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So he won’t answer. Got it.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I whisper, triggering my own feeling of emptiness for losing the only lead I had.
Unless he left some evidence behind? He seemed like the type of man who documented important things.
“I’m not.” Kirill stares at the ceiling, seeming lost in a world no one can reach.
I want to peek into this world. I want to witness a fraction of what a person like him thinks about. His brain must work differently from the rest of ours.
“He was old and sick and had to die one day. This is as good a day as any,” he continues.
He really doesn’t care, does he?
Not about the men who died because they followed him to Russia or about Nadia and Nicholas, who welcomed us into their home.
Not even about his own father.
No wonder he’s hated by every member of his family. Sometimes, I hate him, too.
I also hate that I’m indebted to him. Not that he’ll hold me accountable for it, but he has helped me multiple times, and I can’t just take without giving something in return.
“So what happens now?” I ask after I finish cleaning the blood.
“Now”—a slow smirk tilts his lips—“I take over the world, Sasha. And you’ll be right by my side.”
17
SASHA
Morozov is a big name around here.
When I chose to come to New York, I was fully aware that they’re an essential part of the Bratva. I just didn’t know how essential.
Turns out, they’re pillars of the entire organization and hold a prestigious position of power at the top. The demonstration of said power manifests itself in the sheer number of people who are attending the funeral, including the Pakhan.
It’s been three days since Roman Morozov’s death, and during this time of ‘grief,’ Kirill has been going out to meet people and making phone calls.
His father hadn’t yet been buried and he was already rekindling old relationships and basically crowning himself as the new leader.
I’ve been standing in the shadows while Kirill and his family members accept condolences. All except for Karina.
I saw her dressed in a black dress earlier, and her mother attempted to force her to come downstairs, but the girl literally ran to her room and locked the door.
No one has seen her since, and I don’t think anyone here cares about her absence. Maybe they’re used to this behavior from her.
Back to the current moment. I stand on the periphery of the professionally decorated garden as part of security. If it weren’t for the black and white velvet tablecloths and the image of the deceased man, one would think this was a wedding reception.
The part that makes me stop and stare isn’t the number of people with a dangerous aura in one place. It’s also not the one-hundred-eighty-degree change in both Yulia’s and Konstantin’s behavior in public compared to their viciousness in private.
It’s how utterly composed Kirill is through the whole thing.
Every now and then, I can’t help ogling him. In my defense, I don’t mean to, and I usually stop when I notice I’ve been looking for too long, but it’s a compulsion I can’t put an end to.
Maybe I am taking my bodyguard role way too seriously, and I’m watching him this frequently to be able to protect him.
At least, that’s what I tell myself every time my eyes stray in his direction. On the other end of the garden, he stands with a few higher-ups from the Bratva, one hand in his pocket and the other clutching a drink.
He’s in a dashing black suit, tie, and shoes, looking straight out of a fashion show. We’re all wearing black suits, but he’s the only one who makes it appear regal. The black-framed glasses add a sense of powerful intelligence to his sharp features.
