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“Don’t finish that sentence,” I instruct him. Leather creaks as I lean back in my chair. “Leave.” I say the last word in English while looking at my men.
Lyla opens her mouth—to protest, I’m assuming. She shuts it as Roman and Grigoriy shuffle toward the door after exchanging an uneasy glance.
I’m certain there’s been no shortage of gossip and speculation among the men since I returned from the States last night. There’s the shock of me appearing to have a son—an eight-year-old American one at that. There’s concern about how Leo might be used against me, how he could act as a powder keg in an already-uncertain situation.
They don’t have anything to be concerned about.
Leo’s existence has provided me with focus and purpose.
I’ve let my enemies flounder as of late. Accepted them as an irritation. An inconvenience.
I’ve stood on shaky ground with Bianchi for a while. Smiled at him across the table while fingering a trigger beneath it. Our truce is an uneasy one, to put it mildly.
But he’s never been a threat—not until he sent men to Lyla’s apartment. It doesn’t matter that he did it out of curiosity. If he presses the issue or holds an unreasonable grudge, he’ll die for that decision.
And then there’s Dmitriy. My cousin who wants what is rightfully mine. He’s a threat to Leo—because he’ll see Leo as a threat to him. I have to stop putting off the inevitable and kill him.
I haven’t been stalling the decision. Ever since the first warehouse was hit, I knew what had to happen. But I haven’t been willing to exert the resources or risk the necessary men to make hunting him down a priority.
And it won’t be a merciful death. It will be a harsh demonstration of what crossing me looks like. A warning that what I do to family is nothing in comparison to how I’d treat anyone else.
Lyla hasn’t said a word since the door shut behind Grigoriy and Roman. She’s staring at me like I’m a stranger. But with a burning intensity that speaks to familiarity.
I stand and walk over to the bar cart parked in the corner of the room. I direct a generous splash of vodka into a crystal tumbler, then glance at Lyla. “Want a drink?”
She approaches hesitantly, twisting the hem of the shirt that’s too large on her. I wonder if it belongs to herboyfriend, then crush the thought.
“It’s not even eight.”
I drain the glass in one gulp, savoring the fiery burn as it trickles down my throat and sears my stomach. “I’ll take that as a no.”
Lyla takes another step closer. “Is it safe to leave now?”
There’s hope in her voice. Naivete. It sparks a fresh slew of self-loathing inside of me.
My men are worried about having her and Leo here.
She doesn’t want to be here.
And I—I don’t know what the fuck to do or say.
I opt for honesty. “The world isn’t a safe place, Lyla. Have you watched the news lately? Murders and robberies and wars and famine?” I fill my glass again. “I’m thePakhanof the Morozov family. I work with a lot of important people. And I have a lot of powerful enemies. That means it willneverbe safe to leave.”
Her face pales, the constellation of freckles on her cheeks mapped out as a stark contrast against white skin. She’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans she’s had to roll the waist of to keep up. Her hair is unbrushed and messy, and she’s not wearing any makeup. She looks nothing like the dancers and models I’ve spent the past years fucking.
And when she bites her bottom lip, I have to turn away to will my erection away.
Lyla Peterson still affects me, and it’s an unwelcome realization. I thought it was mostly teenage hormones and the thrill of freedom that made her so irresistible before. She was a little innocent, a lot jaded, and on a short list of people who I felt relaxed around.
She sinks down into the chair where Grigoriy was seated before, her fingers digging into the arms until they turn snow white. “But…those men who were in my building, aren’t they…”
“They’re dead. But they worked for someone who doesn’t do his own dirty work. Someone who is very much alive. And even if he wasn’t, there willalwaysbe other threats.”
“What are you saying?”
I take a sip of vodka. “You know what I’m saying.”
Lyla won’t face me. Her eyes are fixed on the bookcase to the right, skimming over the embossed spines of Tolstoy and Pushkin. “You’re in the mob.”
