Page 31 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

His fork stops midair. His gaze drops to my mouth for one second before returning to my eyes, then he sets the fork down and pushes the plate away. “I don’t think you carry purses.”

I stare at him. “How can you tell?”

A small shrug. “You don’t strike me as someone who tolerates having her movement restricted.”

Annoyingly, he is right. I rarely carry a purse at all—just lip gloss, earbuds, and my phone shoved into coat pockets.

Aleksander picks up his fork again and takes the last bite of the terrible chicken, apparently finished with the subject.

When we’re done, Aleksander starts gathering plates before I can stand.

“I can clean up.”

“You cooked.”

“That hardly feels like a contribution considering the outcome.”

“It still counts.”

He rolls up his sleeves at the sink, exposing the faded marks along his forearms again. I turn back to the dishwasher too late.

“I was on heroin for a while,” he says matter-of-factly, rinsing a plate beneath hot water.

The honesty catches me off guard. “And you’re telling me this while loading a dishwasher?”

A faint shrug. “You noticed.”

There’s no shame in his voice. No performance either. Just fact.

My attention goes back to the faded marks. “Was it bad?”

The plate stays under the running water long enough for me to think he won’t answer.

“Yes.”

That’s all he gives me.

I reach for another plate. “How did you stop?”

“Igor.”

Aleksander rinses the dish with careful attention, as if the motion deserves more focus than the conversation. “He dragged me back. Locked doors. Took my phone. Sat through the withdrawal. Let me hate him.”

“Did you?” I ask.

“Hate him?”

“Yes.”

“For a while.”

“And now?”

He hands me the plate. “Now I’m alive.”

We fall back into silence after that, him rinsing, me loading the dishwasher.

His phone buzzes twice on the counter. He ignores it both times.