Page 116 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I’m not that woman anymore.

The streetlight changes. As I walk across the faded crosswalk and into the thankfully empty Denny’s, I don’t let myself think of anything.

I should go to Mom first, get her out of there, somewhere safe. I have a few hundred dollars of Gavril’s money in my purse, enough to cover a night in a hotel. But after that …

Well, there is no after that. Not yet. There’s no point in thinking about it until I’ve talked to Walsh. Found out what he knows. What he intends to do.

I tell the hostess I would like a table for two. She seats me, smiling sweetly. It’s only a few minutes later that the doorbell dings and Walsh strolls inside. The man is on time to the minute. He’s got the kind of smile that’s believable, maybe even genuine.

Then again, how often does he get the chance to try to mess with the popular wife of his most hated opponent?

“Thanks for meeting with me,” he says as he sits down.

“I didn’t do this for you.”

He offers a sedate tilt of the head. “I know that, believe me. You did this for yourself. To find out just what you got yourself into.”

I eye him evenly. Clean-cut, handsome, graying in the elegant way that certain men do. “How do you know I’m not in on it?”

“Because I know people. Just how I know that Mr. Vaknin is bad. One look, and I knew. You’re not like him. Maybe not quite good, but not like him.”

Smart, him not trying to claim that I’m “good.” That would’ve pissed me off, too.

“So?” I say. “Tell me, then. Tell me what you came here for.”

He folds his arms together, leaning back in the booth. “How about something to eat, first?”

I’m about to refuse—I already got a tea—but the sweet-faced waitress is back, as if on cue.

“Y’all ready to order or need some more time first?”

“I’ll have some eggs, over-easy.” Walsh is beaming a brilliant smile as he tells the waitress, “The Slammer—bacon, hash browns, rye toast, the works.”

She nods, then turns to me. “I’m fine,” I say. I don’t think I could eat even if I wanted to.

“Aw, come on now,” Walsh says.

“Pancakes,” I say begrudgingly. “Blueberry pancakes.”

Yes, you got that right: on the day the city burned at the hands of her husband, Joy Vaknin enjoyed some warm Denny’s blueberry pancakes. Mark it down for the history books.

“Tell me, then,” I say to Walsh as soon as she’s gone. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“All right, well. You’ve heard of Gavril’s brother?”

“Yeah, so? He’s dead.”

Walsh eyes me with amused pity. “Gavril told you he’s dead?”

I grip my mug tighter. Yep, winner of the stupidest wife award goes to … But, why, why, Gavril? Why lie to me even about your goddamn brother? I guess, looking back on it, he didn’t outright lie. He just evaded the question altogether. And I was too foolish to press the issue. Stupid, naïve girl.

“Osip Vaknin is far from dead,” Walsh affirms. “Too bad, really. He’s arguably worse than his brother. They both ran the Bratva for years together, but when Osip murdered a civilian in cold blood, Gavril booted him out. He let the bastard live, though. So now, my sources say Osip is out there causing more destruction than ever.”

God, he’s good. Every inflection of his voice, the very real pain flickering on his face like he has been personally wounded by the blight on his beloved city. He even smells reassuring. Like a warm, everyman cup of coffee.

“Why should I believe you?” I ask.

Walsh leans back in the booth with his gray-suited arms behind his head, as if he had been hoping for just this question. “Go on.” He nods at me. “Big important guy like Gavril Vaknin’s brother—there must be something online about his death, wouldn’t you think? Look it up now yourself.”

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