Page 37 of Brutal Secrets

Your daughter is 10 years old. I don’t want to frighten her. Would you call me so we can discuss this?

It’s a reasonable request, even though I feel a surge of irritation I have no right to. I don’t have much experience with children, but I suppose a crying and hysterical kid won’t make this easier. Gritting my teeth, I reluctantly dial the number.

“Vadim.” Her voice is soft, breathy, and tired. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Another reasonable request. Not that I can afford to indulge her, but I’m impressed that she’s keeping her cool.

“I’m sorry. The less you know, the better.”

A long pause stretches out before her weary sigh comes over the line. Like she’s dealt with dozens of assholes like me. I remember that sound. Funny, I remember the whole weekend we met. Those two days in the snow were a glimpse of another world. One that I’m not stupid enough to drag any more women into.

I had a couple of weak moments in the years after I first arrived in America. I hovered at the edges of her life and toyed with the idea of tracking her down, but how would that work? I even walked by the Blessed Heart Convent to watch her drop off our daughter in the morning a couple of times to catch a glimpse of her, but it just hammered home how far apart our worlds are. She’s constantly in the media, while I’m flirting with getting thrown in jail.

“Okay,” she says. “I thought you might say that, so let me lay out how things look from my end. We don’t have to be back in court for a few weeks, as we’ve been asked to go back for another round of mediation, so that buys me some time. For Nadia, it’s Friday night before spring break, and we planned to go to our place in upstate New York. If there is any way we can keep to the original plan, I would be very grateful.”

“You’re not in a position to make demands,” I snap, and she huffs out a shaky laugh. I wait, gathering my thoughts and looking out at the water. Oil-slicked waves slam against the dock, reflecting my grim mood.

“It wasn’t a demand. It was a request. Nadia is your daughter, and she thinks...” Her voice cracks and she gulps. There’s another long wait. “You said seven p.m. Would you be able to meet me a little earlier so that we can discuss how best to make this look like...” Her voice trails as if she’s groping for words, followed by another deep inhale and sniffle.

Is she crying? God, now I’ve made her cry.

I look up at the storm clouds gathering overhead and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Can we make this look like something that won’t frighten a kid? She’s a good girl. Smart. Brave. Loving. Let’s keep her that way. Please. Even if you don’t want a relationship with her, can you...would you...?” There’s a long pause, and I listen as I walk out of the warehouse.

I pass a container of weapons that sits on the side of the dock at Sheepshead Bay and wave my hand at Andrei, the best young mobster on my team. He looks over at the cars, and I nod. That’s the kind of wordless communication I’m used to when I give orders. I wave my hand and my best men know what I mean without me telling them. They pull out a gun or pick up the car.

Andrei pulls the car around, and the back door slides open. I step in and sit down. “What? Would I what?” I bark, regretting the tone as soon as the words are out.

“Would you be kind? She’s a little girl and—” Her voice breaks now. “Everyone who is meant to love her has loved her.”

There’s a long silence. What the fuck do I say to that? If I decide to love her, then something bad will happen to her. The only person left that I care about is Sasha, and he can look after himself.

Reluctantly, I blow out a breath. “I’ll be there at five thirty.”

Hanging up the phone, I sigh and scrub my face. The Night Governor’s intended bride, safe houses, Sasha. It’s all a mess that I don’t want to drag that poor woman into. This is exactly why I stayed out of her hair.

“Can we head into Manhattan right now?” I ask.

The car pulls away from the curb. Andrei does just what I tell him. The drive is a blur. I’m barely aware of the time going past when we pull out in front of the building. I tap out a text.

I’m downstairs.

The phone bleeps.

Pull around to the service entrance. You’ll have to circle the block, but it’s often overlooked.

We pull up at the entrance to a dark alley. She must have been waiting because she appears almost immediately. She’s a tiny figure swamped by a gray hoodie, with her hair tucked into a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. She wears dark glasses. She could be anyone, and that intrigues me.

I’d forgotten just how tiny she is. It was one of the things I liked about fucking her that weekend. The way I could pick her up so easily. The urge to protect her. I stuff those thoughts down. This is a big enough clusterfuck without pulling sex into the mix.

“Already in disguise, I see,” I say as she steps into the car.

“Years of practice.” She pulls off her glasses and gives me a wan smile. “When avoiding the paparazzi, you either wear the same clothes every day so the picture is too boring to sell, or you dress so they can’t see what’s under all the layers. Usually I try to do both.”

She’s wringing her hands, knotting and unknotting her fingers. Her nervousness is so jarring that, on instinct, I reach over and pull her hands into mine. This is what got us into this mess—my urge to protect her, which is only a few steps away from the pull to rip off her clothes and destroy that tiny body with my hands, my mouth, my cock.

Her small fingers curl around mine and she squeezes my hands, her legs turning toward me until she faces me in the back of the car. She raises her head, and her eyes search mine.

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