It’s subtle, but I see it.
The tic in his jaw is enough to tell me I’ve gotten under his skin, that I’ve hit a sore spot. The flicker of his temper is being tested, hard and restrained behind his eyes. There’s a slight movement of his fingers curling around the edge of the seat next to him, likehe needs something solid to hold onto or else he’s going to start throwing punches.
Maybe he’s not used to people yelling at him.
Too bad I don’t give a fuck.
I lean forward slightly, every nerve in my body buzzing. I’m close enough to him that I can see small flecks of green in his dark eyes. “Well? Is that what your Mafia is? Just a gang of thugs with bad aim taking out people enjoying a nice cup of tea and a pastry on a Tuesday afternoon? That’s fucking lame as hell.”
He turns fully now, arm stretching over the seat, and he fixes me with a stare so cold and sharp it nearly cuts my breath short. “It wasn’tuswho carried out the hit, Ivy. It was someone else targeting our contact.”
“Yeah, because that makes things so much better. You weren’t the one pulling the trigger, just the one ending it. Isn’t that how it always goes with you guys?I didn’t start it, but I certainly finished it.” I bark a hollow, humorless laugh.
His voice drops an octave. “Ivy. Watch it. I’m not in the mood to debate this with you.”
“And I’m not in the mood to bekidnapped,Maksim, but here we are! You drag me out of that cafe like I’m some co-conspirator. Then you throw me into your car to take me back to your murder palace, andthenyou threatenme? For what! For asking questions? I should’ve just let that bullet hit me in the cafe. It would’ve been less traumatic than dealing with you.”
My words make something flicker in his expression again, though this time, it’s far from anger. It’s not regret or guilt, perse. He’s far too selfish for something like that, but it’s the closest thing I’ve seen to remorse since all of this started.
He breathes out slowly, as if pulling back a sharp reply.
I stare at him, wanting to scream again because I’m not done laying into him, but at this point, there isn’t much more I can say to get my point across. There’s nothing else I can say that’ll make himsee. We come from two entirely different worlds, separated by more than language and circumstance.
No amount of shouting will ever build a bridge wide enough to span that distance. He’s right in his own twisted, brutal way, and that might be the most unbearable part of all.
I want to cry. I want to throw open the car door and run until my lungs collapse. But I can’t, because the worst part? There’s no telling how deep it goes. Who the hell can I trust? Miss Dori didn’t even believe me.
Hell, she could even be in on this too. What if I wasneverjust a tutor to begin with? What if I was handpicked, served up on a silver platter to the Sorokins because the money was good enough and I was expendable enough?
The betrayal tastes bitter on my mouth.
“I didn’t ask for this.” My voice catches, growing tight. “I just wanted to teach English.”
Maksim doesn’t even blink. “I understand that. However, whether you like it or not, you were involved in this world the second you decided to work for Sergei Sorokin.”
My hands fist tightly in my lap again. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know he had anything to do with the Mafia. How the hell canyou sit there and blame me when I thought I was just getting a normal teaching job?”
“You knew from the start that something was off, don’t play dumb. I saw the moment we met weeks ago that you knew. I saw it in your eyes,” he says, cool and detached.
I flinch. The words hit me like a slap, cold and merciless. “I thought I was just being overdramatic…”
“Then you were naive not to listen to your intuition,” he replies without hesitation. “And naive people don’t live long in this city.”
That’s what makes it worse. He’s so calm, so sure, in his opinion. Like this is all just a foregone conclusion becauseI’mthe one who should’ve known better. That’s the problem with men like him—they believe the burden of survival is always on you. Your instincts, your decisions. Your fault if you didn’t run soon enough.
No accountability for all the fucked up shit they pulled to put you in that predicament.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I blink them back fast, so fast it makes my vision go spotty, but I won’t cry in front of him. If he’s waiting for that, he’ll die disappointed. The only emotions he’s getting from me are anger and pure, white-hot resentment.
“I didn’t sign up to be a witness to a crime ring,” I say.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then answer me this. If you were so afraid, so traumatized by what you saw, as you claim, why did you go back?”
I blink. “What?”
“To the cafe,” he says slowly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the whole world. “The crime scene. The moment Sergei let you off the estate, you ran straight to it instead of the airport. Why?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
