Page 111 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I bid Wanda a hurried goodbye and take off.

I near my destination at a brisk pace, unable to shake the off-kilter sensation. Like a fisheye lens keeps distorting my surroundings more and more. The pockets of silence, punctured by the keening of far-off bullets. The wide-eyed somebodies wandering outward who might know everything or nothing or something in between. The acrid scent that’s tinged with garbage and ash.

Until, all at once, it’s dead quiet and I’m there.

The burning building. It has little more than flames for a façade, through which I can barely make out a “T” and “Ski…” on the sign. Nothing more than that.

And outside it, discarded in a puddle of their own vomit…

Wait, that’s not vomit.

My body jolts away as my stomach reels. There’s no vomit on earth that’s that red, that thick. That can only be blood. Lots of it.

Next time I step back, it’s right into someone. I twist around, knowing already and yet hoping, hoping with all of me—

God, no.

It’s him, of course.

Gavril Vaknin.

My savior. My damnation.

My fake husband.

He is looking on this fire and carnage with blank eyes registering nothing but satisfaction.

Behind him I see what I must’ve missed: the other men at the outskirts. The ones who must’ve helped do this. But I can’t seem to keep my gaze off Gavril for long.

“You monster,” I snap.

His face registers nothing. My stomach drops.

This stranger, this beast, this motherfucking lying asshole stranger I trusted …

“You fucking monster!” My fists connect with his chest, but even that won’t register, won’t draw a reaction from him. I’m yelling into silence, the silence of the indifference that surrounds me, that blares with my own stupidity, my giant, massive, glaring mistake. Of fooling myself that I knew anything about Gavril, about the kind of man he was.

When a sob breaks out of me, finally, humanity finally seeps into Gavril’s eyes. “Joy …”

“Don’t,” I hiss, stepping back. If he touches me, takes control … I can’t let him. “Don’t.”

He looks at me like I don’t understand, but it’s him who doesn’t understand.

“Do you not realize what you’ve done?” I say.

When he speaks, his voice has an icy tone I’d forgotten he was capable of. “Don’t interfere.”

And still, even as he looks at me flatly, once again completely devoid of emotion, as the anger flames out of me and is replaced by a deep weariness, I’m sure there must be some kind of mistake.

“Do you not realize what you’ve done?” I ask, quieter this time.

His answer is quick and blunt, like a punch to the gut. “I’ve put down what had to be put down. What threatened me, threatened us. You encountered the Skull Kings yourself.”

It comes to me swiftly: the roof of the parking garage, of course. What else did I think it was? What else did I thinkhewas? It’s not as if regular, above-board businessmen just get stalked and shot at for no particular reason. He’s mixed up in this somehow. His hands are dirty and bloody. He’s a bad, dangerous man. Just like that woman told me.

Momentary denial swishes in my chest—the Skull Kings are dangerous, horrible; Gavril is cleaning up the city—before I remember.

“It’s not just them you’re hurting. What about the civilians who’ve gotten caught in the crossfires? My friends are getting hurt!”

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