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Ivan leans closer, though I can still hear every word. “I should fucking kill you for what you did to her.”
“Do it,” Mikhail gasps. “You might as well. My name is ruined.”
Ivan shakes his head. “I can’t torture you the way you deserve here. Not with all these people around. No, your end will have to wait until I’m ready. Right now, I don’t have the time for this.”
Mikhail swings out again, but it’s a weak attempt. He lightly connects with Ivan’s ribs and, an instant later, Ivan slams him against the wall a second time and punches him in the eye.
He is sliding down the wall, nearing unconsciousness, when water sprays across the room.
Mikhail blinks and Ivan steps back as the chef walks out as far as the sprayer from the sink will allow. “Break it up!”
The water seems to revitalize Mikhail. He stands up, swaying slightly, before he jabs a finger in Ivan’s direction. He seems to want to say something, but the words don’t come.
Then he turns to me, his pale eyes burning with a furor I’ve never seen before. “This is not the end,” he spits.
For a moment, it’s just me and Mikhail. Fear overrides everything else. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.
Then Ivan grabs him by the back of his shirt and hurls him down the street. Mikhail lands hard with a grunt and the whole gathered crowd sucks in a shocked breath. We all watch as he climbs to his feet, gives us one more skewering look, then disappears around the corner.
47
CORA
I don’t realize how tightly I’m gripping the edge of the trash can until Ivan’s hands smooth over mine. Gently, he pries my fingernails away from the wooden lip.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low and serious. His right sleeve is dripping water. A droplet carves its way down his bicep and rolls off his elbow. I watch it go in what feels like slow motion.
“I’m okay.” My voice is shaking. My entire body is shaking. I wasn’t even the one fighting.
“I’m going to take care of you,solnishka. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I know.”
And I do know that. I believe him.
So why can’t I stop shaking?
“You’ve got to go, man!” the chef bellows from the kitchen. “I’m calling the cops.”
Ivan starts to let go of me, but I cling to him. I twine my fingers through his so he can’t escape. I need him close to me. He scrutinizes me for a moment, then sighs and leads me back out to the car.
He helps me up and buckles me into place before walking around and claiming his spot behind the wheel. We take a circuitous route through the city to make sure we shake anyone who might be following us. Based on Mikhail’s face, that run-in was a surprise for him, too. But still—better safe than sorry.
Finally, we move beyond the last of the residential streets until we’re winding through the hills. Only then can I let myself relax.
“Are you okay?” Ivan asks again.
He’s still holding my hand over the console. I squeeze his tighter. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“You were shaking.” Ivan readjusts his grip on the wheel. The whites of his knuckles are visible. “I can’t stand that he scared you like that.”
“Really, I’m okay. I knew you would protect me.”
His jaw clenches. “He deserves worse than he got. If there hadn’t been so many people, I would have—”
“Ivan, I know. I—” The vibration in me seems to have reached my chest. My heart is racing and I realize all at once that I wasn’t shaking because I was scared. This hum in my chest has nothing to do with fear or Mikhail Sokolov.
It’s for Ivan.
