“You do?”
“Of course I do. I’m not an idiot.” There isn’t any trace of the earlier anger in his eyes. He’s replaced it with his mask of easy-going friendliness, the kind that made me think he was the guy next-door when we first met. “I know you wanted to try to win me back.”
“I—” The words drop off as if from a cliff. I have no idea how to respond to the suggestion that just came out of my ex’s mouth.
“But you don’t have to do it through Matvei. Didn’t you hear me talk about him enough? He’s bad news, Sonya. Terrible news.” Samson moves to grip my arm, but I jerk away before he can touch me.
“What I do and don’t do is none of your business anymore, Samson.”
My words come out sharper than I intended, but I realize I’m still angry at him. Not for breaking up with me—I’m actually glad that happened and I wasn’t stuck with him as a husband. I’m angry at the way Samson treated me, for humiliating me, for treating me like trash, for telling me I wasn’t good enough orbeautiful enough for him, for cheating on me and discarding me when he didn’t find me useful anymore.
That still hurts.
“Look, I’m sorry for what I did.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But you have to stay away from Matvei. Seriously. He’s dangerous.”
That one word draws me up short, my mind going back to the moment on the sidewalk, when I watched Matvei take aim and shoot, the guy hitting the pavement, instantly dead with part of his skull missing.
Samson’s look is knowing, and I hate it. I hate how right he is. I hate that the moment is still playing in my head and even in my dreams, the vision of the guy in the hoodie being replaced with my face.
The teenager behind the coat check desk has one earbud out and is trying not to appear as though she’s listening to our conversation. I drop my voice as I turn my back to her. “Leave me alone, Samson. I’m done with you and you’re done with me. You made that very clear.”
“Come on, Sonya. Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise you won’t continue hanging around Matvei.” Samson reaches for my wrist again and I jerk it away.
From the corner of my eye, I see the teenager has given up all pretense of not listening and is now activelyeavesdropping.I almost snap at her to stop but turn my anger to Samson instead.
“Mind your own business, Samson,” I hiss.
My ex reaches for me a third time and wraps his fingers around my wrist, his brows furrowed in visible frustration. “Did youmiss the part where he’s thepakhanof the most powerful Russian Bratva in Chicago? Do you really want to get mixed up in all that?”
“Oh, so now you care about me?” My short bark of laughter is derisive and lacking humor. “Just walk away, Samson. You obviously know how to do that.”
“Sonya, this is ridiculous. You don’t need to put yourself in danger just to get my attention?—”
Movement out of the corner of my eye becomes a rush of darkness. Samson’s hand disappears from my wrist with a painful wrench. I don’t even have time to understand what’s happening before Matvei has his brother up against the wall, one hand fisted in Samson’s shirt, the other tightly gripping his neck.
Fear banishes any other expression on Samson’s face as he struggles to get back the breath that was knocked out of him when he hit the wall. Then a wash of rage replaces the fear.
“Get the fuck off of me, you fucking bastard!” he manages to say, struggling as he tries to pry his brother’s hand from around his throat.
“I think you know that out of the two of us, I’m not the bastard.”
There is such cold menace in Matvei’s words, I swear ice spiders across the floor and engulfs my feet, because I can’t move. This man, no, thishunterin genteel clothing, killed a man the other day. He’s the ruthless, cold, deadlypakhanof the VolkovBratva.
This is the killer Samson warned me about. And I hate that he’s right.
“Do you know who’s upstairs?” The tone of Samson’s voice is obstructed by Matvei’s hands around his throat. “Do you know who my father-in-law is now?”
“You think I’m afraid of theMancinis?” Matvei’s voice drops half an octave, venom dripping from every word. “They’re afraid ofme, just like you should be.”
“Fuck you,” Samson spits. His fingers dig into his brother’s wrist, but it doesn’t loosen his grip.
“You never were good at learning lessons. Maybe I should finally teach you to mind your own business before you get yourself into more trouble than you can handle,bratishka.”
Everything about Matvei screams violence, and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe.
“Don’t use that word with me.” Samson squirms, but it’s no use. “We might share the same blood, but we were never brothers.”
Matvei leans close to Samson, his hand tightening so much that Samson’s breath is shallow and grating. “Your words, not mine.”