Page 89 of Merciless Desires

Viktor squeezes my hand. "I’m beginning to understand your spirit now. You are a survivor."

I give a small shrug, both pleased and embarrassed. "Maybe. Though just surviving doesn't feel like much of an accomplishment."

"It can be." Viktor's eyes hold a warmth I haven’t seen in them before. "That would depend on the obstacles." He studies me contemplatively for several minutes. "I believe it was your inner strength that drew me in the moment I saw you. And that inner strength is what sustains you even now."

His words resonate deep within me. They touch a piece of my soul left wounded and wanting from those lonely years with only my fearful, broken mother for company.

Does Viktor see that vulnerable girl as strong, as a survivor?

Before I can stop myself I bring my hand on top of his and run a finger across his scarred knuckles. Then, realizing what I've done, I pull my hand away like I’ve just touched a hot stove.

Viktor's dark eyes bore into me.

"I understand unconventional childhoods and how the death of a parent can change the trajectory of your life," he says, refilling our wine glasses." My mother died when I was four. My father was never a kind man, but her death changed him. He became even colder, more cynical. More brutal."

I take a sip of my wine, studying him over the rim. I try to picture a young Viktor motherless and raised by a cruel, emotionless father. Maybe it's the stress of the past couple days. Maybe it's the wine, but before I can filter my thoughts, I blurt out, "I suppose that explains how you became a serial killer."

CHAPTER 8

Viktor

Natalia stares at me wide-eyed after calling me a serial killer. I could punish her for that, but I’m too amused by her impertinence. I don't think she meant to say that aloud.

"You're right," I concede after a moment. "I do kill people.” Quite a lot of people, in fact. “Which, I suppose by definition makes me a serial killer.”

Natalia opens her mouth to respond, but I hold up a hand to stop her.

"Just to be clear, however, I do not kill for enjoyment or for some sick thrill. The men I kill are criminals. They know exactly what they signed up for when they entered this life.”

I watch Natalia carefully, looking for any tells in her body language. She seems to relax marginally at my explanation, though her gaze remains wary.

"So you only kill...bad guys?" she asks hesitantly.

I nod. "Bad men who do bad things. None of them are innocent."

My words are somewhat true, I do mostly eliminate low-life criminals or made men. Mostly. The order to eliminate Natalia was an exception. She’s not a member of the criminal underground. She didn’t sign up for this life. Perhaps that’s another reason I’ve gone against the orders of my pakhan. Not only have I failed to take her out, but I’ve moved her to my estate where I can have her guarded around the clock. I’m not sure if she realizes yet that I’ve granted her a reprieve. I just don’t know how I’m going to manage to explain it to Boris.

"What about their families?" Natalia asks. "The children of the men you kill? Surely they’re not criminals and they didn’t...sign up to lose a parent?"

I frown, irritation prickling at me. "It is...regrettable," I say slowly. "But necessary. There is great risk in going against the Bratva."

Natalia shakes her head, clearly unconvinced by my justifications. I decide to change the subject.

"Tell me," I say, holding her gaze intently. "How did your father die?"

Pain flashes across Natalia's face and she drops her eyes. She already told me he was murdered. watching her reaction, I regret making her relive it. But the words are out now, so I wait silently as she composes herself.

"We were in the park. In Moscow," she says quietly. "My parents and I, just spending the afternoon together. I was on the swings."

“I looked up and saw…” She looks up at me again, eyes glistening. "He was shot down in front of me. I saw him fall. There was so much blood..." she trails off, blinking rapidly.

Shot down.

A park in Moscow.

She was eight, so fifteen years ago.

Something about those details niggles at my brain, like a half-remembered fragment of a dream upon waking. But the connection eludes me.

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