I didn’t know what to make of him. I’d been to hell and back, and there were times I’d barely been able to convince myself to get out of bed and fight another day. If he was still this cheerful, his worst day couldn’t have been all that bad.
Holding my gaze, he explained, “My dad was killed by a drunk driver when I was ten.”
My gasp split the air, and both hands flew to my mouth.
You’d think I would be desensitized to death by now, but the devastating blow never lessened. Grief—even the act of empathy for those suffering with it—chipped away at you piece by piece until you threatened to crumble, unable to go on.
Frozen, I watched as Sasha slid from his side of the booth to crowd me on mine. Slowly, he pried my fingers away, dropping his forehead to mine.
Tears prickled behind my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sasha.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Awareness dawned, and I finally connected the dots. “That’s why you don’t drink.”
Hand cupping my cheek, he wiped away the moisture that had leaked out despite my best efforts.
“My girl’s so smart.” His soft words made my heart clench.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Hey.” Fingers gripped my chin as he pulled back, forcing me to look at him. I was shocked by the pure affection shining in his cobalt stare. “It’s part of who I am, what shaped the man I’ve become.”
“It must have been so terrible.” My words came out whisper-quiet. The image of a young, smiling Sasha having his world blown to bits by the loss of a parent made my heart twist.
“It was,” he agreed. “And if you’ll let me, I’d like to tell you about it.”
“Oh. No, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”
“We lived in Upstate New York when I was growing up. My dad loved to go on evening runs, even in the winter, declaring the weather was so much milder than it had been in the old country.”
“Old country?”
“Yeah. We moved from Russia when I was a baby.”
My brows shot sky-high, and I pulled away from his hold, my back hitting the wall inside the booth. “You’re Russian?!”
Head cocked, he surveyed my extreme reaction to that news. “Didn’t my name give that away? Gusev is pretty ethnic.”
Brain firing off at rapid speed, I tried to run through my limited knowledge of the Russian families outside of the Chicago area. As a woman, I wasn’t privy to the inner workings of the family business or the wide range of allies and enemies, so I came up empty on anyone with his surname having ties to a bratva.
Swallowing, I dared to ask, “Did you . . . did you have a big family growing up?”
“No. It was just the three of us. My parents had been saving up for a while before I was born and finally made their dreams of moving to America a reality when I was about six months old.”
Relief washed over me, and I closed my eyes, my racing heart needing a minute to settle.
For a second there, the worst-case scenario had filtered through my mind—that the Russians had taken exception to Gio’s lies about being responsible for Rory’s disappearance and were going to use me to get even.
Enzo had warned me that my display at the DMV drew too much attention, potentially placing a target on my back. The idea that it was all orchestrated from the start, that they had eyes on me and sent in an unlikely mercenary, paralyzed me.
Rational thought finally broke through that if Sasha were here to snatch and grab me, he wouldn’t also happen to have a high-profile sports career in the same city where I decided to move. That, and he hadn’t tried to hide his nationality. He could have played off his surname as coming from one of the many Eastern European countries from the failed Soviet Union.
“Gemma?” Sasha’s cautious tone had me peeking at him.
