There’s only one problem with that scenario. Now that I know Alex better, I suspect I never truly walked away in New York. He was always pulling the strings. Every move he made was perfectly orchestrated. Even when he gave me freedom, he was reeling me in. That freedom was nothing but an illusion.
No, he’ll never let me go. If our relationship comes crashing down, there will only be one choice.
I’ll have to run.
I tremble a little as insight after insight hits me like a tornado and the verity settles like broken branches in the destruction it leaves behind.
“You can go,” Alex says to the guard, holding my gaze as he pulls off a pair of black leather gloves.
The guard salutes and closes the door behind him when he leaves. The click of an electronic lock sounds. The door must be fitted with an automatic locking mechanism.
Alex studies me with unsettling attention as he takes off his boots. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
His manner is cool, my earlier rejection sounding like a bee sting in his tone. The distance he keeps is what I wanted a few hours ago, but everything is different now. My insight has brought me to another choice.
I rub my arms. “I was worried sick.”
The cold fire in his blue gaze warms a few degrees. “As you can see, I’m fine.” A smile plucks at his lips as he unbuttons his coat. “But your concern flatters me—not that I want you to worry.”
Stepping closer, I study him for signs of injuries when he takes off his coat. Besides his slightly tousled hair, he looks just like he does when he leaves on a normal workday for the office. “Where did you go?”
“To deal with business,” he says, turning his back on me to hang his coat in the closet.
“It has something to do with that tattoo. Did you find out something?”
Facing me slowly, he says, “Quite a lot, actually.”
“What?” I ask through parched lips.
He only continues to look at me.
“What, Alex? Tell me. Please don’t keep me in the dark. I can’t stand it. You have no idea what it feels like to be locked inside, not knowing what the hell is happening and going out of your mind with worry.”
He rests his hands on my shoulders in a soothing gesture. “You have an army of men to protect you. Nothing is going to happen. You don’t have to worry about anything.”
I twist out of his hold. “Stop patronizing me. How would you feel if you were in my shoes? Would you enjoy it if I locked you in here and went out to where someone wants to kill me without telling you what’s going on? Would you be able to go to bed and have a sound night’s sleep without knowing whether I’m okay?”
“Katyusha.” He doesn’t touch me again but beseeches me with his eyes instead. “I’m sorry for making you worry. I understand that this situation isn’t easy on you.”
I suck in a breath, trying not to cry. I’m not usually a tearful person, but I’m not myself. The current circumstances are getting the better of me.
“Wait for me in the library,” he says. “I need a shower. Then we’ll talk.”
I don’t argue. I go back to the library and pace the floor while I wait. Not ten minutes later, he joins me. His hair is still damp, and he changed into a pair of dark pants and a white shirt.
“Come,” he says, draping an arm around my shoulders and leading me to the sitting area facing the fireplace. “You need a drink.”
He gently pushes me down onto the sofa while he goes to the liquor tray. After pouring a stiff shot of vodka, he carries the glass to me. “Here.”
Obediently, I take a sip. “What happened?”
In a blink, he clams up again, a closed-off look coming over his features.
“Please, Alex. Tell me.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking you to show me the respect I deserve.” Unwaveringly, I hold his gaze. “If you can’t give me freedom, at least treat me like an equal in this.”
He works his jaw from side to side. “I’m protecting you.”
“You’re not protecting me by cutting me out of parts of your life. You’re keeping me ignorant.”
A spark flashes in his eyes. “Are you sure you want to go down this road? There’s no returning from this, Katerina.”
I swallow. “I’ve already come to that conclusion.”
Silence.
“Don’t you believe I deserve your respect?” I ask softly.
“Fine.” He takes a step forward, putting us so close that our knees touch. His eyes gleam as he stares down at me. “If you want enlightenment, that’s what you’ll get. Just remember, your judgment won’t change a thing.” Placing emphasis on the words, he says, “You’re staying.”
I’ve already come to that conclusion too.
A beat passes. When I don’t take the opportunity he offers to back out, he gives a resigned nod. “The tattoo you recognized belongs to a gang that operates from a shady district in St. Petersburg,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. “You went there.”
“Yes,” he replies in a level tone.
Our fingers brush as he takes the glass from my hand. I wait quietly for him to continue, unable to look away from his face as he brings the glass to his lips and takes a generous swallow of the liquor.
After another sip, he still says nothing, so I ask, “What did you find?”
Hardness fills his eyes. “The man who attacked you.”
My heart thumps with loud beats. “He’s here, in Russia? What did he say?”
Alex clenches his jaw. “That Vladimir Stefanov hired him for the job.”
“To snatch me?” I still find it hard to believe that someone was planning to abduct me just a few blocks from where I work. Well, where I used to work. “Who is Vladimir Stefanov?”
He hands the glass back to me. “One of the bratva bosses who runs the underworld here.”
I drink on autopilot, needing the fortification of the alcohol. “Why?”
“I have no idea.” Muscles bunch in his temples. “But I’m working on rectifying that.”
A mafia boss wants Alex dead. This is bad, much worse than the rival he imagined. I don’t have first-hand knowledge of mafia workings, but I’ve read enough articles to know you don’t want to get on the Russian mob’s bad side.
I swallow hard. “Where is he now, this man you interrogated?”
“Dead,” he says without batting an eye.
Dead.
The word refuses to register. I’m unable to process it. I stare up at his strong, masculine features as the truth I begged him for wars with denial in my chest.
He regards me with a mocking smile, wordlessly daring me to give sound to the thought in my head. That smile says he expected my judgment, and even so, he has no regrets. He’s not sorry for what he’s done.
“Say it, Katyusha,” he says with narrowed eyes, his tone dangerous despite the endearment.
“You…” My voice is hoarse. I’m breathless with the realization.
“Killed him,” he says, finishing what I’m unable to say.
My shock is palpable. It’s charcoal black, a smoky odor that hangs in the air over the embers of the dead fire. My boyfriend—if that’s what he still is—has killed a man. It’s not the first time either. He’s much too collected for someone who’s committed his debut murder.