“Is that the face you make right before you kill someone?”
I chuckle. “I hope not. It would be a shame to kill you.”
“Jesus,” she breathes, exhaling sharply. “Did I really think of you as this charming guy only a few minutes ago? How could I have gotten it so wrong?”
“You didn’t get anything wrong,” I tell her. “I am charming when I choose to be.”
She takes a step back, eyes riveted on mine. “You’re a killer.”
“I am also that when I choose to be.”
She swallows again, the sound echoing throughout the room. Once more, her eyes stray to the body. Most of Benyamin’s blood is soaked into the carpet. I’ll have to get the whole thing torn up and reupholstered. The stench of death is impossible to erase.
“Why did that man have to die?” she whispers. She says it almost hopefully, as though she’s holding out for a justification that’ll absolve me and maybe relieve some of her guilt.
“He betrayed the Stepanov Bratva,” I say calmly.
“Your Bratva?”
I let my silence speak for itself while she processes. “Do you have proof he betrayed you?”
“I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger if I didn’t.”
“Something tells me that men like you pull the trigger first and look for the evidence later.”
I regard her with amused curiosity. “And you have a lot of experience with men like me?”
“My dad is a cop. Well, was a cop. He retired.”
“The streets were too mean for him?”
“Something like that.”
I nod, regarding her carefully. She’s got some steel in her. I’ve been in circumstances where things have gone south and there have been innocent women present. When business goes bad and guns come out and someone ends up on the floor with their brains on the carpet.
And every single time, the women fucking lose it.
Tears and screaming. Vomit, on occasion. The rare fainting spell.
But Jessa’s hazel-gold eyes are clear, steady. She’s overwhelmed and anxiety-ridden, but she’s holding her fear back, reining it in. Admirable.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asks in a small voice that wavers but does not crack.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t.”
“I already have.”
“Try again.”
I step towards her and pin her against the wall. Up close, I sense her every movement, her every sensation, her every thought. I feel the gasp trapped in her chest and the frantic pounding of her heart. I taste her fear.
“I’m more afraid of you than I am of the police,” she whispers. “How is that for a reason?”
I like that answer, but I don’t let her see that. Perhaps I can find a way to keep her. The way her eyes are dilating, the way her lips part softly—it has my mind pivoting in a new direction.
“Anton,” comes a voice from the hall.
I curse under my breath and step away from Jessa. Lev is standing at the open door, his brows knitted together in a furious downward V. It might concern me if it wasn’t for the fact that he always looks that way.