Page 91 of Dance of Deception

We’ve seen each other at Zakharova events. But it’s been years since we spoke alone like this. But I remember exactly where I was the last time we did.

It was a hotel room in the Bronx, the air stale from my mother’s cigarettes. The walls too thin, the cheap comforter scratchy on my arms as I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling as hollow as the house we’d left behind.

The house that was now marked off with crime scene tape.

I was fourteen and had just had the foundations of my reality destroyed, my faith in men shattered, my belief in family, love, and truth all broken thanks to my fateful exploration of the farend of our basement that my father had always told me to stay away from.

Kir had walked into the hotel room like he owned the place—calm, controlled—but hadn’t looked at me with cruelty.

He’d looked at me like I was a problem to be solved.

“Your father has been excommunicated from my organization, Lyra,”Kir had said, his voice tight.“Do you know what that means?”

I’d shaken my head.

“It means he’s not protected by us anymore, not after what he did. Which means you are free to tell the police everything you know to put him in a deep hole, which is where he belongs.”

I'd hesitated.

Kir had leaned in slightly, his presence heavy and suffocating.

“You and your mother will not face any kind of reprisal for aiding in the case against your father.”

So, I talked.

I testified.

And Arkadi went to prison.

Now, years later, Kir is studying me like I’m still that girl sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, waiting to see what happens next.

“Forgive the dramatics of meeting you this way,” Kir finally says, turning slightly, his hands steepled against the dark suit pulled across his firm chest. “You’ll understand in a moment why I didn’t want our conversation overheard.”

I lick my lips, swallowing. “What do you want?”

Kir’s lips tilt into something that isn’t quite a smile as he shifts, leaning closer, and I swear, the actualairin the room tightens.

Kir is, objectively, gorgeous. The kind of good-looking that sucks all the air out of the room. It’s not in the way Carmine is attractive—sharp, savage, and untamed.

Kir is refined, carrying himself with quiet, utterly devastating confidence. He’s older, radiates power, and always seems dangerously in control.

“I wanted to speak to you,” he says lightly, tapping his fingers on the desk in front of him, “because I’ve been thinking about your father’s enemies—of which, you’ll be I'm sure completely unsurprised to hear, he had plenty.”

The blood in my veins chills.

Kir leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yet they’ve left you and your mother alone up till now. Do you know why?”

I shake my head.

“Because you had nothing to offer them.” His tone is neutral, detached. “You and your mother were barely scraping by. Therefore, no reason for them to care.”

His gaze narrows.

“But now you’re marrying Carmine Barone.”

He lets that sink in.

“Arkadi made a lot of enemies,” Kir continues. “In life,andin death.”

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