Page 82 of Unforgiving Sinner (Starukhin Bratva)

But I do not. With one final baleful look toward me, he turns on his heel and walks away.

Tears cloud my vision and I slip down until my legs puddle on the floor. But then I hear his footsteps returning, and a powerful hand extends before me.

Like a lovesick fool, I place my hand in his, and he effortlessly picks me up off the floor.

The two of us are silent as he marches me back to my room—my prison. Without a word of good night, he watches as I step in and closes the door gently behind me. I half expect the lock to turn, signaling that I’m back right where I started. But it never does.

He cares about me enough not to lock me in here like an animal. Small comfort that is.

Alone, my thoughts begin to race, searching for one reason after another as I try to figure out the cause of Nikolai’s awful behavior.

What happened to make him hate me in a day? Should I have told him about Mercy? But how does that matter? I don’t want my cousin in this mess, held captive by the Bratva along with me. And she wouldn’t have thanked me later.

As I sit on my bed, I replay all our conversations in my head. It’s clear that he doesn’t trust my father, but why? But more importantly, how can I convince him that my dad is innocent?

I close my eyes as I lie back on the bed. I try not to imagine Nikolai’s perfect face and the sweet looks he gave me before this awful day.

“No!” I sit up and pound my fists into the mattress in defiance.

Because whether I want to admit it or not, Nikolai is right about one thing:

Where is my father?

He should’ve done something by now. Mercy hasn’t been keeping any of this a secret. But that means … I take a shuddering breath. That means there might be a kernel of truth to the accusation Nikolai is making.

A new fire starts burning inside of me like a torch that refuses to be extinguished in a storm. Whatever the truth is, I cannot rely on others to tell it to me. I need to find it on my own accord.

The room suddenly feels too small, stifling me with its overwhelming silence. I need to do something. Anything. I’m no fucking damsel in distress. All the things I’ve done leading up to today are proof of that.

I fell off the side of a high-rise and lived to tell the tale. I made a pact with a killer and I’m still alive. I stood toe-to-toe with the Bratva wives in upstate New York, and I’m still here.

So why am I scared now?

“Keep your secrets, Nikolai,” I mutter under my breath as I hurry toward the door. “I’ll find out the truth, with or without you.”

43

EDEN

The warmthnear the windows grows unbearably hot in the late afternoon, even with the central air blasting, when I descend the spiral staircase. The heavy drapes are pulled across the windows to block out the sun.

I know that two people on staff—their routine dictated by the sun—are tasked with monitoring the indoor climate to preserve Nikolai’s collection. I know that Nikolai won’t be home for hours based on the position of the drapes in the living room. A creature of habit, he leaves at midday and doesn’t return until dark when the drapes are pulled back again.

But the warmth isn’t why my palms are sweaty.

I wipe them down the front of my T-shirt before opening the office door. I know what Nikolai will think if he catches me, but I have no intention of sitting around and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not anymore.

While he’s out causing chaos, I will find a phone to call my father.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply to keep my hands from trembling when I grasp the doorknob. Hemusthave extra phones stored away somewhere. All criminals have burner phones to do their dirty deals. Criminal … It makes me feel better to think that way of him—to see Nikolai as he really is: a heartless, ruthless criminal out to get me and my father.

That’s what he is and nothing else to me,I lie to myself.

The view of the city from his office isn’t as inspiring as the eastern side. Only one wall is glass, and it’s tinted to obstruct the light. But the rare Pollocks and de Koonings make up for the darkness. I stare at the massive canvases covering the interior walls and admire the way a single impasto stroke can convey so much emotion.

Something catches my eye. Though it’s only a few charcoal lines, it takes a second to recognize what it is: a sketch of me.

There’s no mistaking the mass of red hair he’s colored in with Venetian Red. A single thumbtack keeps it in place, and the edges of the drawing paper are ragged, as if torn from his sketchbook. The lower right corner curls in the heat, refusing to stay flat.

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