I’d been the one to pull her into this mess, and it was on me to protect her, no matter how ludicrous that concept was. Even if that meant protecting her from herself.
She was doing all of this out of loyalty to her father. She wanted to convince me to drop my vendetta against him because she believed I would hurt him.
I respected her for that loyalty. And I recognized the fierce determination that came along with it. She wouldn’t drop this until she felt that her father was safe from harm.
I would have to risk honesty.
“Since you don’t seem to care about your own safety, I’ll level with you. I’m not going to attack your father.” My reluctant admission was so rough that the words sounded like I forced them through a mouthful of barbed wire. “I want leverage against him. I want him to know that I have evidence of what he really is, and that I won’t hesitate to use it against him if he ever tries to come after my family again. That’s why I questioned you in the first place. I thought you could give me testimony that I could hold over his head. I was never going to hurt you. And I only threatened your father to keep you from going to the cops.
“If I’d known I would have to be your damn babysitter, I never would’ve approached you in the first place.” I raked a hand through my hair, frustrated.
I expected her to recoil at my last remark, incensed at the insult. Instead, her expression softened.
“Does your family know about what you’re doing?” she asked, her tone dropping to a gentler cadence. “Do they know that you’re going after my dad?”
When her gaze flicked to the ruined flesh around my eye, I realized that I’d forgotten to hide the worst of the damage to my face. I quickly mussed my hair so that it fell over my brow once again. I’d already shown far too much vulnerability around her. She was hammering against my defenses with her confounding mixture of soft concern and fierce defiance.
I’d never dealt with anyone like her, and I didn’t know how to be around her. She put me off-balance in a way I’d never experienced before.
It only made me want her that much more.
My jaw ticked. I shouldn’t want her at all. She was an impossibility.
“They know what your father is guilty of,” I rumbled. “They know that he worked with the Russians to destroy us.”
She eyed me carefully, as though I was a cornered beast that might snap at her if she pressed me too hard. “Why are you doing this for them? I get that you think you’re protecting them, but your sister was so cruel to you. Are you really willing to risk going to jail by continuing this plot against my dad? My father has no reason to investigate your family now. There is no threat. So why are you putting yourself at risk for Francesca? Are you close with your parents? Because if you are, I’m sure they wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your freedom.”
Her words hit my chest like physical blows, and I rocked back on my heels. “You don’t know the first thing about my father. Yeah, my sister is a piece of work, and you got a glimpse at her lovely personality today, thanks to your recklessness. Family is more than hugs and coddling. Sometimes love is hard, but blood is everything.” I repeated the harsh promise that’d been drilled into me since birth.
She didn’t understand how the world worked, but she did understand familial duty. Her loyalty to her father proved as much.
“What about your mother?” she asked, still confoundingly soft and concerned. “Do you think she would want you to risk yourself for this plot against my dad?”
My fury was doused by the distant memory of my mother’s cries for mercy, and my heart was suddenly encased in ice. “I wouldn’t know.” My voice came out flat and cold. “She’s dead. She died when I was thirteen. My dad went to prison around the same time, and Francesca had to serve as my legal guardian for five years. She was barely more than a kid herself. Just because my family is fucked up doesn’t change the fact that they’re my blood.”
Alexandra’s delicate features pinched with an expression that turned my stomach. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
My scowl deepened, and I lashed out. “I already told you I don’t want your pity.”
Her eyes glittered with the first hint of tears, and something tugged at the center of my chest. “It’s not pity. It’s empathy. My mother died when I was eleven.”
My defensive cruelty crumbled beneath the weight of my regret. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
Her lashes fluttered as she blinked away tears. “Thank you.” Her voice hitched, and it tore at something deep inside me.