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Vas, on the other hand, had always struck Lyon as more than a little off-balance. Rebellious and intelligent, violent and manipulative, he had all the attributes of a leader with none of the wisdom. In short, he was a bully, and Lyon never ceased to be amazed by the number of people who would fall in line behind a bully just to make sure they never became his target.
“What should we do about them?” Luka asked. Married to Nadia, another of Kira’s brunch targets, Luka was in his forties and had a calm, reasoned energy Lyon appreciated.
“Nothing,” Lyon said. “I’ll handle it. In the meantime, I want a complete audit of every operation — the money and the men. I want details on every brigadier, every bratok, every shestyorka.”
The bratoks ran specific operations under the brigadiers. The shestyorkas were associates tasked with the grunt work assigned to new members of the organization.
Lyon wanted to know everything about every one of them.
“And I want to see every penny of revenue accounted for as well,” Lyon continued.
He couldn’t grow the organization, couldn’t increase the bratva’s power in the city, unless he had a clear picture of where they stood. He’d gathered as much information as possible while he’d been executing his takeover, but much of it had been speculative. He hadn’t had access to the data.
Now he did, and he intended to use it.
The men nodded.
Lyon stood. “Let’s get to work.”
He turned his mind gratefully to the problems of the bratva. His remaking of the organization began now. He would reimagine it for the twenty-first century, see that his people gained all the power they deserved. He would make contingency plans for Musa’s inevitable reappearance, add additional security for the moment when Musa came for him.
There was much to do, and he wondered how all of it could seem more manageable than the problem of his wife, currently imprisoned in the house in Lake Forest.
5
Kira stared at the door from the bed, listening for the sound of the electronic keypad outside in the hall. It was just before sunset, one of three times a day when Alek brought her food, one of three times a day when she saw someone other than her own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The day had dawned gray and gloomy on the other side of the window. It looked cold outside, although the room that had been her home for the past two days remained warm, and she’d dressed in the pink velour tracksuit she’d found in the bureau drawer. It had always been one of her favorite outfits to wear around the house, and she wondered if Lyon had known that, if leaving it in the room had been a subtle gesture of kindness, like the stack of books she’d found in the armoire.
She’d discounted the thought almost as soon as she had it.
There was no kindness in Lyon Antonov. She knew that now.
Her lunch tray was still on the bureau where Alek had left it, the silver dome covering the plate. She hadn’t trusted herself to look under the dome to see what was being served. Even the smell of the food — whatever it was — weakened her resolve, and it was getting harder and harder not to give in and eat.
Sometimes after Alek brought the tray, she went into the bathroom and closed the door, filled the tub with hot water, soaked until she felt certain the smell of food had dissipated.
She’d eaten the first meal Alek had brought her. And the second. But as her hours in the room wore on, she’d grown more and more frustrated. Alek was the only person she saw, and although she had everything she needed — the adjoining bathroom, her own clothing in the bureau and the armoire, food and water — despair had crept in on the heels of her helplessness.
Finally, she’d decided to force Lyon’s hand with the only tools she had available. So she’d stopped eating the food, although she did still drink the water. She didn’t have a death wish. She simply wanted to hurry along Lyon’s agenda, whatever it may be.
She’d had three days to think about him, to think about the weeks they’d shared before she’d fled to Washington state. At first, she’d been scared. Certain she was going to die, that Lyon had brought her home to have her killed, her body disposed of in the frigid lake or under concrete like so many of the bratva’s enemies.
The time had passed slowly, every turn of the knob on the bedroom door another potential knell of her death sentence.
After the fear had come the memories she’d tried to bury when she’d been living on the island. She thought maybe he would let her live after all, and she’d replayed every moment they’d shared, every kiss, every time he’d occupied her body, every time he’d held her close, the beat of his heart a lullaby against her ear as she fell asleep in his arms.
But the memories had faded too, and after awhile, her fear and longing had hardened into something hard and cold.
Something like hatred.
She’d berated herself for allowing herself to fall in love with him, for allowing herself to believe he was something he wasn’t, to project character traits onto him that had obviously been figments of her imagination.
The tenderness she thought she’d glimpsed, the humor, the kindness, had been a lie. It had all been theater to get Kira to lower her guard, to make her compliant in their arranged marriage instead of combative.
And it had worked. Kira, who had entered the marriage with a clear head, had left it with a heart full of sadness.
A heart full of love.
