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“Bratva. There’s a difference.”
“I don’t suppose that difference isnotbreaking the law ornotkilling people?”
I almost smile, but there’s nothing amusing about the situation. “No.”
Lyla exhales, and it comes out a little unsteady. “I think I will take that vodka actually.”
She sounds defeated, her shoulders slumped and curved inward. The shirt she’s wearing is by no means scandalous. It teeters on one shoulder, barely hanging on, but it’s not showing anything. It’s the memories of everything beneath that are torturing me.
I want to kiss her.
The thought strikes me suddenly as I splash some more vodka in a second glass. She’s mad at me, and she has every right to be, and I want to know if she still makes that little whimper in her throat when I suck on her tongue.
I carry the tumbler over and hand it to her. Then, for the first time since I inherited this office, I take a seat on the side of the desk closer to the door.
Lyla downs the vodka like a single shot, making a face at the taste. Her expression looks like she just sucked on a lemon, and once again, I have to forcibly stop myself from smiling.
Usually, the only thing I have difficulty with is keeping my temper in check. Not containing rogue emotions, like amusement. Aside from the occasional conversation with Roman or Alex—usually vodka-fueled—no one in my life is comfortable with joking around with me.
It’s so strange, being around Lyla again. Outside of my men, I don’t spend enough time around anyone to learn their habits and memorize their cues.
Lyla is an exception. I memorized everything about her a long time ago and forgot far less than I thought. Looking at her is like studying a favorite painting in the dark. I don’t need to be able to see the brushstrokes to know exactly what picture I’d be looking at if I turned on a light.
“Where’s Leo?” I ask. I haven’t heard a singlethudsince she entered my office.
“Upstairs, exploring.” Her finger runs the rim of the glass. And I just know—I remember—that it’s something she does when she’s anxious.
“I’m glad he’s making himself at home.”
“He’snotat home though.” The edge to Lyla’s voice could draw blood.
“He’s half Russian.”
“Interesting you say that. Considering how you never mentionedyouwere Russian.”
I exhale, then lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and looking down at the carpet. “I was six when I figured it out.”
“Figuredwhatout?” The edge hasn’t dulled.
“Why grown men looked like they wanted to piss themselves around my father.” Unconsciously, I trace the raised scar on my left palm. The one thing he left me, aside from the lighter in my pocket and a healthy fear of failure. “He had a reputation, and he earned it. My older brother took the brunt of it.”
I hesitate, deliberating on how much to share. There’s a glossy version of me taking over for my father, and then there’s the rough and ragged truth.
“Does he not still?” Lyla asks. There’s plenty of anger lingering in her voice, but it’s mixed with some curiosity now too.
I shake my head. “No. Nine years ago, my father and brothers were murdered. It’s why I left Philadelphia. I had a duty to take over everything here. To…avenge their deaths.”
Lyla’s pointer finger keeps running the rim of the glass. Over and over again. The repetition is oddly soothing in a way.
“Want more vodka?”
She doesn’t answer. “I’m sorry about your father. And your brothers.”
I clear my throat. The air in here feels like it’s solidifying, slowly tightening around us. I don’t want anyone’s pity, but her sympathy feels nice. She’s acknowledging the death of my father, not the formerPakhan.The latter was the root of all the other condolences I received.
“Thank you.”
“Are…are the people who killed your family the ones who were in my apartment building?”
