“You knew what I was drinking,” I say. “You were watching me at the club.”
I expect him to deny it. He could say he saw it on the surveillance footage. He could say he asked the bartender. He could say it was a lucky guess.
But he just shrugs.
I slam the glass down on the coffee table. Despite the sound of glass hitting glass, he doesn’t react. “You were waiting for me to do something illegal, just so you could blackmail me,” I accuse.
His eyes flicker over my face, trying to read something in my expression. I hope he sees the full extent of my rage.
“I was waiting for you to do something illegal?” he asks, restrained anger in his tone. “You were waiting to fuck me over.”
“Why would I do that? How would I even know that you were there?”
He shakes his head, his hands tensing on his arm rests. “If you weren’t there for me, why were you there?”
I take a deep breath. “I was there because my roommate wanted me to go with her. She has a crush on one of the bartenders. If you’ve seen the surveillance footage, then you’ve seen me dancing with her. But I saw Jeffrey Douglas, I knew he had committed a hit and run, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t do it again. That’s why I followed him out. He attacked me. I defended myself.”
“You killed him.” He runs his hand over his jaw. “That’s quite the coincidence that you two were in the same club. I’ll check your story.”
I open my mouth to snap back at him, but instead, I force myself to just pick my drink back up and take a sip. It’s frustratingly good.
He takes a swig of his own drink. I keep him in my periphery. My father told me once that the best chance for me to survive a hostage situation is to convince the abductor that I’m an individual with my own family, friends, fears, and dreams. Convince him of my humanity. But Lev is such a narcissist, he’d never listen to anything about me.
“So, how did you make Mariya’s Revenge so successful?” I ask, changing tactics. “It seemed to pop out of nowhere.”
“It didn’t. I undersold the competition for several years, learned everything I could about marketing, and used my father’s nightclub to my advantage.”
“Black Glacier?”
“Original Menace,” he says.
“Didn’t that club burn down?”
“Yes.” His face shows nothing again. If I’m looking for humanity, I’m looking in the wrong place.
“Why is it called Mariya’s Revenge?”
His stoicism flickers, showing something underneath. It’s not quite sadness—maybe shame. But in the next second, it’s gone. He drinks. I mimic his movements.
“Please excuse me for a moment.” He stands up, setting his drink down on the coffee table. “Stay here until I’m back. We wouldn’t want you to accidentally murder Irina.”
* * *
I take a deep breath. My hands are trembling. I sink them underneath the cushions of the love seat and
take a gulp of my rum and Coke. I didn’t mean to upset him, but at least it gives me some time to organize my thoughts and calm my nerves. I need to get into the right headspace before he manipulates me again.
I get up and peek out into the hallway. Somewhere, I hear the faint sound of a vacuum. I step out. As I start to walk down the hallway, I expect one of the floorboards to creak, but the mansion is flawless. I hate it and I want it. Just like I hate and want Lev.
I stop at the entrance of the mansion. The door is right there. It’d be easy to do. A clean, simple break. State my piece and walk away. No more Lev. No more mindfucking. No more of any of this.
But I let go. If the consequences only harmed me, I’d deal with the repercussions, but I can’t do that to my father. I can’t do that to the victims’ families. There’s too many pieces of this house of cards and slamming this door shut will cause it all to fall.
I turn around as Lev is descending the stairs. He’s carrying a metal ammunition box, the army green contrasting with the yellow lettering. His expression doesn’t change as he stops at the bottom of the stairs. He indicates with his head for me to go back into the den.
I glance back at the door, but even as I imagine the cold steel in my palm again, my legs start moving. I sense him walking behind me. The scent of his cologne—smoky and spicy—settles over me, sinking me into irrational neediness. I stumble against the love seat before I sit back down.
He sits in the armchair next to me, our knees nearly touching. I scoot my legs an inch away. His eyes follow the movement, a small smirk playing at his lips. Heat floods my cheeks.
He sets down the ammunition box in front of me and leans forward, his hands pressed together against his lips.
“Open it.”
“Why don’t you open it?” I retort.
“Because you’ll be far more interested in the contents than I am,” he says. “I know what’s in it.”
I fold my arms over my chest, leaning back. I stare at the ammunition box—mostly to avoid looking at him. My mind should be filled with all of the possible things that could be in the box.
Money?
A gun?
Someone’s severed head?
But my thoughts keep returning to Lev. His toned arms are visible under his shirt. If my hands slid underneath the fabric, they could explore for hours and still not find every treasure on his muscled torso. Even better, he could explore me and discover parts of me I’ve never known about.
The ammunition box. I need to concentrate.
I move to the edge of the love seat and fumble with the latch. As I start
