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“Come here.” He approaches his desk and snatches something from an open drawer. A notebook, the one he wrote my recollection of Robert’s accounts in. Beside it, he places a pen, and then he looks up, finding me still near the door. “I suggest you take notes.”
He leans back with his hips braced against the desk and addresses me from over his shoulder. “Where should I start? Oh, I know. You women are so drawn to sentimental bullshit. My father was Sergei Vasilev’s right-hand man, and from the moment I was born, he informed me that I would never succeed him. I was too weak, you see. And, like a fool, I thought that was agoodthing.”
My fingers graze the wheels of my chair, inching me closer despite the tension in my gut warning me to flee.
“I thought he was ruthless. Brutal. That he would rather fight than fucking listen. I used to think that madehimweak. But now I know…” His eyes flicker toward me, meeting my gaze. “He knew what it takes to survive, Little Rose. Your husband’s father killed him personally. Put a bullet right between his eyes.” He taps his temple. “But even then, I could ignore their petty war. What is that saying? You live by the sword, you die by the sword. But my mother? My sister? No. They lived by flowers, and ponies and goddamn sunshine. They didn’t deserve to die like animals, but it didn’t make a difference in the end, did it? Life isn’t fair, Little Rose. Men like your husband get to die peacefully in their beds, surrounded by their fucking spawn, while those they torment and terrorize suffer. So why shouldn’t they also suffer?” Suddenly, he tilts his head back, facing me again. “I thought I told you to take notes.”
I reach for the pen, forcing the nib against the notebook’s page.
“There are ten families,” Mischa explains. “Though each member isn’t necessarily related by blood. They designate loyalties. Each leader is responsible for running a different aspect of the syndicate. We are not like your husband’s family, who uses virtual slave labor and money to sway politics to their favor. We put in the hard work to run our empire.”
“Your father was one of the leaders?” I ask.
“One. He managed the business aspect but wasn’t strong enough to lead. He deferred to Sergei.”
Again, his voice holds the same mixture of fear and respect that taints it whenever he refers to the former leader.
“Sergei led themafiyafrom the time he was twenty,” he continues. “He was fearless and branched out into new territory. He was the one who stood against the Winthorps when they became too bold. He used their own ruthless tactics against them—”
“And,” I add, my voice shaking, “he took my mother.”
Mischa nods. “That was just the beginning.”
“So why did he step down?”
Misha shrugs again. “I don’t know.” He sounds annoyed by that fact. “One day, he just did. The only way someone can be named the Pakhan is with a majority vote by the other leaders. When I bid for the right, Sergei put his weight behind me.”
“But you don’t trust him?”
“I trustIvan,” he says. “His support is all I need. But should I lose it…” He turns, bracing his hands flat over the desk. Hunched forward, he looks like a wolf readying to pounce on its chosen prey. “He’s drawn to you,” he admits. “I’d be damned if I knew why. But know this: I won’t let you poison him against me.”
He’s not joking. He really believes I could. Is his paranoia that great? Or is he that worried about what he’s become? Or not. Maybe he simply knows that, at some point, Vanya simply won’t follow him anymore.
He starts to say something else, but a knock on the door draws his attention. “What is it?” he demands.
One of his men enters the room—I guess the door wasn’t locked after all.
“Sir, you wanted me to tell you when Sergei responded?”
Mischa nods. “And?”
“Well, he requested a meeting. Tonight.”
Mischa frowns, his brow furrowed. “A meeting? With who?”
“You,” the man replies. “And…” His gaze cuts nervously in my direction. “Her. He mentioned her by name.”
“Did he now?” Mischa’s eyes narrow into slits. “Tell him I’ll accept, but on my terms. Go.”
The man leaves, taking most of the air in the room with him.
Without even looking in his direction, I can sense the vicious verbal tirade brewing under Mischa’s skin. The hate. The jealousy. I could wait and brace for the tempest.
Or I can sigh and head him off with a dare of my own. “You said you wanted my trust?”
He says nothing. Because he’s brooding, I find when I look up. A wild mop of golden hair obscures his eyes as if he raked his fingers through it.
“Take me to the meeting,” I propose. “Let me talk to Sergei on my own, and then you tell me why I shouldn’t trust him. Let me decide on my own who to believe.”
“And why should I?” There’s no coldness in his tone, for once.
“You told me I should stop acting like a doll,” I remind him. “So don’t treat me like one. I can think for myself—”
“Fine.” He rises to his full height and moves to the door. Wrenching it open, he addresses me without looking back. “I’ll let you gamble, Little Rose. Let’s see just what you’re willing to bet.”
He’s gone in seconds, and alone, I listen to the thud of his retreating footsteps. My heart races, tracking the time with every frantic beat. What the hell was I thinking?
The answer is simple. Nothing. For once, I wasn’t thinking—I was surviving the only way that seems possible where Mischa is concerned. Pure, volatile instinct.
