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“Knife fight.”
“Did you kill him?”
Like most of the conversations I have with Nick, this feels surreal. I never thought murder might be included in pillow talk. Never thought that’s a question I might ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He wasn’t mine to kill.”
“Because you’re thePakhan?”
“No, I don’t ask my men to do anything I won’t do myself. And as you mentioned the other night, my hands aren’t clean, Lyla.”
My cheeks warm as I keep focusing on his chest. It’s the truth, but I still regret stating it so baldly. They were words designed to maim someone I didn’t think would be affected, much less wounded, by them. But this is the second time he’s brought what I said up, which makes me think they might have at least grazed.
“I delivered him to Dmitriy,” he says almost absentmindedly.
“Your cousin?” I ask, surprised. “Why? I thought you hate each other.”
“We didn’t use to. He was like a third brother to me.”
I trace the scar again. “What did the man do?”
“He raped Dmitriy’s girlfriend.”
“Is she…okay?”
“She killed herself right after it happened.”
“Do you think that’s why he’s…”
“No. The only reason he sought revenge was his ego. He didn’t care about her.”
“Do you think he’ll kill another one of your men?” I ask after a beat of silence.
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“They’re not easy to kill. He stumbled across Konstantin by chance. He was drunk at a club with his mistress. He was an easy target.”
“I—I thought you said he was…returned to his wife and daughters.”
“I did.”
“Oh.”
“They’re employees. I don’t police their personal lives, so long as it doesn’t interfere with the job.”
“Right.” I know there’s disapproval in my voice, but I don’t comment further.
My surprise seems silly, the longer I think about it. My mother wrecked plenty of marriages. I’m under no delusions that most people are faithful to their significant others. Not to mention, someone who tortures and kills and thinks they’re above the law probably doesn’t see infidelity as much of a sin.
We’re both silent as I continue tracing paths across his chest.
Nick’s left hand is resting on his abs, just above the thin trail of hair that disappears under the sheets. I flip it, tracing the raised ridge that bisects his palm. It’s the one scar hedidhave the last time we lay like this.
