loyalty. That has to mean something.
"What about you?" I ask, leaning against the counter. "Do you have family? Someone waiting for you?"
His attention snaps back to me, and for a moment I think I've overstepped. Then his shoulders relax fractionally. "No family. No one waiting. It's easier that way."
"Easier, or lonelier?"
The question hangs between us, and I watch something shift in his expression. "Both, probably. But attachment is a weakness. Makes you vulnerable."
I think of Nikolai, of the way his hands trembled when he first held me after the storm, of the raw longing on his face when my car pulled away. "Is that what you think? That caring about someone makes you weak?"
"I think it makes you human." Cyril's gray eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity. "Which in the Bratva, amounts to the same thing."
The honesty in his words makes my throat tighten. I want to argue, to tell him that Nikolai's learning to be both strong andhuman, that maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive. But I'm not sure I believe it myself yet.
"Can I ask you something?" My voice comes out quieter than intended.
He nods once, sharp and final.
