“If I tell you to pull the trigger,” Vasilije said, “will you?”
My voice was so much stronger than I felt. “Yes.”
He looked pleased. “You can put that down. I’ve seen what I need to.”
My gasp of relief was internal, but Aleksandar’s was loud, and he was so overwhelmed, he nearly collapsed. I lowered the gun, grateful to have the strain gone.
Vasilije’s focus turned to Aleksandar. “Don’t look so fucking relieved. The only reason you’re still alive is because I don’t want your blood ruining my floors.”
Aleksandar froze. “What?”
Vasilije strode to the front door and yanked it open, revealing the man lurking on the front steps. Filip’s gun was out—not up—but it didn’t make him any less dangerous. His critical eyes surveyed the room. When his gaze caught mine, they widened a degree. He was probably thinking about the last time he’d seen me, when I’d been crouched down on the dirty warehouse floor, pretending to be cowering in fear. I’d watched Goran’s top enforcer kill one of my father’s men with surgical precision that night. His expression had been cold and joyless.
“Don’t make it quick,” Vasilije said. “I wouldn’t if I was doing it.”
Aleksandar stumbled backward, maybe thinking about running, but where would he go? He was the only one not armed. “Vasilije, just wait a minute.”
But he was ignored, and Vasilije kept talking directly to Filip. “When you’re done, make sure he’s somewhere the Russians will find him. It needs to send a message. I already talked with my uncle. We’ll hold off on Konstantine, and see how they react.”
Filip stepped through the door, and his swift approach seemed to paralyze Aleksandar. He peered up at the man with the shaved head like he was God himself, and didn’t move as Filip grabbed his arm.
“I have to ask a favor, though,” Vasilije said abruptly. “He’s going to say some shit about Oksana, and I need you to keep it from my uncle. Not forever. Just until I’ve got it handled, which, trust me—I will.” If Goran believed I was a spy for the Russians, my fate would be worse than Aleksandar’s, yet Vasilije’s tone was casual. “Do you mind?”
Filip considered the statement as he began to drag a blubbering Aleksandar toward the door. “How long?”
“A few weeks. If you want to tell him before then, I respect that. All I ask is a heads-up.”
“Vasilije!” Aleksandar sniffled, sucking back tears. “Please, I’m sorry. Don’t do this!”
“I’m not doing shit,” he fired back. “You tried to set me up. You made this choice for me.”
Filip put both hands on Aleksandar and wrenched him from the doorframe he’d latched onto. “If it’s only a few weeks,” Filip said, “I can sit on the info.”
“Thanks.” Vasilije smiled. “Get him out of here and . . . have fun.” He shut the door on Aleksandar’s cries for help, and they grew quieter after a thud, making me think Filip had thrown a punch to shut him up.
Vasilije’s dark eyes focused on me and the gun still clutched in my hand.
“Put that back where it was. I’m going to bed,” he announced. “If I decide not to kill you, I’ll see you in the morning.”
?
I poured everything I felt into my music. When Vasilije came downstairs and saw me at the piano, he said nothing. He ignored me for a good portion of the day. After dinner, he demanded a blowjob, which I gave him, and then I went back to not existing for him.
The first week was hard, but every day I stayed chipped away at his anger. I had years of practice living with my father’s cold indifference, so this was almost easy. If Vasilije thought I’d give up, he was so very wrong. I’d work on his symphony until it was done, and if he didn’t let me back in by then, I’d just start on another until he did.
I’d destroyed any warmth Vasilije had toward me by revealing who I was, but it crept back in, ever so slowly, on the nights we were together. He didn’t want to like me. Sometimes he’d let his guard down too much, and then overcompensate by threatening to kill me. I didn’t believe it. I knew him too well.
The second week, I’d laughed when he said it, which pissed him off and earned me a set of beautiful red handprints across my skin, but every strike he gave me was the same as a wrecking ball against the wall he’d put between us.
Things weren’t the same, but they improved dramatically when I explained how I envisioned us killing my father. Together. The graphic detail I gave him . . . even the logistics of it . . . it turned the devil on.
Our conversations about murder became foreplay.
I hadn’t finished the final movement of his symphony before he revealed the first step in his plan for his uncle, and I was impressed. “You’ve been planning this a long time.”