Vadim
"Everything okay?" Preston asks from across the dining table.
I look up from the risotto. Those hazel eyes soft in the warm light, his sandy hair slightly disheveled in a way that suits him, the soft worn fabric of his washed-out sage-green vintage polo pulling just enough across his chest to make his sculpted shoulders impossible to ignore.
The pressure that's been in my chest all day eases.
I got held up at work after my meeting with Marek and the Vegas property developers and have been in a shitty mood since. It's not any one thing that's gotten under my skin but the culmination of a bunch of stupid, little, on their own insignificant things.
Marek pestering me as to why I was working from home.
W?adek messing with the rosters.
Not having a clear ten minutes to think through how to present Preston's security plan to him for when he leaves my care tomorrow. The plan itself is done. It's the telling him part I haven't worked out yet.
But I can't be concerned with whether Preston likes it or not. He's got no idea what or who he's gotten involved with.
Unlike me.
I'm fully aware of the danger. It's already escalated from passing on a message to a physical attack. That means Farkus’s next move poses an even bigger threat. He's escalating, and I have to stop him before he executes whatever it is he's lining up next.
I blow out a breath and stare at the only person in my life not pissing me off. "Just got some stuff on my mind. I'm sorry. The food…looks great."
It takes a beat for Preston to register the compliment, the only one I can honestly give about his meal.
A smile lights up his face, the bruising faded to a dull yellow-green now, the cut on his lip little more than a thin pink line.
"Thank you. This is my go-to fancy meal."
"Is there a special occasion?"
"No, it's just…well, it's my last night here, and I wanted to thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"But I wanted to do something, which is why I used food to express my gratitude." He takes a small forkful, chews it for a few bites, then says, "It's been nice staying with you."
"You sound surprised. What were you expecting?"
"Not sure, to be honest."
I wonder what crazy ideas Ellie put in his head. I'd bet good money the majority of the texts Preston's been getting are from him. Checking up to make sure he's okay. That I haven't killed him yet. Wouldn't put it past him.
"I've got an idea. Wanna play a game?"
"What sort of game?" I ask, spooning up some more risotto.
"21 questions but a shorter version. So, like, 3 questions."
I give Preston the same look Marek gave me when I explained my reasons for working outside of the office. Supremely unimpressed. I normally hate games, and this one sounds especially bad.
If it were anyone other than Preston asking…
"Sure." I square my shoulders and muster up the closest thing I can to a sincere smile. "Why not?"
Preston perks up, flashing his own blinding, genuine, smile in return, and I just won the damn game before we've even started.
He taps his chin. "Okay, I'm going to need some time to think."
I roll my eyes. "As if you haven't got three questions already lined up."
"Well, duh. The issue is I have way more than three, so I'm down to the hard part of whittling them down to make every one count."
"Take your time. Is there more risotto?"
"Yeah. There's plenty left."
I help myself to another portion while Preston thinks.
"I'm starting to get worried," I say, sitting back down at the table. He still hasn't settled on anything.
"I'll start easy. Middle name?"
My eyebrows shoot up. He only gets three questions, and that's what he opens with? Interesting choice.
"Iziaslav," I answer. "It's an Old Slavic name. Means one who gets glory. Or something about being a warrior. I forget which."
Preston smiles. "Very cool."
"Is it my turn to ask a question?"
"It is."
"Your middle name?"
"What? No. You can't ask me the same question. It has to be a different one."
"Says who?"
"Says the rules. Otherwise you'd just be able to ask me the exact same questions I ask you."
"There goes my entire gameplan." When Preston's mouth falls open in disbelief, I chuckle and hasten to add, "I'm kidding."
I'm not, that was totally what I was planning on doing.
Though I did have one original question in mind.
The middle name he refused to share with me at the bar the first night we met.
Guess I'll have to come up with a different approach—and question—now.
"Let's see… Hmm, okay. I won't ask you what your middle name is, but I'd like confirmation, is it embarrassing? "
"That's your question?"
"It is."
He gives me a flat look, like I've completely squandered my turn. "Okay. Um, hell yeah. It is possibly the most embarrassing middle name ever."
"Ever?"
"Seriously. I have no idea what my parents were smoking. I mean, when they explained it, I kind of get why they did it, but it's basically unforgiveable."
"Mental note to self, ask Preston's mom what his middle name is next time I see her."
"Don't you dare." Preston jabs his spoon in my direction, which has no business making me want to smile the way it does. "Wait. What do you mean next time?"
"Is that your second question?"
"Uh…" He shrugs and says, "Sure. Let's go with it."
"I just mean that your parents think we're together, right? If you ever need me to keep up the ruse, I'd be happy to."
"You would?"
I grin smugly. "I believe it's my turn to ask a question now."
"Fine." He slumps back in his chair. "Go ahead then."
"My second question is…" A fucking no-brainer and should've been my first. "What's your phone number?"
"Clever." He draws himself up tall, grips the table edge with both hands, and rattles off his cell number all in one hurried breath.
I close my eyes.
A few seconds pass.
"What are you doing?" he asks. "And that's not my third question, by the way, but a supplementary follow-up that's allowed in the rules when one player acts like a weirdo."
"Memorizing your number."
I open my eyes and repeat it back to him.
"I'm impressed."
"Never underestimate the lengths I'm prepared to go to for something I want."
His face blanks as my words wash over him, then he swipes his fingers through the sides of his hair and tucks a lock behind his ear.
His cheeks have turned bubblegum-pink. "Uh, right."
I tip my chin up. "Your final question, Mr. Miller. Make it a good one."
"How many people have you killed?"
His forthrightness catches me off guard when it really shouldn't by now. Preston doesn't treat me or talk to me like anyone else in my life does. He's neither intimidated nor impressed by my family name.
Nor, it seems, is he scared of me, despite what I'm sure have been repeated warnings from Ellie.
To make matters worse, Marek's stupid face flashes in my mind, warning me to be careful about how much I divulge. I release that concern on an exhale. Preston isn't from our world. The same rules don't apply to him.
"I don't keep count, but it's fewer than most people assume."
"Oh, okay."
"What I will tell you is that it's never for fun. There's always a well-justified reason. Only one was personal." I clear my throat. "The man who killed my and Marek's mothers. The others were necessary. It's an unfortunate part of the business, one I derive absolutely no pleasure from."
Preston falls quiet for a moment. I can see him working through what I've just told him. The weight of it settles on his face before he schools his expression into something more neutral.
"So why do you do it?" he asks. "I mean, I get why you'd kill the man who murdered your mother, but, I don't know, why not hire someone else to do the other dirty work?"
"My father has trust issues. For him, it's only family. Out of my brothers and all our cousins back in Poland and Ukraine, I'm the one with the most suitable disposition."
Preston tilts his head. "In what way?"
"I lack emotion. I'm levelheaded. I do what needs to be done and move on. Marek doesn't have those same instincts, and Kamil isn't able to think clearly."
It takes a solid thirty seconds for Preston to formulate a response. "You…don't have emotions?"
I shake my head. "Not really. Not often, anyway. When really big stuff happens, like Mom, I do." My throat constricts. "That's different, obviously. But apart from that, in my day-to-day life, then no."
Preston nods, but he's frowning.
Maybe I shouldn't have said that? Maybe I've just confirmed that his best friend's worst instincts about me being a psychotic monster were, if not correct, at least in the ballpark?
We finish the meal in a mostly comfortable silence and move to the sink together without discussion, falling into the kind of easy rhythm as we wash up that shouldn't feel this natural this soon.