He strolls farther into the living room like he owns the building, I follow.
“Why are you here?”
“Because Dad’s been trying to reach you.”
The mention hits the air like rot.
“Nikolai’s number’s blocked.”
“Clearly.”
I stare at him. “If you know that, then why are you here?”
Kostya shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets.
“Because when you ignore Nikolai long enough, he stops calling.”
A pause.
His eyes flick toward the hallway where Ayla disappeared.
“And then he starts sending people.”
My jaw tightens.
“Fuck Nikolai,” I say.
Kostya’s smile fades just a fraction. “He wants you in Russia.”
I don’t answer.
He studies me for a moment longer, then sighs like this conversation is exhausting him.
“Soon,”he adds. “Preferably before he decides to come here himself.”
Behind us, a floorboard creaks down the hallway.
Ayla.
Kostya glances toward the sound, that irritating grin returning.
My fingers tighten around the gun.
I look back at her.
She’s pulled on black leggings under my shirt, the hem still brushing mid-thigh. Her arms fold across her chest, chin tipped up the way she does when she knows she’s being watched.
Kostya’s grin widens.
“Well,” he says lightly. “There she is.”
He starts across the room toward her.
I move before he gets two steps.
My hand slams into his chest and shoves him back.
Hard.
