“I have never told you I feel anything for the girl,” I mutter, but even to myself my words ring false.

  “You don’t have to,” she says. “I have known you longer than Fyodor, Oleg, even Anatoly. You cannot lie to me.”

  I wander over to the kitchen table and sit down, watching the light rain pattering against the window. I think about Camille up there with her face pressed against the glass. I think about her pacing around, staring at the world I have stolen from her.

  This is the last thing I need: hot guilt coursing through me like something alive.

  “She betrayed me,” I rumble.

  Ashley sits across from me. She wipes her hands on her chef’s shirt and gives me a sideways look.

  “Erik.” The way she says my name disarms me, as it so often has. “How many times have you reduced grown men to tears just by speaking to them? All across the city, there are men who spin you stories to keep you happy. You inspire fear. I know that is not by accident.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Get to the point.”

  She glares back, completely unfazed. “Why should you expect anything more from Camille? She is not part of this world. She was scared, you idiot.”

  “But I did expect more from her! That was my mistake.” I push back from the table and rise to my feet. “That will be all, Ashley. We will take the appetizers in the conference room.”

  She sighs, standing slowly. The judgment in her face is too much for me.

  I cannot meet her eye.

  “You know how I feel,” she says. “Now you have to ask yourself: how do you feel? Because a man can only pretend for so long. Sooner or later, his true colors show.”

  My footsteps pound loudly as I stomp for the door.

  That was something Father used to say.

  “The problem is,” Fyodor says, with his wan smile that could mean anything, “many of the men agreed with Damir. They care only about their families, Erik, about the money they bring home every week. If we can increase our profits by aligning with other elements, they reason, why shouldn’t we?”

  They reason.

  I take a sip of vodka, masking my disdain.

  Everybody at this table knows who has been stoking this particular fire. Damir was not a leader. He did not inspire the men. If discontent is still running through the Bratva, there is only one man who could be fueling it.

  “They are shortsighted,” I say. “Like eager orphans they will take to the streets to steal what they can. But what will they do when all the pockets have been picked, all the alliances broken? Do they truly imagine that the Aryan Pact, that the Cartel, that the hoodlums dealing crack on the corners will keep their families fed?”

  “Erik makes a good point,” Anatoly says, pushing his plate away and folding his hands. He looks between us like a referee at a fight, ready to stop any eye-gouging or throat-grabbing. “What has the Aryan Pact ever done for us?”

  Fyodor bites down, just for a moment. But I spot the anger.

  He has always been good at hiding his emotions, but it is clear there is much he would like to say. I am almost sure I see him cycling through his responses.

  A diplomat is always the most dangerous man in the room. He will smile as he slits your throat.

  “It is not what they have done for us in the past,” he says. “But what they could do, if given the appropriate encouragement. They have connections downtown, for example, where we rarely venture. We could make ownership agreements on their bars. Or we could call an armistice to this petty back-and-forth we have had to suffer for too many years now. How many men have died because we have refused to cooperate?”

  “And how many more would die if we walked blindly into the lion’s den?” I snarl.

  Fyodor tilts his head, noting my tone of voice. I have never been as skilled at maintaining calm as this suave, self-assured politician. It is even worse now with Camille’s phantom tear-filled eyes watching me every time I blink.

  “With all due respect, Erik, I am talking about what is best for the Bratva.”

  “Look at what happened to the gangbangers in the nineties,” I say. “They believed that could trust the white supremacists. And the streets were thick with blood because of it. Where does this trust come from, Fyodor?”

  He fidgets, reaching for his glass and then letting his hand drop.

  “Well?” I prompt.

  “I have spoken with a couple of men,” he says cautiously, knowing he’s going out on a dangerous limb. “And they have given me assurances.”

  I clench my fist under the table, the cut on my arm twisting in pain. I see myself flipping the table and grabbing Fyodor by the throat, squeezing until his eyes bulge and then turn red. I hear him thudding to the floor, lifeless and limp.

  “You should not have done that,” I say quietly.

  “With all due—”

  “Save your respect,” I growl. “It is too late for that. What made you think it was acceptable for you to make overtures to these dogs without my permission?”

  “I did not plan the meeting,” he counters. “I ran into them at a bar. We talked for less than a few minutes. But they are as eager as us to make money, Erik. That is all they care about.”

  “That and beating African American men to death, painting swastikas on the doors of single mothers, selling heroin to teenagers. These are not good men—”

  “Good men?” he breaks out. “Since when are we concerned with that? We are the Bratva. We have done worse than them.”

  “For business!” I slam my hand on the table. Plates and glasses leap up. One rolls off the edge and Anatoly calmly catches it, placing it down, eyes flitting between us. He shoots me a warning look—keep this civil—which I ignore.

  “We have never allowed our feelings to dictate who we punish, but these … these animals will rape a woman just because her skin does not match theirs. Listen to what you are saying, Fyodor. You have gone mad.”

  He stands abruptly, puffing his chest out like an ape. It would be foolish, this skinny, aristocratic-looking man trying to intimidate me, if I did not know what he is capable of.

  “You have become sentimental, Erik. You warn me not to get in bed with men who will help us to conduct good business, but you have gotten in bed with a complete stranger. Is it making you soft? If you are not willing to do what is necessary for the Bratva, step down and let somebody who is—”

  Fyodor has always been quick and snakelike, but I am quicker.

  Before he knows what is happening I have him against the wall, my hands at his throat. I shove him so hard the walls vibrate and the mirror smashes to the floor. He paws at my hands, panting, straining.

  “Remember who you’re speaking to!” I roar, shoving him again.

  “Erik!” Anatoly places his hand on my shoulder. “Let him go. This will do nobody any good.”

  I hold him a moment longer, redness creeping up his neck, filling his cheeks. His hands are weak as they claw against me. It does not take long for a man to die like this.

  “Erik.” Anatoly tightens his grip. “Please.”

  When I let Fyodor go, he falls, his breath wheezes loudly.

  “Stand up and leave my home, now. This is your final warning. If you step out of line one more time—even an inch, a fucking centimeter—I will end you. Rally your supporters if you wish, but it will not change your fate. Do you understand?”

  I kneel down and grab the back of his head, forcing him to look at me. “Do you understand?”

  He nods pitifully and climbs to his feet. Taking a moment to straighten his suit jacket, he walks slowly to the door.

  “That was not well-handled, nephew,” Anatoly whispers, handing me a glass of vodka.

  I knock it back, savoring the acid scorch in my belly. The cut on my arm has reopened, painting my sleeve red.

  “No,” I admit, “it was not. But he must learn, Uncle.”

  In the hallway, I study my arm, holding it up to the light. Blood trickles down to my elbow and patters on the floor like rain. The meeting replays itself in my mind, the mistakes I made in letting my rage overtake me becoming all too evident now.

  I need to end Fyodor—sooner rather than later.

  I turn to find Camille standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  For a second, I forget everything that’s happened between us. She looks angelic in the silk bathrobe, falling gracefully down to her knees, a slight parting showing me a glimpse of thigh. Her hair streams in waves to her shoulders and her bright blue eyes are wide, drawn to the cut.

  “That looks infected,” she notes.

  “You can tell that from there?”

  She walks over to me. I meet her in the middle of the hallway. This could be our battleground. Or it might become a place of reconciliation. It is hard to know right now; my mind is no longer the steady place I’ve become accustomed to. I remember walking in on my father after a business meeting, his back to me, hunched over with his whole body shaking like he could explode any second. I would never be like him, I promised myself.

  And yet here I am.

  She leans close. “You should let me take a look at it.”

  “It is fine,” I say. “A shaving cut. A scratch. Nothing.”

  She raises her hands. “You don’t have to be a badass all the time, you know. It’s just me.”

  “Are you preparing a report for the detective? Does he want my full medical history, or just the more recent injuries?”

  The bitter words come too easily to me, before I can think twice. As soon as they’re out, an apology lingers on my tongue, but I stifle it before it can become real.

  “Wow.” She bites her lip.

  Guilt and hunger attack me in equal force. It is the same way she bites her lip when she’s captivated by pleasure.

  “Is that how badly you wanna push me away? Stop being a stubborn ass.”

  She makes to grab my elbow to examine the wound. I lean forward, a sudden urge taking me. I am about to kiss her—hard, a kiss to make us both forget—when I remember the sweet voice she used when she lied to me. Her deer-in-the-headlights eyes, the guile I never expected in her.

  I push her away.

  “You should go back to your room.”

  “Whoa!” she snaps. “More fool me for trying to help, right? I guess I—”

  She pauses when her cell phone buzzes.

  I snatch it away from her as she takes it from the pocket of her robe.

  “What the fuck? Give it back!”

  I turn my back, shifting from side to side as she tries to reach around me.

  “It could be the detective,” I say.

  “How many times do I have to tell you this? I’m not talking to the fucking detective!”

  “—anymore,” I finish sarcastically.

  But it’s a text from Jackie, her mother’s nurse. Hey, sweetheart. I don’t want to worry you but your mom had a bad night and she’s been asking after you. Think you could swing by? xx

  “Here.” I hand her the phone.

  “I have to see her today,” Camille says as she reads it. Her voice loses its strength. “Like, right now. Bad night. Shit, Jackie, be more vague, could you?”

  “You’re not leaving the house,” I say sternly.

  “But—Erik.” She tosses the phone from hand to hand frantically. “It’s my mom.”

  “You’ll have to wait until I can arrange a guard,” I snarl.

  “Well, when will that be?” she yells.

  “When I am ready!”

  She throws herself back as though punched in the chest. Her face drops, then fixes in place, stiff with hatred. I almost soften, but after Fyodor, I cannot allow anybody else to question my position. Least of all her.

  A proud man is a dead man—another of Father’s countless sayings.

  “You need to be careful,” she says. “Soon, you’ll burn this bridge completely. And I’m not helping you rebuild it when you do. Shit, Erik, just … I can’t tell if you’re not the person I thought you were, or if I was just wrong to begin with.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She spins away from me, bathrobe fluttering like a cape. “Maybe you were always just another jerk!” she calls over her shoulder.

  I let her go, unable to stop myself from studying her lithe legs, from admiring her bravery in talking to me like that. No other woman has ever dared, but then, that is why I have never truly wanted another.

  At least, not the way I want Camille.

  “Erik,” Ashley says softly, emerging from the kitchen in Camille’s wake. “Was that really necessary?”

  “You tell me. Is it really necessary for every woman in this damn house to spy on me?”

  She does not take the bait. She never has. She just shakes her head and walks away, giving me one last look that has more of an effect than words ever could.

  She is right, I reflect. I have not handled anything well today.

  But a man can only take so many challenges. Sooner or later people will have to be reminded of who is in charge.

  20

  Camille

  As soon as the window of opportunity opens, I’m getting the hell out of this nightmare.

  It’s one thing for Erik to go all twisted fairy tale on me and treat me like a fucked-up Rapunzel for his own personal pleasure, but there’s no way I’m going to let him keep me away from Mom.

  I almost slapped him downstairs.

  The caveman shtick is just getting so tiresome. It’s like there are two Eriks: the one he is pretending to be now, this ice-cold bastard who would happily let my mom think I’ve abandoned her, and the Erik from before, the one who jumped around like a kid on Christmas morning when he discovered I’m pregnant.

  Or maybe I was wrong all along. Jesus, if that’s the case I’m really screwed. He could’ve been playing me.

  I kneel on the floor, ear pressed against the hardwood, straining to hear.

  His voice comes, muffled: “… business … hours … soon …”

  Then the door sounds.

  I know it’s Erik from the way it slams. The whole house trembles. He really is an earthquake, this man. Sadness tugs at me. He’ll probably never forgive me for this, but what other option is there?

  Do nothing?

  Let Mom think I’ve been abducted?

  I’ll be with you every step of the way, I told her when she got the diagnosis.

  I was a teenager but already I felt older, the weight of life pressing heavily on my shoulders. I let thoughts of the things I would miss—prom, sleepovers, boyfriends, all of it—pass like sand through fingertips across my mind.

  No matter what, I said, squeezing her hands, kissing her knuckles.

  I meant those words then.

  I’m not about to go back on them now.

  I call the cab company and arrange for a car to pick me up in thirty minutes from the next street over. Then I grab the trash can and hold it up near the fire alarm. It makes me think of those spy kids shows I watched when I was a kid, the ‘how to be a secret agent’ ones that played between cartoons on Saturday mornings.

  I wonder if they ever had an arson episode.

  But then, that’s not exactly fair. I’m not going to burn the place down. Even though, at the moment, that sounds like a lovely option. All my problems going up in smoke. If only I could.

  Instead, I set fire to the paper and I huff and I puff and I blow on it until the flames catch. Maybe this is a fairy tale after all—complete with the obnoxious pig downstairs. Smoke hisses and the paper curls at the edges. I expect a dramatic whoosh, but it’s more like a nervous kiss.

  The alarm screeches.

  “Right on cue,” I mutter under my breath, hopping down from the chair.

  “Help!” I scream in the hallway, leaning over the stairs bannister. “I’m trapped! Help!”

  I tiptoe past the stairs and duck into the bathroom, not letting myself think of Erik, of how safe I feel when he holds me. As if the whole world doesn’t exist … all that stuff people sing about in love songs, all that stuff I told myself I never wanted … I let it all drain away.

  I try to, at least. That’ll have to do for now.

  Footsteps pound up the stairs and recede toward my bedroom. I reflect that I’d make a pretty good ninja as I slink from the bedroom and sneak down the stairs unnoticed.

  The front door is wide open. I take a deep breath, duck my head, and sprint like my life depends on it. Maybe it does.

  For a second, I think one of his men is going to leap up from my periphery, but it turns out Erik needs to hire new guards.

  Because not one of them notices me escaping.

  Mom raises trembling hands to me when I walk into her bedroom, lying on her side with the fan blasting her, her sheets crumpled and sweaty. Even with Jackie’s warning, I let out a gasp, something I normally never do in front of her. She doesn’t like being reminded of ‘how far she’s fallen,’ as she once unfairly described her condition.

  I’m a few steps into the room when it hits me.

  Everything is suddenly, inexplicably deluxe. The chair is new. The bed is new. The sheets are new. On the bookshelf there are first-edition copies of Agatha Christie novels. An expensive-looking stretching contraption sits in the corner. And on the way in, I’m pretty sure I passed a TV three times the size of our old one.

  Erik has probably spent more money taking care of Mom than he’s paid me in weekly wages.

  Doesn’t he know I’m trying to be angry at him?

  “Oh, do I look like a devil?” Mom whispers, blinking as I get closer.

  “Where’s Jackie?” I snap. “We need to change these sheets!”

  “Dear, dear …” She uses her soothing voice. “She changed them an hour ago. It’s no use. A bug, the doctor tells me. Just a bug, but it’s making me sweat like a … your father used to have this saying. I won’t repeat it.”

  “A whore in church?” I offer, sitting down next to her.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because he used it in that home video. The one you smashed.”

 

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