Page 68 of Cruel Kiss

"Yes," he says. "I did some things I shouldn't have. I wasn't honest with her about some very important things, and it hurt her, and it's made it hard for her to trust me."

Isabella's mouth pulls down. "That's really bad."

"It is. It's very bad."

"Did you say sorry?"

"I did. But sometimes, sorry isn't enough. Sometimes when you break something, you can say sorry a hundred times, and the person you hurt still has to decide, all on their own, whether they want to keep the broken thing or not." He glances at me, one flick, then back to her. "And it's not fair for me to rush her. It's her decision. It has to be. Do you understand?"

Isabella nods slowly, though I don't think she does, not fully, and I don't think she has to. She just knows something's wrong and she wants to fix it, because she's six and she thinks the world is fixable, and I would give anything to leave her in that particular state of mind for a little longer.

"Doctor Fuzz says," she announces, holding the box up between us, "that when things get all wrapped up and dark and squished, that's when they turn into something better. So maybe you're just squished right now."

I laugh. "Maybe we are."

"You should hug it out," she declares, because that's what I taught her, hug it out and say sorry and it's over. She stands there expectantly, looking between the two grown-ups she loves, waiting for us to follow the rules.

Ronan looks at me, but he waits. He'll stand there being decent until I'm the one who breaks, same as last night, same as always, and the unsaid thing is still stuck behind both our teeth. If I were braver, I'd do it, but I can't do this in front of her. I can't besquishedin front of her. She deserves a mother who's already turned into something better.

"How about this," I say, standing up, brisk, mom-voice engaged. "Doctor Fuzz needs a nice quiet spot to finish getting un-squished. Why don't you take him up to your room, on the windowsill, so he gets good light?"

"But you didn't hug it out."

"We will," I say. "We'll do it the grown-up way. I promise."

She's not satisfied. But she takes the box, gives Ronan one last measuring look, and then gives me one that's worse, because shegot it from me, that look, that skepticism, the worst thing I ever passed down.

Then she pads out.

Ronan straightens. We're alone with the cold dishwater dripping in the sink.

"You didn't have to tell her all that," I say.

"Yes, I did." He picks up the phone off the counter. "She asked me a direct question. She's your daughter. She'd have known if I lied. They always do." A pause. "You would have, too."

And there it is again, the patience, the awful, gentle rightness of him, with neither of us reaching across the gap between us.

19

RONAN

The following night, the captains meet in the back of a fish restaurant in Brighton Beach.

It's the same place my father used when he was in charge of things. Low ceilings, tile floors, the smell of the ocean coming in through the kitchen. There's a long table with a plastic cover on it and a row of men who've each got a piece of the operation. Between them, they run the whole thing. The docks. The warehouses. The routes. The men under them who do the work.

I called the meeting because it's better to call one than to have one called about you.

Navi was supposed to drive me. But he texted an hour before and said he had a lead to run down. He didn't say what. I let it go, because I trust Navi more than I trust my own hands. Besides, those hands are plenty full with what's about to be a shitshow of a meeting.

So I drive myself. I park the Land Rover a block away and walk the last part. I go in through the front like I own it. Partlybecause I do, and partly because fear is the only language these men speak.

There are six captains. Grigor's already there, in the corner, both hands wrapped around a cup of tea because his hip hurts in the summer heat. Anatoly's there, young, too young, watching everything. Yuri. Two others. The sixth chair sits empty for a beat before a man named Sergei drops into it, nodding at me with begrudging respect.

I sit at the head of the table. "Gentlemen," I say.

Nobody answers right away. Usually, there's a little murmur, a little "pakhan,"a little theater of respect. Tonight, there's just the hum of the kitchen equipment behind the wall and six men deciding how much they still fear me.

Grigor speaks first, because he's the oldest and he's earned it.