Page 87 of The Wrong Monster

“I know.”

“No, don’t do that.” She uncurls her legs, planting her feet on the floor. “Don’t sit there saying you know as if we’re discussing a bad afternoon at work. You locked the door. You looked at those tools, and I thought about my mother getting a phone call.”

My stomach turns. I don’t reach for her, though every instinct tells me to close the distance.

“You won’t go back in there,” I tell her. “And you won’t answer for anything he’s done. That’s my word.”

“Even when I don’t give you the answer you want?”

“Even then.”

She studies me, searching for the qualification. There isn’t one.

“I’m still angry.”

“You should be.”

A breath leaves her slowly. She sits back, but her hands stay clasped in her lap. No smile, no forgiveness handed over because I finally managed an apology. I’ve earned exactly this much: she’s still willing to hear me. I’ll have to be careful with it.

When the silence returns, I try to find safer ground. “I did find your sister. Emma.”

Her eyes narrow. “Okay.”

Ah, there she is, the defense attorney. That skepticism in her tone, those sharp eyes searching my face. I feel bare before her, even though I’m still in the same clothes I was wearing earlier.

“And Ruslan.” I say his name like I’m invoking a patron, a saint. And to me, Ruslan Smirnov is practically that. Though he’s made a life on the West Coast, we run parallel operations; built on legitimacy. Ruslan also happens to be known as a fashion mogul.

Matilda looks away. Something sweeps across her face. It looks the way I felt moments ago: remorseful. But it’s fleeting.

“Yes. She met him last year, and they got married.”

“He’s a Bratva boss.”

“I know.”

“And you hate men like him.”

“I hate what he does. I don’t know him well enough to hate him.”

I lean back. “Yet, he’s your brother-in-law.”

“That doesn’t mean I approve of him, or anything he’s built, Vasily.” Her eyes flick up at me, and in that moment, the space between us lessens, just slightly. Just enough to tempt me to reach out; but I don’t.

“Then how do you reconcile it?”

Her jaw tightens, and she sighs, trying and failing to run a hand through her tangled hair.

“I don’t.”

For some reason, that answer bothers me more than I expect.

“You’re a strange woman, Matty.”

“So I’ve been told.”

We both look out the window into the night. Matty doesn’t know it, but somewhere out there are several men patrolling the grounds. Ever since Yuri started this nonsense of having Mikhail arrested and beating my errand boys half to death, I can’t sleep right.

“Tell me something,” I say. “Do you think men like me deserve love?”