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A long silence settles between us as my friend digests that new information. “Do you believe him?” she asks finally.
“Ugh, I don’t know. I don’t know! I want to believe him. I mean, this is Mishka we’re talking about. The guy who saved my life when he could have just left me to die after that car accident. He’s done nothing but protect me, make me feel safe and special. But it’s my father’s life I’m putting on the line by trusting him. If I don’t tell anyone and Mishka kills him…” I swallow hard, the guilt riddling me before it’s even come to pass.
“And if you say something, Mishka’s dead for sure,” Katie concludes, her voice gentle.
I nod. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it. But then I got taken, and now it feels like things are even more confusing because it was Mishka who found me. He saved me. Again. He held me when I was half terrified out of my mind—even though it put him in jeopardy to care for me like that in front of my brother. I don’t know. I just can’t imagine my life without him, Katie,” I murmur, dropping my gaze to fidget with the hem of my sweater.
Anxiety washes through me as I think about what I should do. Should I tell Mishka about the baby? Should I trust him around my family? Should I run away with him if he’s willing to go?
Now, more than ever, it feels like the safest choice would be to insist he leave town without me—for his sake and my family’s.
But the thought of never telling him he’s a father feels so wrong.
And the possibility of never seeing him again feels like a knife to my heart.
He’s the love of my life, the father of my child, and despite everything, I don’t want to live without him.
20
MISHKA
“Relax, man, we’re just here to talk,” the blond says casually, slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans as he leans back against my desk.
“What could you possibly want to talk about?” I growl, bristling further as my eyes track between the three strangers who broke into my apartment.
I must have been sleeping hard not to wake until now.
“I have so many questions for you. But I guess what I’ve been just dying to know is how you can be working for the Sakharovs. You know who they are. You know what they’re capable of—and what they did to your clan.”
He lets the last statement linger between us, his expression flat with disgust. “Do you have no loyalty for the Nehzit, brother?” The way he twists the familial term commonly used between clan members tells me just what he thinks of my loyalty.
This isn’t a discussion. This is an interrogation.
“How do you know so much about me?” I demand, ignoring his question. Two can play this game. And I’m not about to give him free information about myself when the scales are already tipped so far in his favor. Whoever the hell he is, he knows far too much about my past for my comfort.
The blond’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline, his expression morphing to one of surprise. “You don’t recognize me? I’m a little hurt.” He puts a hand mockingly over his heart.
Scowling, I let my arms drop, but I keep my stance ready in case this conversation shifts quickly to another fight. “I recognize you. You’re the prick who knocked me out the other night.”
“Yeah, you really should work on your defense,” he prods, like we’re familiar enough that he gets to tease me.
Svoloch.
“But that’s not how we met,” he continues. “I’ll admit I was one of the newer initiates. You and I didn’t cross paths all that often. But you’re probably familiar with my older brother, Dominik Lenkov?”
Now that he mentions it, this guy does look very similar to the hot-headed captain I worked for on several occasions during my time with the Nezhit. I’m surprised I didn’t see the resemblance before. They have the same hair, same eyes. Same cocky sneer. Though I recall Dominik being on the scrappier side. It would seem their ego is hereditary as well. Still, I wouldn’t have pegged this guy, who’s nearly as large as me, to come from the same gene pool.
But I do remember Dominik. He was a high-ranking captain in my clan that Sergio obliterated. Dominik died painfully, horribly, along with the rest of the known members of the Nezhit Bratva—including my brother. Sergio wiped them out one by one, and after our last stand, he rounded up the remaining members and dragged them into that hellhole of a basement where I killed five men just nights ago.
My stomach turns to realize this guy is connected to my old clan. At one point, I might have called him brother and meant it. Now, all I can think of when I look at him is that he helped terrorize Alina. And with that last puzzle piece, things begin to fall into place.
“So, Mishka, tell me, how did you manage to slip the noose? Were you working for the Sakharovs from the very beginning? Before our clan was annihilated?” Contempt drips from his tone.
“I’m not a traitor,” I snarl, my fists clenching, and the men on either side of blondie tense. “The only reason I survived is because my brother sacrificed himself to give me time to escape.” The confession burns in my throat, and I hate myself almost as much now for listening to my brother as I did that night. I never should have left him.
The blond scoffs. “Figures a brave man like your brother would waste his life on a piece of shit like you. Okay then, Orlov, if you’re not a traitor, why are you working for the man who killed our brothers-in-arms?” The blond pushes off the desk, taking a slow step toward me.
I get the sense that he would love nothing more than to punch me again. But he’s holding back, biding his time while he tries to understand what makes me tick. I don’t know why he’s holding back—or why he bothered asking questions. He and his buddies could easily have slit my throat in my sleep.
