“How much did she give him?” I ask.
“Ledgers. That’s it.”
That hits harder than if he’d said names.
Because ledgers means she could have given more. The ledgers means she didn’t. And now I have to live in that space—between what she did and what she chose not to do.
Vaska watches my face too closely.
“She had opportunities,” he says. “More than enough. Gabriel got books. Not routes. Not names. Not the inside of your skull.”
I drag a hand over my mouth.
Humiliation burns hot under my skin.
Nikolai would tear me apart for this.
This is what he’d say happens when men get soft. When they let women near the wrong rooms. Near the wrong thoughts. Into the wrong beds.
Weakness.
That word has his voice. I hate that I can still hear it.
“Did she…” The question nearly dies before it gets out. I force it anyway. “Did she say anything else?”
Vaska’s expression doesn’t change.
“Relevant to Bratva business?”
My mouth goes hard. “No.”
“Then no.”
I don’t know why I asked. I wish I hadn’t.
Vaska leans back against the opposite wall, arms loose, eyes still on me.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” he says. “She stole from you. She lied to your face. She brought Gabriel into range of our business. None of that disappears because she cried on a couch.”
The thought of her tears hit like a slap.
I look away immediately.
I fucking hate tears. Hate what they do to a room. To a body. To me.
Ayla crying feels like a problem. Fills me with rage. Makes me want to either smash something or put my hand around the back of her neck and make it stop. Neither option is one I can afford.
“But,” Vaska says, “this wasn’t clean.”
I look back at him. He holds my gaze.
“This was abuse. Coercion. A girl born to the wrong blood and chained to it too long.” His head tilts once. “And somewhere in the middle of it, she got attached where she shouldn’t have.”
My jaw clenches.
“He’s her blood.”
“And Katya is yours.”
