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“Most things look better from a distance.”
He makes ahmmsound in response. “I’ll make some calls in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that, Nick. I’m sure you’re…busy.”
He chuckles, but it lacks any amusement. “Yeah, I am.”
“Did he retaliate about last night? Dmitriy?” I finally ask, too curious not to.
Nick runs a hand across his jaw, studying me. Weighing how—or if—he’s going to respond, I assume.
“Yes,” he finally answers.
Anxiety spikes my blood. “You lost more men?”
“No. He did. I had all the warehouses fitted with new alarms after the last round of break-ins. They were set to self-detonate if the codes were tampered with.”
“How many people died?”
“I don’t know. There wasn’t anything left to count.” He swirls the liquid in his glass again. “Red mist, they call it.”
I swallow. Nick’s voice is steady, his gaze level. Last night, his honesty felt raw. Right now, it feels purposeful. Level and unaffected.
He’s trying to scare me. To intentionally push me away.
“You lost a warehouse?”
“Yes,” he replies, picking up a pen from the table and spinning it around one finger. “This is becoming an expensive war.”
We’re both silent, and it’s a heavy one. A charged quiet, where a lot is being said while nothing is spoken at all.
“You should be focusing on that then. I’ll be fine here.”
“I said I’d take care of it, Lyla.”
I hate that he’s making an effort. Hate that he’s making a dream I let go of a while ago seem like a possibility.
I never felt like I was making a difference, working as a secretary at the law firm. It was a paycheck.
The possibility of getting to help others fills me with a joy I try to block out. Maybe I’m drawn to social work because it allows me to focus on others’ problems instead of my own. Being here has removed all my choices and responsibilities. There’s something freeing about it as well as constricting.
“Won’t the fact that I don’t speak Russian be a problem?” I finally ask instead of sayingthank you.
“No. They’ll speak English.”
“No one here does.”
Nick’s lips quirk—the first break in his serious expression since I entered his office. Rather than satisfying me, it makes me crave more. “Yes, they do. They’re just not sure what to make of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“There hasn’t been a woman living here since my father wasPakhan.”
“Why didn’t your mother stay here after he died? It’s not like there isn’t room.” I backtrack in the resulting silence. “Sorry. It’s none of my—”
“We both needed space. And she was trying to encourage me to get married as soon as possible.”
I hesitate, holding back the question that wants to escape. Curiosity wins over willpower once again. “Why haven’t you?”
