Page 28 of The Last Dance

I tried to imagine being loyal to a parent, let alone one who’d died for the Russian mafia. “That must have been tough,” I said, because I had no idea what else to say.

He accepted it as enough.

“Are there any other family members I should worry about?” I asked.

“None that matter,” he said.

I let that hang. Then: “She’s going to make this miserable for me, isn’t she?”

“Only if you let her.”

I rolled my eyes. “She looks like she eats people for breakfast.”

He considered that and then said, “She prefers lunch.”

That caught me off guard. I laughed, and he didn’t, but I could see the line at the edge of his mouth again. There was a rhythm to this. I didn’t know the rules, but I liked the way the pieces moved.

I looked at the table, at the half-eaten toast, the cooling coffee, the evidence of a life that was suddenly, violently different than anything I’d ever known. It was terrifying, and exhilarating, and if I’d had any sense I’d have run away screaming.

But I didn’t.

I finished my coffee, and when Lin came to clear the table, I thanked him, and he nodded with a look that said, “You’re not the first stray, but you’re the first one who might survive the week.”

Vadim lingered, watching me watch him, and I realized he was waiting to see what I’d do next.

I smiled, and this time I meant it. “So, what’s the plan? Do I get a tour, or is this the part where I’m locked in the tower?”

He considered. “The tower, if you misbehave.”

“I’ll try my best.”

He stood, and this time he waited for me to follow. I did, already planning what I’d say to Sasha the next time we met. It would be good. I’d have time to rehearse.

We walked through the house, the light always just ahead of us, the smell of bread trailing behind. I thought about what it meant to want something, and to have it given to you, and to live long enough to see what you’d do with it.

I hoped I’d get the chance.

If not, at least the toast was amazing.

Chapter Eight

~ Vadim ~

Yuri drove like a surgeon. No wasted movement, every angle premeditated, every decision final. The car was an armored town car, top of the line. Most men who bought this package never had occasion to test it, but I wasn’t most men.

I tested everything.

Iren was in the seat beside me, knees pulled up, hands busy constructing some kind of checklist from memory and nerves. “The savings jar goes first, obviously, then the hoodie. The good one. Not the other one with the bleach stain, but the gray one with the thumbholes. Do not let Lin throw out the gray one. I will literally—”

He looked at me, waiting for a reaction.

I gave him half a smile. “You’ll what?”

He considered. “I’ll withhold sex, that’s what. I have a right to keep my things. Even if they’re not all…” He trailed off, making a vague gesture at my suit, at the car, at the universe in general. “Fancy.”

He was in full running commentary mode. It was either bravado or a defensive tic; I hadn’t decided yet.

He wore a pair of joggers, a tee shirt with a band logo that read like a medical disorder, and a windbreaker he’d gotten from the lost and found at the club.