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Lyon’s fists ached to punch. His feet itched to kick. The tension of the previous days had built in his body, a flicker of fire waiting for oxygen to fuel it.
Seeing Chaban tied up, lying to his face, thinking Lyon was stupid enough to believe it, was like an open door to the room of his simmering anger, a stiff breeze threatening to turn the flicker into a wildfire.
He sighed, forcing himself to keep his distance. His new position required discernment. He couldn’t jump to the use of force like he’d done when he’d worked the street. What was seen as strength there would be seen as weakness, or just as bad, recklessness, in leadership.
Men like Yakov Vitsin were dispensable because their lack of discipline made them a liability to the organization. Lyon would not be a liability, even as he yearned to inflict punishment on the traitor in front of him.
Besides, the threat of torture at the hands of the Lion was a valuable tool. Let Chaban sit with it. If worst came to worst, Lyon could always deliver on the promise.
It was something to look forward to.
“I was hoping to end this charade tonight, but I see you plan to be stubborn,” Lyon said. “That’s a shame. For you anyway. I don’t much care either way.”
He turned out the light and started for the door.
“No! Please! I don’t know anything about Musa! I swear I don’t know!” Chaban shouted from the darkness.
Lyon turned back. Chaban’s form was once again nothing but a smudge in the shadows. “We live in busy times, chaotic times. It’s easy to forget things sometimes. I’ll leave you with Alek and Markus to give it some thought. Hopefully, you’ll remember by the time I visit again.”
He opened the door and stepped back onto the warehouse floor where Alek was waiting.
“Gave Markus a break,” Alek said.
Lyon nodded. “Do the other men know about Chaban?”
“Not yet,” Alek said. “Figured you should make that call.”
“Let it leak,” Lyon said. “But only to the inner circle. Let’s see what happens.”
“You think we have another leak?” Alek asked.
“Let’s find out.” If they had another leak, word would get out that Lyon had Chaban. If it didn’t, it meant they’d plugged the leak by taking Chaban off the streets.
“Anything special you want me to do with him?” Alek asked.
“The usual is fine,” Lyon said, heading back across the warehouse floor. “If he doesn’t start talking soon, I’ll take a run at him.”
Alek would work to ensure that wasn’t necessary, both because it was his job to keep Lyon’s hands as clean as possible and because he would want to save Lyon from his worst impulses.
Lyon didn’t have the heart to tell his friend the truth. It was futile. Lyon’s worst impulses were always just under the surface, waiting for the opportunity to escape. Those opportunities came fewer and further between now that he was pakhan.
He intended to take them when they arose.
28
Kira sat at the dining table, nursing a cup of coffee and waiting for Lyon to wake up. He'd come in late the night before — after one a.m. — but she knew him. He might forgo his run, but he would still be up and ready to work before most people arrived at their desks.
She let her gaze scan the lake beyond the windows. It was only mid-January, which meant they still had a good three months left of winter. She hadn’t minded it in the past, but that was when she’d lived with her father.
Then, they’d passed the coldest months in the library, a fire crackling nonstop in the hearth as they discussed everything from politics to the bratva to the books they read. Lina had passed the long winter months cooking and baking up a storm, and the house had been filled with the smell of warm soups and stews, fresh baked bread, and Lina’s delicious cookies and cakes.
Sometimes Kira would play piano for her father, her fingers traveling over the keys like water over river rock. Her father would close his eyes and tip his head back in his favorite chair, a smile playing on his lips as he listened.
Winter was different in the penthouse, different without her father. It was colder here, in more ways than one, and Kira had trouble finding ways to pass the time. She was lonely, although she would never admit it aloud.
She pushed the coffee cup away. It didn’t taste as good as usual, doubtless a product of the nervousness roiling her stomach at the prospect of talking to Lyon about her visit with Julia Murphy the day before.
She’d been surprised by the woman’s warmth, surprised by her informality, her willingness to help Kira, who was basically a stranger. Kira had tried to do research on Julia before her visit, but the internet was largely devoid of information about her. Other than a handful of mentions related to charitable organizations, she was a ghost.
