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Silently, I pull out my gun, just in case. My heart races, but not from fear. The estate might be old, but the alarm system is state of the art. I’m not worried someone broke in. I’m anticipating who would be waiting. Unless it’s one of the maids—which seems highly unlikely, given how it was handled the last time one of them snuck into my room—it’s Lyla.
I nudge the door open with my elbow, keeping my gun half tucked behind my thigh.
Lyla is standing in front of one of the massive windows that line the far wall, staring out at the snowy yard. It’s illuminated by the floodlights that top every other post of the fence. They’re bright enough, I have to close the curtains in order to sleep.
She’s wearing an oversize sweater and a pair of leggings, her feet bare and her hair loose. I watch as she takes a sip of clear liquid from the glass she’s holding. It could be water, but I’m guessing it’s vodka.
“Exploring?”
Lyla spins so fast, she almost falls. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Nick…”
At first, I think she’s spotted the gun I’m holding. Then, I remember why I came straight up to shower.
“It’s not mine.” I walk past her into the attached bathroom. The tile is dark—like my mood. Lights switch on automatically, even brighter than the ones outside.
I glance in the mirror above the sinks and suppress a wince. It’s not exaggerating to say I look straight out of a slasher film. Like a monster.
Streaks of crimson crisscross my arms and splatter my face. I can feel the stiff spots in the black fabric I’m wearing, where more blood landed and dried.
“Whose is it?”
I glance toward the bedroom, surprised to see Lyla is still here. Not only has she not left, but she’s come closer, hovering in the doorway and looking at me with wide eyes. I can read sadness and worry in them, but there’s none of the horror I expected to see. The disgust.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s dead.” I set the gun on the marble countertop and start undoing the buttons of my shirt.
Lyla looks at the gun, but says nothing. I know most of my men hide the ugliness from their wives. We have a locker room in the warehouse for this very reason. You can shower your sins away and return home in clean clothes.
I should have done the same tonight.Wouldhave, had I known Lyla would be here, waiting for me. I hurried back instead, wanting the luxury of my own space and some privacy for my thoughts. Whenever I come home, it’s usually to an empty house. I’ve never had to worry or even think about encountering anyone else, especially not in my bedroom.
My shirt drops to the tile. I glance over at her. “What are you doing in here, Lyla?”
Lyla ignores my question, stepping closer and leaning against the marble counter surrounding the sink instead of the doorway. “Did he deserve to die?”
“I wouldn’t have killed him if he didn’t.”
She grows bolder. “What did he do?”
“How much vodka did you drink?” That’s the one and only time we’ve discussed any details about the Bratva—when I found her in the living room, drunk on wine worth a half a million rubles.
“What did he do, Nick?”
I stare down into the sink. “He captured one of my men, tortured him, then sent him home to his wife and two daughters in a box.”
When I look over at Lyla, she hasn’t moved. And when she does speak, it’s not what I’m expecting her to say. “This is part of the war with your cousin?”
I’m impressed she put the pieces together so quickly, but I don’t say so. “Yes. He killed one of my men; I had to retaliate.”
“You’re playing defense, not offense.”
“I thought he’d come to his senses. I thought the men who left with him would defect back. I thought this would have been over months ago. I’m doing everything I can to end it.”
I’m not sure that’s true though. I could have married Anastasia by now and had Pavel’s support.
The marriage was supposed to be a power play. A show of strength to scare Dmitriy into compliance. I already have more money, more men, and more support than he does. Gaining even more resources from the Popov family would have lopsided everything further.
Now, I’m not so sure it would work. Dmitriy is escalating, growing bolder the longer this defiance goes on. It doesn’t matter if no one believes he can actually challenge me asPakhan. The mere fact that he’s still breathing is proof I’m not in complete control.
That’s dangerous—for me and for the people I’m protecting.
