Page 105 of Morally Corrupt

"By then, pride got in the way. And he already got involved with people I don't particularly care for or approve of. And there's also that vendetta of his against the Lastras. Safe to say we have conflicting interests."

"I see. I'll take note of that."

"Just don't be too obvious. Enzo is many things, but a fool he is not. Make sure he can't see through your facade."

"Don't worry. I've had enough practice." I smooth over my skirt, and Vlad lets me know Theo is already outside. Or should I call him Adrian now? I think it might take me some getting used to. At least now, I can make sense of where all those repressed control issues come from.

"Break a leg." Vlad winks at me before heading to his study. Since I've been staying with him for a few days now, I can't help but notice that something might be wrong with him. There are moments when he seems lost in his head, but it's more than daydreaming. It's like he's in a trance. His good humor also seems more strained than usual.

Heading out of the house, I put my concerns out of my mind, focusing on the mission first.

Exiting, I see Adrian, black tuxedo on, leaning on his car and waiting for me. When he looks up and sees me coming towards him, his expression changes ever so slightly, and I know he likes what he's seeing. I have to be incredibly careful, though. This will be our first real interaction with all cards on the table. I have to show him how good it can be between us—the real us.

"Let's go!" he says, and I get in the car—one step at a time.

"I envy you." I start by trying to find some common ground. He seems surprised, so I just continue, "You can kill with your bare hands. I wish I could do that." When he hears that, he frowns, his mouth changing shape as if he wants to say something but just shakes his head.

"You envythat," he asks as if not quite believing my words.

I must try harder.

"Yes. You have the advantage of strength. My punches can barely do any damage. I usually bank on speed, though," I say, proud of myself for also inserting a small praise. He must see that I don't hold his past against him. It's actually very attractive.

"Sure… so you've never killed anyone barehanded?" he asks, not quite looking at me, but then again, he's watching the road. I take this as a sign he's willing to engage in conversation.

"Not really. I usually only use guns. Sometimes knives. Don't like knives, though. Too messy," I answer immediately. The homeless man I'd killed a few days ago does come to mind, but is that kill even noteworthy? It was too one-sided.

"So, you don't like blood?" he inquires, and for a moment, I panic. He was a fighter. That means blood. What if he likes blood? What if he will hold it against me that I don't like blood? Well, not necessarily don't like, but it's sticky, and it stains and… A flash of brain matter smeared on my knuckles almost makes me want to gag.

"B, it was just a question," he says after a while, his eyes regarding me with concern. I realize I'd been fidgeting while I was debating in my head what the best answer was. Real. I have to be authentic. I let out a breath and tell him just that.

"Then why kill at all? If you don't enjoy the blood? Why seek it?"

"It gives me a purpose."

"Purpose?" He frowns at my word choice. Yes, I have to be real. Why is it that now that I'm sober, my brain seems to respond to things differently?

It feels odd.

"Yes. You remember Drew, my bodyguard. After Jenna's death, he taught me how to channel my anger in meaningful ways."

"Killing?"

"Well, yes. He knew I would probably do it again, so he did what he thought best at the time."

"Go on."

"Drew introduced me to the Russians, and then I got partnered with Vlad. Many of our assignments were strictly Bratva enemies, but I got to choose my targets after a while. So, I sought the vilest predators and took them out."

"Predators?"

"People who prey on children. On innocents. It was the only time I felt something. Yeah, I don't care about blood and gore… much. But I do care that those people suffer. I've probably done my fair share of torture at some point. But usually, I prefer a neat kill."

"This isn't a normal conversation." He smiles to himself.

"I'm not normal, I told you." And then I frown. "You're not normal, either. For someone who claims to have empathy, how do you reconcile those deaths on your conscience?"

I don't think much of the question, merely curiosity. But for him, it doesn't seem to be. His expression immediately darkens.

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