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Nick flinches. “I can’t change who I am, Lyla.”
I scoff. “Of course you can. Anyone can.”
“I wasborninto this. It was never a choice. The only way out of this life is death. If I ever left? If I ever stepped down and walked away? I’d be hunted down and gutted. Maybe I’d be okay for a few months. Years, if I moved around and changed my identity and never trusted anyone. But that’s not the life I want to lead, and going on the run isn’t an option any longer.”
“Why isn’t it an option?”
I’m curious—about the Bratva and about his role in it, and I hate that it’s obvious in my voice.
He stares me down. “I’m not just protecting myself anymore. If I’m notPakhan, I can’t protect anyone else. You can hate it all you want. But the truth is, Leo is my firstborn son. I could have a dozen more kids, and he will always have the strongest claim to the Morozov Bratva. We don’t elect leaders; they’re born. Leo needed to know, Lyla. I told you I wouldn’t tell him, and I didn’t. But it’s part of who he is, and he deserves to know. I was never given a choice. I wouldn’t foist that fate on my own child. Not unless he chooses it.”
What he’s describing sounds like a mixture of cult and royalty.
“Why would he everchooseit?”
Anger suffuses my voice, and there’s irritation in Nick’s as he replies, “It’s not all blood and betrayal, Lyla. It’s power, authority, and family. It’s an extraordinary way to live when most people only experience ordinary.”
“It’s also illegal,” I snap. “Wrong!”
“Says who?”
“Government! Civilized people! You can’t just go around killing people and making money off misfortune.”
“Governments and civilized people kill all the time. Wars, assassinations, death row. They just define murder differently. They justify it so it’s more palatable to the public.”
“They aren’t lining their pockets with other people’s misfortune. The guns and the drugs and whatever else you sellkillpeople.”
“Do you blame a bar for serving an alcoholic?”
“I—it’s not the same thing!” I’m flustered. I wasn’t expecting him to challenge me. Every other time we’ve discussed this, he’s apologized for his choices, not defended them.
Nick tilts his head. “How? There’s a demand, and I’m providing the supply. Why should I be responsible for policing other people’s decisions?”
“Those decisions affect other people.Innocentpeople.”
“Do you blame your mom? Or her dealer?”
I freeze for a minute. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Okay.”
His easy agreement is maddening.
“It’snot. She was sick. She was an addict. It wasn’t her making the decisions; it was the disease.”
“Okay,” he repeats.
“Stop being agreeable. It’s annoying.”
“You’d rather I argue with you?”
“I don’t know.” I pick up my wine and drain the glass. “I don’t know.” My voice is weak and unsure, echoing the meaning of the words.
I stand and step forward, swaying slightly. Suddenly, Nick is there, the solid warmth of his body holding me upright.
Rather than move away, I make the idiotic decision to press closer. He smells like pine and leather. He feels reliable and safe, which is ironic, considering he’s neither of those things. I thought he was, before he left. Before I saw intimidating men look scared of him.
My head tilts back so I can see Nick’s face better. The side of his jaw is covered with a light layer of stubble. Before I can stop my brain in its tracks, I’m imagining how it would feel, rubbing the inside of my legs.
