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“You might have…” Anger coursed through his veins. She had no right. “And what made you think you were empowered to negotiate on my behalf?”
“I’m your wife, as you’re so fond of reminding me,” she said. “Beyond that, we’re business partners, which you seem to have forgotten. I thought I would remind you, although you may feel free to deny Borya’s request if you’re not in need of his loyalty.”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Somewhere in his mind — in the rational part of his mind, not the one protesting that Kira had overstepped her bounds — he was full of admiration for her.
She’d taken matters into her own hands, had shown him she was valuable on her own, but he couldn’t cross the ocean of his anger to the appreciation she deserved.
“You know I’m in need of his loyalty,” Lyon said.
She lifted her chin. Was that humor dancing in her eyes. “Exactly. You’re welcome.”
The GPS announced their arrival at their destination, and he clamped his jaw shut and made the turn onto the long private drive. He was too tired to argue with Kira, and he had the distinct feeling he was already losing anyway.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“A place where you can stay for awhile,” he said, navigating the curves that wound through thick stands of trees on either side. “Where no one will find you.”
“A prison, you mean.”
They emerged into a clearing, a three-story cedar-shingled house rising up out of the trees. As soon as he’d left the meeting with Ivan he’d called the property managers to alert them of his arrival later that evening. They’d obviously done their job: soft light glowed from within, and Lyon knew the beds would be freshly made, the heat on, the fridge stocked with food.
“I would hardly call this a prison,” he said, pulling into the garage. “But I suppose it is what you make it.”
He turned off the car and opened his door, then walked around to the trunk to get their bags, most of which were Kira’s. He couldn’t stay. It was too dangerous to be away from Chicago for more than a day or two.
He would get Kira settled, wait for the arrival of Rurik, who would act as Kira’s personal bodyguard in Lyon’s absence, then go back to Chicago and wage war against Musa Shapiev.
By the time he got their bags, Kira had gotten out of the car. She followed him up the stairs leading to the house, and he used the keypad on the wall to disarm the security system. He would reprogram it before he left. He didn’t want anyone but Kira and Rurik to know the code, not even the property management company. He had no reason to think they would sell his information, but he hadn’t gotten as far as he had by trusting strangers.
Or anyone for that matter, except Ivan, and now Alek.
He flipped on the lights inside the door and stepped aside so Kira could follow. This time she didn’t bother trying to hide her surprise.
Her mouth fell open, and she craned her neck to look at the vaulted ceilings in the adjacent living room, the wall of glass that looked out on Lake George, barely visible in the dark beyond the lights on the deck.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“It’s been in my family since shortly after my parents came to America,” Lyon said. “My father started in New York.”
“Brighton Beach,” she murmured.
He nodded. It was well known the bratva had a strong presence in Brighton Beach. It was where they’d started. “This was their vacation house, although it was more modest back then. I’ve been working on it from afar for years.”
She walked to the massive windows and peered out at the darkened water, then turned to take in the scale of the great room and gourmet kitchen, her eyes drifting over the photographs on the mantel: his mother and father at their wedding, Lyon as a baby being held by his mother, Lyon as a toddler on his father’s shoulders. “You did this from Chicago?”
“I came from time to time,” he said. “To check on the progress.”
She shook her head and met his gaze. “Who are you?” The question was soft and searching, as if she really wanted an answer.
“I’m your husband.” He’d made a mistake bringing her here. It was too personal. Too close to the old wounds he’d finally learned not to touch. “Now, let me show you to your room. You can freshen up while I make dinner.”
He turned away from her quickly, afraid he might drown in her eyes if he looked too long, afraid he might disappear completely, slip below the surface and never be seen from again.
He needed to leave this place as soon as possible. Needed to leave this woman. He would feed her and say goodnight. Would leave as soon as Rurik arrived the next day.
He would stop thinking about her. Stop dreaming about her. Stop wanting her.
He had to. Anything else was the path to ruin.
