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“Defeated,” Ivan said.
I let out a raw laugh, my breath clouding in the air. Christ, would this season ever end?
“I’ve been defeated since I was nineteen with a blown-out kneecap, walking on crutches and completely bewildered by what life had done to him.”
I took a cigarette from a packet in my pocket, and Ivan lit it for me, shielding the flame with his huge back. The tattoos on his knuckles shone in the streetlight. His tats were shiny with scarring as he’d gotten them in a Moscow prison at the tender age of twenty.
“Whatever comes next, Kirill, I’m with you,” he said quietly.
“Bratan, there are easier ways to die.”
“Da, vladna, but none so righteous. Besides, I’m growing rich and bored with this new bratva life you’ve made for us. I miss the smell of gunfire and blood.”
I clapped him on the shoulder, and my grip stayed, tightening. He was a good fifteen years older than Max and me. Once, I’d been jealous of their brotherly bond, particularly as my half-brother was a lunatic, but over the years, they’d invited me in. I didn’t want them to die with me, but I knew I had no choice. Whatever I had to do to protect Molly, they’d be there. That was brotherhood. That was the true meaning of bratva.
“Not long now. Rest, sleep well, and save your strength. Tomorrow . . . who knows?” I muttered as I turned away and headed inside.
Max stood outside my apartment with five other men, guns trained on the door, even though security had told them it was me and I was alone. Max never took any chances, and I appreciated it.
“She’s still locked down?”
Max nodded. “She’s with Olga in there.”
“Okay, I’ll let them out. Take Olga home, and then get some rest.”
Max frowned. “I’ll come back. Someone needs to be here during the night.”
“Not you. You need your strength. I’ll need your strength,” I told him, my eyes communicating what I couldn’t before the other men. Sometime soon, I would have to defy Viktor’s orders, and all hell would break loose.
Max nodded and left as I entered the apartment.
I paused inside, staring at the neat row of shoes on a tidy shelf by the door. Molly’s converse, beat up and battered as hell, sat next to my handmade Italian shoes. They were so small compared to my size thirteens. I wanted to protect her, and there was only one glaringly obvious way.
Let her go.
But it wasn’t possible. I couldn’t let her go any more than I could walk myself off the roof of The Tower. The damn survival instinct that had seen me adapt and thrive in the Chernov bratva refused to let me die. I wanted to live, and to live, I needed her. Nothing meant anything without her.
I went to the spare room and entered, immediately enveloped in Mallory’s soft, light scent. She didn’t wear perfume. I hadn’t bought her any because the smell of her skin was too enticing.
I walked toward the huge walk-in closet housing her clothes. Stepping over a pile of them on the floor, I felt around for a hidden keypad. I typed in the number, and a series of beeps sounded before the heavy lock disengaged.
“Spokoyno, Olga,eta ya,”I called, pushing open the door.
Olga stood with her feet planted in the center of the panic room, a gun held in her unwavering grasp, pointed right at me. Molly stood behind her, watching with wide eyes. As soon as she saw me, Olga dropped the weapon to her side, looking relieved.
Olga hurried to my side. I found my arm open to press her into my side, even as my eyes were fixed on Mallory. “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”
Reassured, Olga bustled out of the room, muttering about pastry.
Molly approached, her arms wrapped around her waist, her green eyes seeing every part of me. “Is it?”
I let out a long breath and shook my head. There was too much to say and not enough words to explain it all. I jerked my head toward the corridor. “Get on out of here. It’s late.”
She stopped when she drew parallel to me. I couldn’t meet her green gaze, not when I could still see her father taking his last breath on a plastic sheet in a warehouse in Brooklyn.
She left silently, and I followed, stalking her through the apartment until she turned toward the bathroom and closed the door. I poured myself a drink and stared out at the dark city. Had I thought keeping Henry alive would ensure Molly stayed with me forever? Maybe I had, deep down. What a fool I was. Maybe I’d thought the imprisonment, power games, and all the ways I’d played with her since I found her again could be forgiven so long as everyone she cared about lived.
But with Henry dead, there was no salvaging my soul in Molly’s eyes.
