Evgeny is shadows and darkness compared to Vasya’s lightheartedness. But in the bright light of the kitchen, when he isn’t yelling at me or threatening me, I can at leastseethe gorgeous man I met at the club, even if I’m sure he was a figment of my imagination.
I take pains not to look at the scars on one side of his face, which don’t look quite as monstrous when he’s not being a monster himself. He seems to get angry when I look at them, which I guess I can understand. People must stare at them all the time, probably not in a kind way, either.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Evgeny’s question is less a question and more a warning growl that startles me. I realize I’ve been staring at him.
“I needed breakfast.” I manage to sound less squeaky. “If my blood sugar drops, I can’t work well.”
Vasya steps up next to me. “Give her a break. You’re keeping her here. Let her eat when she wants.”
Evgeny’s glare glides to Vasya, the corners of his mouth turning down. Vasya stuffs his hands into his pockets again, shoulders hunching.
“I’m done. I’m full. I’ll go,” I say quickly, knowing I’m walking a very fine line. I don’t want to lose the small bit of freedom my captor has granted me. I flash Vasya a quick smile. “Thanks for showing me around and making sure I eat. I appreciate it.”
He nods, but he doesn’t say anything more.
The last thing I see as I hurry from the kitchen is the two men standing there watching me, Evgeny with a scowl and Vasya looking bemused.
7
EVGENY
“Fuck you, Vasya.”
Dmitri’s growl doesn’t deter Vasya, it only spurs him on.
“Aren’t you ready for hibernation yet?” Vasya shoots back, reaching for a hunk of Dmitri’s dark bread. He takes a bite before the big man can swat it away.
“Enough,” I snap.
Both men settle at my one-word warning, and the withered old man beside them chuckles. The truce doesn’t last and soon they’re back at each other’s throats. Their usual bickering blends into the restaurant’s hum as I sink back into my thoughts.
Another Kucherov man was found dead this morning, killed execution-style. My computer at the Kucher Enterprises office paid the ultimate price for my rage when I found out. Now my anger has dulled to a pulsing ember, still glowing and ready to explode when I need it.
I’m all but certain the culprit is Tsepov and his crew. The killings are a clear message to us. To me. I’m furious that someone is challenging us.
More than that, I’m angry for my men. They are mine, and their deaths are personal to the Bratva and to me.
And yet one woman has taken over my thoughts.
I can’t get the sway of her hips out of my mind, or the way her tongue slides over her bottom lip when she’s thinking or anxious, or how she stares at me with equal parts fear and defiance.
Even now I have to shift in my seat, the bulge in my pants turning uncomfortable at the mere thought of her.
“You are a troublemaker, Dmitri.”
The old man’s grumble pulls me out of my thoughts. His voice is sandpaper rough, and he wheezes when he finishes. I remember when his voice was as strong as his accent, his body stronger. But age has taken both, and his health with them.
“Shouldn’t you be home resting, Ivan?” I ask, concern tightening my voice. “You’re just back from the hospital.”
“Bah,” Ivan says, then holds his hand out to Dmitri. “Put yourself to good use. Help me to the kitchen. I wish to speak with Maria.”
Dmitri swallows his mouthful and does as the elder asks, helping the old man to his feet. Vasya scoots into Dmitri’s seat as the two make their slow way to the kitchen.
“So,” Vasya says, picking up one of the unused spoons on the table to dig into the rest of Dmitri’sborscht. “Eva is enchanting. Tell me more about her. Where did you find her?”
It’s an odd subject, even for Vasya, and for some bizarre reason it annoys me.
“Why?”
