That finally gets Eva’s attention. She turns her head slowly, as if she thinks she misheard. Her eyes widen again when she sees no hint of a joke in my expression.
“Romanovs?”
“Yes. My mother was a Romanov.”
“Were you born in Russia?” she asks, eyes scanning the titles on the high shelves.
“I was not, and my father was born in Paris, but many of the Kucherov Bratva were. Vasya was. But becoming a bratva member is less about nationality and more about agreeing to the laws of the brotherhood, or thevory v zakone.”
Eva looks at me. “Thieves-in-law?”
“Yes,” I reply. “It is what we in our world call the brotherhood, the set of laws, expectations, and hierarchy that make up what Westerners call the Russian mob.”
“Oh.”
I look down at her. She’s so close her arm brushes my sleeve, and when she feels my eyes on her, she tilts her head up. It’s so easy to lean down, my gaze skimming over the almond shape of her eyes, the soft glow of her skin, the perfection of her lips that part slightly as though in invitation.
Warmth settles in the center of my chest, a heat that has nothing to do with the stirring of attraction in my slacks. It is a sentiment I have never felt for anyone else, and it frightens me more than any threat of a war between bratvas.
Eva rises on her toes, and our lips meet. What starts as a soft exploration soon explodes, and I’m devouring her, my arms circling her and pushing her back, crushing her against a shelf of books. But Eva doesn’t seem to care, one arm winding around my neck, the other hand cupping my face.
The scarred side of my face.
I pull away, breathless, panic rising in my veins like a flame overtaking the desire.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “Did I?—”
“I have to go.”
Confusion mars Eva’s expression, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her cheeks still flushed. “Oh. Okay.”
We both know it’s a cover, but I flee anyway. I run from Eva and my unprecedented feelings. My path takes me straight to the rest home in the hills, with carved white columns, ivy-covered colonnades, and a guard at the gate.
A lifetime of service for the Kucherov Bratva does not go unrewarded.
Despite the late hour, the old man sits in his room by the window, looking out at a slice of the valley lit by a carpet of glittering lights.
“Ivan.”
The oldvorturns slowly, squinting with watery eyes at me. “Evgeny? Why the late visit?”
I sit in the chair opposite, a ritual comforting in its familiarity.
“Did something else happen with that bastard Tsepov?”
“No.” I’m not here for business, and a slow smile tugs at the old man’s mouth.
“Ah. This is about the woman Vasya has spoken of, is it not?”
Of anyone alive, Ivan has known me the longest. At the core of our relationship, he is the closest thing I have to a father, the one I go to for advice on many matters. I don’t need to force out the words that are so difficult to form, because he understands.
He chuckles softly. “Evgeny. I wondered when you would find a woman. Not everyone would suit you, yes? She needs a strong heart and fire in her veins.”
The amusement in Ivan’s tone tells me he is enjoying this predicament.
“She has fire in her veins, all right,” I mutter. “She drives me mad, Ivan. I shouldn’t feel anything for her, I mean she tried to steal information from us.”
I still marvel at Eva’s bravery in taking on the Kucherov Bratva and me, even if the act was brash and abominably stupid.
