My hand is on him before the thought even forms.
I grab his shirt and slam him back against the counter. A glass crashes to the floor, exploding into glittering shards.
His hands come up, slow, not defensive.
That smirk never leaves. Mocking.
That damn smirk still coiled at his mouth.
“Touchy,” he murmurs.
“Say it again.”
“She.Matters.To you.”
I shove him harder.
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
Now he studies me, humor fading like smoke burned off by heat.
“You run her?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
“Why?” He studies me. “You never wait.”
“Because I said so.”
He lets that sit. So heavy it’s almost suffocating.
“What is she?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “Liar.”
The word hits like a trigger pull.
My grip tightens.
“She has value,” I snap without thinking.
His eyes sharpen. “For us?”
“She’s mine to deal with.”
“There is no ‘mine,’” he says calmly. “There’s just the Bratva.”
I let him go with a shove.
“Don’t confuse concern with authority.”
Vaska exhales roughly—the closest he gets to showing annoyance.
“You’re too close to her. I should—”
“Don’t touch her.”
