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“A while.”

“No, no, no, Nikolai, this isn’t twenty questions.”

“A few weeks.” He doesn’t look away even though my anger must be radiating from me.

“What else?”

“Saturday,” he says. “Grisha followed a man to a diner. Daniel was there. He had pictures on his phone. The man gave him an envelope.”

I listen and I try to organize the information into something that doesn’t resemble a Godfather movie in which my ex-husband plays the part of the dodgy wannabe gangster.

“What was in the envelope?” My voice holds surprisingly.

“We don’t know, but I suspect it was money.”

My pulse spikes. “For information?” I suck in a deep breath and try to hold it. It’s an epic fail. “About me?”

Nikolai’s hesitation draws out. Then, “I think he’s using you to get to me.”

“Why?”

“Because of my connections.”

Which he didn’t think to mention until after the photographs were taken.

“When did you find this out?”

“Saturday.”

The word lands between us like a heavy rock.

“You knew on Saturday, and then on Sunday night…” The only part of my body I can feel is my heart thudding away like it wants to escape.

I think about Sunday night. He knelt between my legs and told me he would stop if I moved, and I watched him eating my pussy until my legs turned to jelly. I thought I knew exactly who was in bed with me that night. I can’t bear the thought that I was wrong.

“I chose to stay there,” I say. “I chose to keep the shop open. I chose you.” I turn the folded paper over in my hands. “I made those choices based on half the information I needed, and you still didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry, pchelka. I–”

“Don’t call me that!”

I don’t know what I want. That’s the worst part. I need to leave this apartment and walk. Go home to my own bed, lock my own door, and spend the night testing Galina’s recipes. And I know, the way I know when a pulse is wrong under my fingers, that I can’t, because the stranger from my Sunday table is still out there, and none of what Nikolai just told me makes him any less real.

“I’m sleeping here tonight,” I say. “You’re not.”

He doesn’t argue, but I see the gleam in his eyes dim, and my chest hurts. “There’s an empty unit on the floor below,” he says matter-of-factly. “Anton’s men have the key.”

“Are there men watching the building?”

“Yes.” He swallows as if it hurts. “Vera, I promised to keep you safe, and I’m a man of my word.”

I believe him, but it doesn’t alter the fact that he didn’t trust me enough to tell me everything, and I don’t know how I feel about this.

He takes a spare apartment key out of his pocket and puts it in my palm. His fingers touch mine, and heat tingles through me. I close my hand around the key. This morning I would have caught his fingers before he could pull them away, and I hate that I still want to.

“Lock the door behind me,” he says. “If you hear or see anything in the night…”

I nod once. I don’t trust myself to speak.