I press my fingers briefly to my mouth.
God help me. I love this little man.
And Roman.
And not in the vague, professional way I’d told myself this would stay. Not as a temporary caretaker. It’s much deeper, scarier. The kind of love that puts roots in you.
Both the Barinov boys have filled a space in me I didn’t even realize was empty.
My mind drifts to Kyle, how he’d wanted me to come with him after the near-kidnapping, how he’s repeatedly tried to pull me away from Roman and out of this life. But I don’t want to be pulled out. I want to stay just where I am.
I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of all of this, how he’s processing the fact that he’s a cop, standing by while his little sister sinks deeper into the world of the most powerful criminal in the city.
There’s nothing I can do but push the thought out of my head. After brushing the curls away from Sasha’s eyes one more time, I leave the room and quietly pad down the hall. The house seemseven quieter than it normally is in the twilight hours, and I realize how much Roman, even in his muted presence, fills the space.
I head down the stairs, thinking about the basement and wondering what the hell Roman and Andrei are doing down there. Why had they been so secretive about it?
I’m suddenly thirsty. I start toward the kitchen, pausing as soon as I reach the door. The faucet turns on, a drawer opens and closes. I place my fingertips on the swinging door and nudge it open just a bit.
Andrei stands at the sink, his back to me. His jacket is off, his sleeves rolled up. He scrubs something from his hand before reaching for a glass, which he fills with water and brings to his lips. In three deep swallows, the glass is drained. That’s when I notice something on his sleeve.
I gasp when I realize what it is.
Blood.
I flip through the moments of the night. Andrei had been uninjured when he’d left me with the cops to go find Roman. Why is there blood on his sleeve now? And why does he look like he’s taking a break from doing something physically intensive?
My pulse spikes and I freeze. Andrei turns slightly, and I duck back into the darkness of the hallway, my fingertips on the swinging door so it doesn’t move. Through the crack, I watch as he cleans his hands, scrubbing methodically. Then he turns and leaves the kitchen through the door that leads into the basement.
I should go back upstairs, lock myself in my room, and pretend I didn’t see anything. Instead, I keep my eyes on Andrei. He placeshis thumb on the thumbprint sensor and the door emits a light chime, then opens.
Carefully, I take my feet from my slippers so my steps will be quieter. Once they’re off, I slowly push open the swinging door and make my way across the kitchen toward the basement door. If Andrei turns, he’ll surely see me.
Andrei steps through. The door begins to close on its own. I pull in a deep breath, reach out, and grab it at the last second.
The breath slowly eases out of me, and I pull the door—which is solid as hell—open just enough to catch sight of Andrei descending a long flight of stairs. I wait until he reaches the bottom and turns the corner before following him.
The air changes immediately as I descend. Cooler. Sterile. The stairs lead to a part of the house I had no idea existed. Stainless steel walls. Bright overhead lighting. Clean in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I hear a scream. Then words spoken in Russian, hoarse and broken.
I swallow hard and edge closer, my heart practically in my damn throat. The door at the end of the corridor is half open. I approach and peer through.
Roman stands inside, jacket off, sleeves rolled up like Andrei’s. There’s a man in front of him in a chair, face bruised, lip split, eyes wild. Andrei stands to the side, silent and watchful.
Roman no longer looks like the man I was with earlier tonight, the one who held his palm gently at the small of my back.
He now looks like a living weapon.
My stomach churns. The room is small and square, bright and stainless steel like the rest of this part of the basement. On the wall are tools. I don’t even want to think about what they’re for. The otherwise clean floor is dotted with specks of blood.
I don’t recognize the man. Does he have something to do with what happened tonight? I pray that’s the case, and not that Roman secretly unwinds at night by torturing random men.
The man mutters something else in Russian. Roman shakes his head slowly and I don’t understand his response. The man adds something else, his tone sounding like he’s mocking Roman.
Roman’s fist balls, then slams into the man’s stomach. Awhooshof air flies out of him, and he coughs up blood.
More Russian from Roman before he steps toward the tools on the wall.
