He took a sip of his own, tapped his ring against the glass, three clear chimes that echoed across the kitchen. When he spoke, his voice was low, soft, just for the two of them; she found herself leaning in closer to hear him better, until their elbows overlapped on the counter.
“In some ways, the bratva isn’t anything like the club,” he said, and a frisson moved up her back, the electric chill of having slid sideways into a story. He was opening up, and that felt like a gift, hypnotic and fascinating with only a few words. He went on: “And in other ways, it’s exactly like the club. Both are surrounded by women. There’s whores, and there’s favorites, and there’s girlfriends, and there’s wives.”
Some opinion you have of the fairer sex, she thought with an inward sneer, but bit her tongue.
“They look after the members. Entertain them. Cook for them. Keep their beds warm. There’s more respect for women in the club. There’s queens, here, and princesses. They have sway. Not with Kozlov – never there. If a woman’s strong, she’s beaten down until she isn’t, and mostly they don’t take on strong ones to begin with.
“Lean Dog women are different.” His head turned, so he was looking at her, and she paused with the rim of her glass pressed to her lip, arrested by the intensity of his gaze. He wasbeggingin this instance, willing her to take his meaning. “And you’re different, still. You’re not like any of the old ladies.”
Breathing became difficult. As did setting her glass down; it clicked sharply against the marble. “Different how?”
“You don’t need the club. You didn’t find out about it because you were in trouble. You’re right: no one’s been your white knight. You’re rich, and influential, and you could hire an army to protect you.” It was said matter-of-factly, without the air of a compliment…but felt a bit like one all the same.
Her voice came out thick because of it. “And yet here you are.”
He shook his head once, dismissively. “That’s because the club protects its own – because you decided tobeone of its own. You could have put distance between you and the club, gotten far away from it and never given it a second thought. Pretended your brothers didn’t exist. No one would have ever tried to use you to get at the club if you had.”
“So you’re saying it’s my own fault.”
He made a face. “I’msayingthat most people wouldn’t have kept in touch with a family like yours. But you did, knowing it could hurt you one day, even though you had the resources to keep well away from it.” His expression smoothed. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”
He sounded impressed. It was probably a trick of her imagination. The wine talking. And despite a life of being fussed over and praised, his words – his tone, mostly – left her fidgeting. She didn’t feel admired so much as seen, and that was rare. People saw her face, and her body, her style, her polished manners…but not what lay beneath. No one saw Raven the Person, who should have fled her family’s dealings long ago and never looked back. She had been the one to land herself in this mess, a target by association, and it was a close association, fostered by her own actions.
She tapped her nails on the side of her glass, moreclick-click-clickto bounce off the cabinet faces and stainless steel. “I don’t think you’re giving the old ladies enough credit. They don’tneedto be here either. They choose to be. Every day. Just like I choose to be a part of my brothers’ lives, for better or worse. Mostly worse, these days.” She took a long swallow of wine. “And you’re one to talk about choosing,” she added. “You weren’t born to this club, you’re not related to anyone in it. You could have stayed with the bratva. Why didn’t you?”
She watched his face close off from her, withdrawing visibly into himself, with a flat mouth, and dull eyes. He turned his face away, and regarded the stovetop. She didn’t expect him to answer – couldn’t believe he’d spoken so much already. But they’d been talking about her; she didn’t think he’d talk about himself. Long beats passed, filled with the hum of the fridge, night pressing black against the windows, sealing them in together, so that it felt as if they were the only two people awake in the world.
She drew breath to sayforget I asked.
But then he said, “Icouldn’tstay. I got sent to America, and it wasn’t a promotion. Kozlov wanted me away from Moscow. He didn’t trust me anymore, and things here were bad, they were…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t stay. Especially not after his cousin was killed.”
“Ooh. Yes, that will do it.”
“I couldn’t stay on my own. You’re a dead man on your own, if you betray the bratva. Maverick had offered, and so I said yes.”
Simple as that. She knew it wasn’t simple at all, just as she knew she’d probably never hear the whole, undoubtedly sordid story.
“Well, then,” she said, “you see? We all make our choices. Sorry to say that sometimes those choices drag other people in and land them sitting vigil in kitchens after midnight.” The last she said bitterly, and chased with another sip of wine.
Toly shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I’ve done worse.” The near corner of his mouth twitched betrayingly.
“Dear God,” she said. “Was that…did you just crack ajoke? Are youjoking?”
He sighed. In the flattest monotone she’d ever heard, he said, “I am very funny, actually.”
Raven smothered the laughter that burst from her mouth with a hand so she didn’t wake everyone else.
He smiled, faintly, and shook his head, hair falling in his face.
When she’d composed herself, still chuckling, she said, “God. I’m a mess.” And just like that the last of her laughter died away, the moment’s cheer sucked away like the tide drawing out to sea as the wholemessreared back up in the forefront of her mind. “What are we going to do?”
He pushed his stool back, and stood. “Weare going to keep watch, and wait to see if Dixon comes up with anything.Youare going to bed.” He looked down at her expectantly.Off you go. Night-night.
Loopy from a combination of stress and wine, fatigue and fear, she said, “Care to join me there?”
The moment the words left her lips, her face heated, and her stomach clenched. God, what was she thinking? Had she really said that? Had she…God, had shepropositionedhim?
Aghast at her own boldness, the unpracticed, unplanned gracelessness of the question, she stared at him…and she saw his reaction to it. Saw the way his chest lifted on a sudden, sharp breath; the way his pupils blew, the black eating away the brown of his irises. Saw his throat jump, and heard it click as he swallowed. His hand tightened on the back of the stool.
