Chapter 24 Kazimir
KAZIMIR
I'm not sure that Svetlana isn't worth dying for.
The thought keeps circling through my mind as I sit in the back room of one of Ilya's clubs the following evening, watching two of his men interrogate a low-level dealer who's been skimming off the top.
The man's pleas for mercy fade into background noise as I stare at the blood pooling on the concrete floor, my thoughts a thousand miles away from this dingy room that reeks of piss and fear.
She's not worth dying for, I tell myself. No woman is.
But the lie tastes bitter on my tongue, and I know it for what it is—a desperate attempt to convince myself that I haven't already crossed a line I can never uncross, that I haven't already committed myself to a path that will likely end with a bullet in my brain or a knife between my ribs.
The truth is simpler and far more terrifying: I don't want to die. I want a future. With her.
The dealer's screaming reaches a crescendo, then cuts off abruptly. I glance up to see one of Ilya's men wiping blood from his knuckles with a rag, his expression bored. The dealer slumps in his chair, unconscious or dead. I don't particularly care which.
"Boss wants to know if you got anything useful," the man says, looking at me.
I shake my head. "Nothing we didn't already know. He's small-time. Dispose of him however you see fit."
The man nods, and I push myself to my feet, my muscles aching from sitting still for too long.
Or maybe it’s from the tension that's taken up permanent residence in my shoulders ever since Svetlana came back into my life.
Ever since I made the catastrophically stupid decision to bring her into my home, into my bed, into every corner of my existence until I can't remember what it feels like to breathe without thinking of her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I step out into the alley behind the club. The cold Boston air hits my face, sharp and clean after the stench inside. I pull out my phone, half-expecting it to be Ilya with another job, another reason to stay away from my apartment for hours longer than I want.
Instead, it’s just Artem, updating me and letting me know that everything is fine at home.
Still, I drive too fast getting back there.
Svetlana is in the living room when I get back, reading a book on the side of the sofa nearest the window.
She looks up, startled, and for a moment, we just stare at each other across the small space of my living room.
She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes that makeup can't hide, her pale blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot at the nape of her neck. But she’s still beautiful.
So fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
I go to the kitchen to get myself a glass of water. For once, I don’t have blood on my hands—I just observed tonight—but I still feel as if I need a shower to get the memory of all of it off of my skin.
“Where would we live?”
The question is so abrupt and unexpected that I nearly drop the glass in my hand.
I look up to see her looking at me across the living room, and there’s something in her gaze that I haven’t seen before.
It’s not quite hope, but not quite despair either.
Something in between. Something that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
"If we tried to make this work. If I had the baby.
We can't stay here. I mean… I suppose we could, but this isn’t really—"
I stare at her, my mind racing. This is the first time she's spoken about the future as if it might actually exist. As if we might actually exist beyond this strange limbo we've been living in.
"No," I agree. "We couldn't stay here."
"So where?" she gestures around the apartment. "Do you have some secret mansion tucked away somewhere? A house in the suburbs with a white picket fence?"
The sarcasm in her voice is familiar. But underneath it, I hear the real question. The one she's actually asking.
Can you really give me a life? Can you give our child a life?
"I have money saved," I say carefully. "Enough to buy a place. Somewhere you'd be comfortable. Where we could raise a family."
"And Ilya?" Her voice drops on his name, and I see fear flicker across her face. "How would that work? You can't exactly tell him you're shacking up with his ex-fiancée and raising a baby that might not even be yours."
The words still feel like a physical blow, even though I've heard them before. Even though I know the truth of what happened to her in Russia, what those animals did to her while I was too late to stop it.
"I'll find a way," I say flatly.
"Find a way." She shakes her head, her mouth turning down. "That's not a plan, Kazimir."
"I know that—"
"Do you?" She clicks her tongue against her teeth.
"Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've thought about the fantasy but not the reality.
You want to play house, but you haven't considered what happens when Ilya finds out.
What happens when my father tracks me down?
What happens when—" Her voice cracks, and she presses her lips together hard, fighting for control.
I close the distance between us in a few strides, sinking down next to the couch and reaching for her, but she pulls back, shaking her head.
"Don't."
"Svetlana—"
"I need a real plan." Her hands are shaking now, and she clasps them together in front of her stomach.
"If I'm going to do this. If I'm going to have this baby and trust you to protect us, I need more than 'I'll find a way.
' I need to know that you've actually thought this through.
That you're not just acting on some... some obsession that's going to burn out the second reality sets in. "
The accusation stings because part of it is true.
I am obsessed with her. I have been since the first moment I saw her on Ilya's arm, looking like a princess from some fairy tale, all ice and elegance.
The obsession has only grown worse after I've had her, after I've tasted her skin and felt her come apart beneath my hands.
But it isn't just obsession. Not anymore.
"You want a plan?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
"Fine. I'll get us a house. Somewhere outside the city, far enough that we're not tripping over Ilya's men every time we step outside. I'll tell Ilya I can’t do this anymore. That I’m retiring from the life. He’ll understand. He’ll let me go.”
"For how long?" she challenges. "A month? Six months? A year? He’s not going to never check in on you again, even if he does just let you quit, which I find it hard to believe is a thing that happens. Eventually, he's going to find out."
"Then I'll deal with it when it happens."
"That's not good enough!"
"What do you want me to say?" I snap, my own frustration boiling over. "That I have all the answers? Can I guarantee nothing will go wrong? I can't. This is the life we're in, Svetlana. There are no guarantees. There's only what we're willing to risk."
"And what are you willing to risk?" Her eyes blaze. "Really? Because it's easy to say you'll protect me when we're here, alone, playing pretend. But what happens when it's real? When Ilya is standing in front of you, demanding answers? When will my father's men come for me again?"
"I'll kill them." The words come out flat, certain. "Anyone who tries to hurt you or our child, I'll kill them. I don't care who they are."
"Even if it costs you your life?"
"Yes."
She stares at me for a long moment, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "That's an easy thing to say."
"Then how do I prove it?" I demand, taking another step toward her.
This time, she doesn't back away. "Tell me, Svetlana.
What do I have to do to make you believe me?
I've brought you here. I've kept you safe.
I've given you everything I can think of to show you that I'm serious about this. About you. What more do you want?"
Her throat works as she swallows hard. "I don't know," she whispers. "I don't know if there's anything you can do. Because every time I start to believe you, I remember that you left me before. That when it mattered, when I needed someone, you chose Ilya over me."
"I know," I say quietly. "And I'll regret that for the rest of my life. But I'm here now. I'm choosing you now. Doesn't that count for something?"
"Maybe." She turns away from me, wrapping her arms around herself. "Maybe it does. But maybe it's not enough."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. I want to grab her, shake her, make her see that I mean every word I've said. That I would burn the world down for her if that's what it takes.
But I also know that won't work. Svetlana doesn't respond to force. She responds to proof. To action. And so far, everything I've done has only convinced her that I'm dangerous and obsessed, not that I love her.
Love.
The word echoes in my mind, and I realize with a jolt that it's true. Somewhere between rescuing her from that compound in Russia and sitting with her here, talking about a future for a baby that might not even be mine, I've fallen in love with her.
"What would you do if I was gone?" she asks suddenly, still not looking at me. "If something happened to me. If they took me again and you couldn't get me back. What would you do?"
"I'd rather die."
The words come out without thought, without hesitation. Because they're true. The idea of a world without Svetlana in it, without her sharp tongue and sharper mind, without the possibility of seeing her smile at me the way she smiled in those photos she took that I saw in her apartment—
I can't bear it.
She turns back to face me, and I see tears shining in her eyes. "That's an easy thing to say," she repeats, but her voice is softer now. Less certain.
"How do I prove it?" I ask again. "Tell me how, and I'll do it."
For a long moment, she just looks at me. Then, without a word, she gets up and walks toward the bedroom.