Rai: You might have to torture the answers out of him.
Vladimir: You say that as if it’s a chore.
I know full well it isn’t. Vlad specializes in torturing, and it’s one of the reasons why he has a scary reputation. He’s the type who doesn’t stop until he gets answers. Maybe this is why I didn’t want the situation to reach this level.
Kyle climbs into the driver’s seat, and I hide my phone. My fingers brush against the small bottle I’ve been keeping on me since I got out of the hospital. I knew I would have to do this sooner or later.
The vehicle doesn’t move and silence is the only other occupant in the car. I sneak a peek at him and pause at the overly concentrated expression. He’s watching too intently, as if it’s the first time he’s seeing my face.
“What?”
“Just watching how beautiful you are.”
Even though I try hard not to be affected, I can feel the burning in my cheeks. I clear my throat. “Didn’t you say we were going for lunch?”
“We will after I get my fill of you.”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s not going to work.”
He raises a brow. “Do you want to bet?”
“I don’t need to, because I’m one hundred percent sure I never cared about you.”
“You’re so certain for someone who doesn’t remember.”
“I don’t have to remember to be sure of it, I just feel it.”
“Hmm.” He pauses, tilting his head to the side as if he wants to get a better look at me. “Do you know what you used to tell me in the past?”
“I don’t want to know.” Every memory I have with him is filled with anguish and sadness.
“But I want to tell you.” He takes my hand in his. My skin crawls at how he’s touching me with the same hands he’s been planning to kill my family with. “You used to say I’m closed off and I never show you my true self.”
“Oh, really?” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“I guess I didn’t want you to learn about my lowly beginnings. When I first came to the brotherhood, I was rejected by my godfather. I talked about him once—he was the man who raised me after my parents died. So in a way, he was the only person I considered family. What I didn’t tell you is that in my screwed-up attempt to keep that family close, I’ve done something that can’t be forgotten or forgiven. I’m actually still surprised he didn’t kill me, considering he has no tolerance for traitors. In a way, he didn’t really forgive me, just sent me on my way, which was a worse punishment than death to the younger me. I roamed around for a few years, then found myself here, at Nikolai’s. He was an old acquaintance of Godfather and me since we used to kill for him a long time ago, before you came along,”
“Is your godfather’s name Ghost?” I murmur.
A rare grin I’ve never seen on Kyle’s face loosens his expression, making him appear younger, less guarded. “You know him.”
“Everyone in the Bratva does. Dedushka used to mention his name among the inner circle. He’s the hitman my grandfather worked with the most. He used to say Ghost kills without leaving a trace behind and is the best at what he does.”
“He is. We are.”
“So you belong to the same organization as him?”
“I do.”
I want to probe him some more, but I could slip with what I already know about his organization. So I remain silent, hoping he will be the one to continue talking.
The way he spoke about his godfather—Ghost—is so different from anything he’s spoken about before. It’s clear that he shares a connection with the man to the point that he calls him family. But he mentioned doing something unforgivable, so maybe that’s the reason he’s barely talked about Ghost before.
This is one of the few times Kyle has opened up about the past without me having to poke and prod. He’s closed off to a fault and always dodged any of my questions with his charming humor. What an irony that he’s talking this freely after he thinks I lost my memories.
He strokes the back of my hand, leisurely, as if we’re an old couple satisfied with being in each other’s company. “After I was separated from Godfather, I had no purpose. I was so used to being his right-hand that I didn’t know what to do with my life after. So I decided to go back to my roots, and that wasn’t that much of a fun idea. But then, something happened.”
“What?” I ask, despite myself.
“You did, Princess.”
“Me?”
“After I met you, I saw one of Godfather’s traits in you.”
“Which traits?”
“You’re special in your own way, but one day, you might end up like him.”
I get the meaning behind his words without him having to spell it out. One day, he will do something unforgivable and then our paths will never cross again.
Once he knows what I’m plotting for him, that’s probably what will happen.
Not releasing my hand, he kicks the car into gear. The entire drive is spent in doomed silence. I bring out my phone and focus on replying to mundane emails. However, my mind keeps skipping back to what Kyle told me. My mind goes into overdrive analyzing the bits about his godfather and the organization he spent his entire childhood in.
He must have suffered when he was younger. He must’ve been robbed of basic human rights. Here I thought my childhood was screwed up, but it doesn’t compare to his. However, does that give him the right to screw other lives over? Mine included?
The car comes to a halt in front of a fancy Italian restaurant, cutting off my train of thought. I step out but ignore his elbow when he offers it to me.
When the hostess asks us if we have a reservation, Kyle offers her his charming smile. “Nicolo’s friends, love. Tell him Kyle sends his regards.”
Her eyes nearly bug out and she appears flustered as she calls for one of the waiters. “Of course, sir. Welcome.”
So this is one of the Italians’ businesses. I’ve never been here before, but I rarely eat out anyway. Ruslan and Katia never join me at the table and remain on guard, and I hate having them alert in public places. I’m not surprised that Kyle is close enough with the Lucianos’ underboss, Nicolo, to the point of using his name for favors. He’s a snake that way, and he has the best connections to the heads of crime organizations through Adrian.
The waiter guides us to a table that’s out of view near the wall. No window is close by, and the other patrons are far away. This is why I don’t like eating out; the entire experience is tarnished by security measures.
I order pasta with seafood and Kyle orders some complicated Italian dish that I’m sure will taste like shit. He then asks the waiter for a 1979 Chateau Grand-Marteau wine.
The waiter brings the bottle back, smiling as he carefully opens it. “Excellent taste, sir.”
After the waiter pours him a glass, Kyle swirls the wine and inhales before nodding. “Thank you.”
The waiter places the bottle on the table with extra care, as if it’s some sort of a national treasure.
While we wait for our food, Kyle pours me a glass.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask.