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“Dimitri was sixty-two,” she says. “Not really that old. I thought he was going to live to be a hundred, at least.”
I’m glad she doesn’t think he was old. She’s more mature than I thought, but she’s still in her twenties. Mid-twenties, I think, but it’s better to ask than to assume.
“And how old are you?” I ask, taking a sip of my borshch.
“It’s impolite to ask a lady her age,” she teases, batting her eyelashes at me in a way that makes my heart melt.
A girl shouldn’t have this much power over a beast like me. It’s dangerous for both of us.
“So, you’re thirty,” I say, hoping that will bother her enough to open up.
“Twenty-five,” she snaps. “I don’t look thirty and you know it. I take care of my skin.”
I chuckle. “I can tell. You look like a porcelain doll, and I bet you’re soft as velvet, but I know you’d be angry if I touched you.”
The light dotting of freckles disappears under the glow of redness that spreads over her cheeks. She lowers her head to her bowl, slurping up soup to save herself from having to respond.
I place my hand on her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through her shirt. “Let’s talk about your uncle, shall we?”
She looks up, crimson soup dripping from her puffy lips. “Yes please.”
I can’t hide a smile. She’s the sweetest person when she’s not being feisty with me. It makes me want to scoop her up in my arms and tell her that everything will be okay. I want to be her protector, but I get the feeling she doesn’t trust me enough to let that happen.
She doesn’t appear to trust anyone but Dimitri, and he’s gone now.
“Let’s start with this,” I say, pulling a black leather-bound book from my back pocket. I lay it on the table, positioning it so that she can read the title. “Do you know what that says?”
She leans in, studying it for a moment before shaking her head. “No, I can’t read Russian.”
“But you recognize the language.”
“Yes, Dimitri had a lot of Russian books in his house. Even his ring had Russian on it, just like yours,” she says, pointing at the ruby sitting on my pinky.
I brush it with the tips of my fingers, remembering the oath I took the night I received it. It’s tattooed on my back as well, but the grooves in my mind are deeper than the ones in my flesh.
Family first.
Blood before anything else.
Lily doesn’t count, but she’s close enough to deserve similar treatment. If she were to take an oath, however, she’d be accepted in because of her relation to Dimitri, but I doubt she’d do something so drastic.
“Dimitri had the same ring. Everyone important in my organization does,” I explain, tearing off a piece of bread from the loaf between us. I dip it into my soup, soaking up the deep color. “It’s required to be part of the leadership in the Bratva.”
She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “Bratva?”
“You would call it the mafia, but I think it has significance far beyond simple organized crime. It’s a network that stretches across the world, with no regard for borders or local laws. It’s more important than simple manmade rules.”
Lily looks deep into her bowl as she absorbs what I’ve just told her. She has a quick mind, but it takes her a little while to come up with a response. “How can it be beyond the manmade? Is it not manmade itself?”
“Good question,” I reply, enjoying the way she thinks. “Some believe the Bratva has a divine energy on this earth, but I prefer to think of it as set into the natural order of the universe, like a river that’s flowed through the same spot for millions of years, cutting deep into stone. Few things have that kind of power. It’s long-lasting and generational.”
She nods slowly. “I think I understand. It’s kind of like the freemasonry.”
“There are masons among us, but we’re more powerful.”
“How so?”
“Do you know what sets us apart from everyone else?” I ask, looking for an honest response. It’s not just rhetorical. I really want to know if she can figure out the differences between the Bratva and other organizations.
