I drank and set the empty glass on the corner of his desk.
"You know, your father came to me once and asked me how I did it." He swirled the vodka in his glass.
"Did what?"
"Loved Yuri while being married to Tatty. He knew, of course. Yuri was his brother. They shared everything, even the dangerous things. But Sacha… He didn't know what to do after he met that woman in Paris."
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. "Pop didn't talk to anyone about Paris."
"Pop didn't talk toyouabout Paris, Aleksi. That was the problem."
I closed my mouth around whatever I was going to say next. The vodka had hit. The headache wasn't getting any better, though. Fuck. I sat back in the chair.
"He'd been to Paris three times that year to see her," Nikita continued. "He said he loved your mother, but the woman in Paris… He loved her differently. But he wasn't an idiot. He knew your mother would find out. She was a smart lady, your mother."
I shrugged like it didn't matter. "That's how it is. Men are all cheating bastards. As long as you're discreet about it, the women put up with it."
Nikita raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you think?"
"I know it," I said. "I've been in the organization long enough to know how it works, Nikita."
He sighed. "Anyway, he thought it was a question of arithmetic. He thought if I gave him the formula he could go home and apply it like a man balancing a ledger."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him there was no formula. I told him that a man does not love two people the way he loves one. I told him Tatty knew because I'd told her, and Yuri knew because Yuri had been there from the start. The reason it worked was that nobody in my life was being asked to swallow a lie." He drank. "Then I told him to stop going to Paris."
"He didn't."
"He couldn't," Nikita said. "Because of Nikolai."
My fingers tightened into fists at the mention of my half-brother. He ran the operation in Paris, which meant we didn't see each other all that often, but every time I had to look at him, I wanted to punch him. He looked too much like our father. He laughed like him. He even fucking smelled like him and I hated him for it. Him and his stupid Parisian accent. He didn't deserve that, or the memories, or the way my father had doted on him growing up. He still had his mother, and half the cash my dad had hidden away before he died.
I picked up the empty glass and turned it in my hand. The crystal was heavy. Simeon had given the set to Nikita on his wedding day, supposedly.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you are your father's son," he said, and I couldn't help but glare at him for it. "Sacha loved every woman who gave him the time of day. He married two of them. He fell in love like most men fall asleep."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
"I'm talking about your Scotsman, Aleksi."
My lip curled in disgust. "I'm not in love with him. Christ, Nikita. He's a fucking prisoner. He's information and a means to an end; he's—"
"You smile when you speak of him," Nikita said. "Do you know that?"
My face fell. I didn't. Did I?
"Aleksi. Listen. I am not asking you to name anything. I don't need it named. The men in our family handle this badly. You understand me?"
The men in our family. Jesus Christ. Here we go.
"Yes."
"Sacha cost your mother her life."
I held my breath.
