Chapter 38 #2
The words hit the room like a gunshot wrapped in silk.
Interesting.
I glance once at Ayla.
She’s gone quieter somehow, shoulders tight, eyes moving already, measuring the house, the exits, the danger. Good. Let her keep busy with that instead of trying to bolt.
Angelo’s voice follows, calm and practiced. “We’ve doubled the men on the perimeter, Tiny. You won’t be alone. Adriana will be here, and—”
That’s where I step fully into the room.
“And Ayla has a mean right hook.”
Every head turns.
I keep my pace easy, hands loose at my sides, like the whole house isn’t vibrating with nerves and fear and the sour stink of grief. Ayla moves beside me quiet as shadow.
“And,” I add, looking at Vasilisa, “I’ve got an extra gun if it’ll help you sleep at night, Kisa.”
I open my arms.
She strides toward me almost sweet before she slaps me hard enough to crack the room open.
Ayla startles beside me.
My jaw locks.
For one second, all I see is white. I exhale slowly and brush my fingers over the heat blooming in my cheek.
“Careful, Kisa,” I say, voice flat. “I may forget you’re my favorite cousin.”
Santo’s in front of her before the last word finishes leaving my mouth.
Fucking Scythe.
Tall, broad, lethal, all that quiet menace he thinks makes him special.
“And I may forget we’re in an alliance if you speak to my wife like that again.”
I glare at him. Angelo cuts in too, low and final. “Watch yourself, Maksim.”
Everybody’s fucking dramatic today.
Fine.
I crouch, pull the pistol from my ankle holster, and hold it out around Santo’s shoulder toward Vasilisa.
She takes it without hesitation.
“I don’t forgive you,” she says, staring straight at me. “Or the lies that nearly got me killed. But I’ll take the gun.”
I give her one sharp nod then reach for Ayla’s back, guiding her forward just enough to bring her into the room properly.
“This is Ayla.”
Adriana steps forward first. Soft voice, open face, polished enough to make saints feel underdressed. “Welcome, Ayla. I’m so sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
Ayla nods once.
Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t relax either.
Her shoulders stay tight under that ugly sweater, eyes sharp and watchful, chin tipped just enough to say she’s enduring this, not joining it.
Vasilisa barely spares her a glance.
Santo does though.
That catches my attention fast. He looks at her too long. Much too long.
His eyes narrow with recognition.
Ayla doesn’t look at him at all.
“Alright,” Angelo says, stepping in before I can decide whether that matters. “We have to go. It’s going to be a long night.”
Santo bends to Vasilisa. Angelo folds Adriana into him. Everybody’s saying goodbye like they might not come back.
Emotional Italians.
I look at Ayla.
She’s standing too straight, too quiet, anger still sitting under her skin like it’s waiting for room to stretch out. I don’t think about it. I just lift my hand and drag the backs of my knuckles over her cheek. Soft. Quick.
Because she’s still mine even if she’s fighting it.
Her eyes flick to mine.
I let my hand drop.
Angelo and Santo head toward the door, I follow. We’re almost out when Ayla speaks.
“Wait.”
I stop.
So does everybody else. I turn first. Santo’s head does too, right after mine.
Ayla steps forward one pace, chin high, eyes dark and unreadable in that way that usually means she’s about to say something I won’t enjoy.
I move in front of her on instinct.
“What?”
She looks past me.
At Santo.
My body goes tight. I don’t like that shit.
“I don’t want to stay here,” she says.
I huff a laugh, meaner than I intend it. “Don’t be difficult, Beda.”
I catch her arm. Not hard, but hard enough.
She jerks against my grip immediately, and irritation spikes hot through me. We did this already in the car. We did this at the townhouse. She’s not leaving. I don’t have time for another fucking fight while Angelo’s shipment is getting torn apart and the Armenians are stirring up trouble.
Then Adriana says my name.
Just my name, but in that cool little voice women like her use when they think they’re about to teach somebody manners.
“Maksim.”
I turn my head.
She’s watching my hand on Ayla’s arm like I pulled a knife in her fucking living room.
I don’t let go. Not yet.
“Let go of her,” she says.
My jaw ticks.
Seriously?
These men don’t keep their women on a leash.
I look back at Ayla. The way she’s gone even quieter under everybody’s attention, like she’d rather fold into the floor than stand in the middle of it.
I hate that.
I hate more that her eyes are still on Santo.
“Adriana—” I start.
She cuts me off with a raised hand. “Don’t Adriana me. I don’t care what this dynamic is. You don’t handle a woman like that. Not in front of me. Not ever.”
My mouth goes hard.
Dynamic.
That’s cute.
Like she has any idea what this is. Like any of them do.
But arguing with another man’s wife in his house while everybody’s already standing in a powder keg of fear and bad blood isn’t worth it.
So I let Ayla’s arm go. Immediately she takes half a step back.
Away from me.
Adriana turns to her, voice softening as she speaks and I leave.
Because this whole house is making me tired.
Because Ivan will get her later and I’ll come home to her stubborn anger and fuck the frustration out of us both.
But mostly because if Santo looks at her one more fucking time, I might shoot him in his brothers doorway just to make a point.