“Will you promise to listen to the whole story?”
“Yes,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder and looking up at me.
“After Sergei was murdered, I couldn’t let it go. Dima was an absolute wreck. He didn’t eat for days. All he did was lay in bed. I knew grief was slowly killing him, and I had so much rage inside me. I can’t even begin to explain how angry I was.”
I have to stop and take a breath, unwilling to let myself get caught up in the anger again.
“I couldn’t let it go, so I tracked the man down. I knew he worked for the Fedorov Bratva, that whole area was owned by them.”
“What did you do?” she asks, and I can hear the hesitancy in her voice, the fear that she may hear something she might not want to, something she’ll never be able to forget.
“I killed him.” I wait for her to get up and run from me or push me away, but all she does is play with the collar of my sweater and wait for me to go on. “And after I killed him, I did the same to Ilya Fedorov, the head of the Bratva, the one who had ordered the kill. He was an old, fat bastard, and I snuck up on him and slit his throat.”
“You were eighteen?”
“Yes.”
“My God, you must’ve been terrified.”
“Later, yes, but in that moment, I just remember feeling an anger that I thought was going to consume me for the rest of my life. The Volkovs had taken me in, showed me kindness when no one else ever had. They were my family, and I couldn’t allow Sergei’s death to go unpunished. I knew we had to get out of Moscow as soon as possible, so I went back and dragged Dima out of bed. We escaped to Finland, and I thought it was over. I never told Dima what I did. At first I was too afraid it would upset him and push him over the edge. He was so close to slipping away as it was, but then time passed, and I didn’t want to involve him. I thought it was safer for him if he didn’t know.”
“What do you mean you thought it was over?”
“Mikhail Fedorov paid me a visit not too long ago. He’s the new head of the Fedorov Bratva.”
“Oh shit,” she says, lifting herself up to look at me. She looks so worried, and I can’t help but be touched by it. I don’t deserve it, and I certainly didn’t expect it, but it makes me smile to see it all the same. I cup her face and kiss her forehead, the part that she’s scrunching up in worry, feeling a ridiculous amount of joy at having my lips on some part of her body again.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “He actually seemed like a decent guy. He’s not interested in revenge.”
“Why did he meet with you then?”
“He wanted me to ask Vadim to help him out with something. A man he owes a favor to has a daughter in some trouble, and they need a good lawyer, one who understands the mafia connection and doesn’t give a shit about it. I met with Vadim, and he agreed to do it.”
I run my thumb over her soft cheek. “I didn’t ask too many questions. It’s best not to know.”
Moira sits back and studies me. When she positions herself so she’s straddling me, I tell myself this is not the time to get a hard-on, but there’s just no stopping it when she’s this close. She lifts a brow at me, and I hold up my hands in apology.
“I’m sorry. I truly can’t help it when I’m around you.”
“But I look a mess. I’ve been crying, and I’m in my baggy, old pajamas.” She looks down at her outfit as if her being in cute pajamas makes her immune to my cock. The idea almost has me laughing, but I manage to hold it back.
“You’re you, Moira. You could be wearing a sack or have the flu. Neither one would make a damn bit of difference. It’s you. That’s all it takes.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t quite believe me. She’ll learn it’s true, though. Eventually, she’ll understand how much I love and need and want her.
“Aren’t you the least bit disturbed by what I’ve just said?” I ask, still amazed that she hasn’t run from me. Most people wouldn’t take a murder confession so lightly.
“Have you killed anyone since then?”
“No.”
“You planning on it?”
I laugh at her matter-of-fact tone and say, “It depends.”
“On?”
“On whether or not anyone is ever stupid enough to try and hurt you.”