Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
I don’t expect her to answer. I’m not dumb enough to believe she will. But I want her to have my number, just the same. I would do almost anything for her if she asked me to–swallow nails. Jump off a cliff.
Dima gave me access to the app he uses to monitor her trackers, so I know she hasn’t moved from her hotel room since Vlad texted me that she checked in.
I don’t sleep. I’m not trying to stay awake, either, but no part of me wants to close my eyes.
Every time I do, I see Kira’s face when Stepanov told her. The way she looked at me–the pain of my betrayal evident in the horror in her eyes.
I spend the night going over and over what I could have done differently. What I could do to ease the trauma I inflicted, but I come up with nothing.
What’s done is done. I don’t know how to fix it.
But I also don’t know how to go on. She was only here a few short days, but in that time, she left an indelible mark on me. I’m forever changed by knowing her. By tasting her. By seeing her cry.
I don’t see how I can make it through another day knowing how badly I hurt her. Only God knows that I never meant to.
Chapter Seventeen
Kira
Even though I tried to block all thoughts of Maykl, I wake replaying the moment in which he told me about killing my father.
Because I realize, he did try to tell me. He told me everything but who the man he killed was. I know that he didn’t want to do it. He felt he had no choice. That he was only thirteen–the same age I was at the time. I’m guessing, like me, he probably didn’t even know why it happened.
I crawl off the bed steeped in sorrow.
But the sorrow isn’t just for me.
It’s also for Maykl.
And for us.
The loss of us. Because what we had was special. Remarkable, even. I don’t trust people. Haven’t let a single man into my heart since the day the bratva took Anya. I’ve avoided intimacy. Rejected closeness, seeing it as weakness.
But somehow, unbelievably, I came to trust Maykl–the last man on Earth I should have let my guard down with. He captured me and held me prisoner and still somehow made me fall in love.
I check my phone and find he messaged me. Like a fool, I hold the phone to my chest.
I don’t answer, though. I’m still too battered by it all to even function. And right now, I need to get myself showered and dressed to see Mika.
The Waldorf is a beautiful hotel, not that Maykl’s apartment wasn’t just as luxurious. I turn on the shower and step under the spray of water, washing off the horror of yesterday.
Flashes of the damage I caused keep splintering through my thoughts. The siege on the Kremlin. The shoot-out in the garage. Gospodi, what if the Moscow bratva had succeeded in their plan to kidnap Sasha? It would have been all my fault. How could I have been so stupid?
Did I really think I was working for the FBI? What an idiot. I can only chalk it up to my grief and fear over Mika’s well-being.
Stepanov used me. Put a gun to my head, the bastard!
I shove the thoughts away. First, I see Mika.
Then I can figure the rest of this out.
I get dressed and go down to the lobby for coffee and a muffin. My stomach is in knots and my mouth is dry. I barely choke down the breakfast then go to Vlad’s hotel suite and knock on the door.
An American woman answers the door with a smile. “Hi. Kira? I’m Alessia, Mika’s adopted mom.” An adorable blonde preschooler hugs her leg. “This is our daughter, Lara.”
They have more than one child. Like a real family. For some reason, that warms my heart.
“Come on in.” She holds the hotel door open for me, and I step in, looking past her and the child to take in the teenager behind her. He stands nearly six feet tall. He’s lean and lanky like he just had a growth spurt. He stands beside Vlad, imitating his adopted father’s watchful stance.
“Mika.”
“Hey.” He sounds like an American, too. A gruff, awkward, normal American teenager. My heart squeezes.
“Do you remember me?” I speak in Russian.
He answers in English. “Yeah. Sort of. A little bit.”
I’m not usually a hugger, but I go in for an embrace.
He returns it, awkwardly.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come for you sooner. Your mom and I–we had a fight about her coming to America. I didn’t want her to leave. I begged her to leave you with me, but she wouldn’t hear of it. And because of our fight, she stopped speaking to me. I lost touch with her. I didn’t know anything until I was contacted by the consulate last week–” I stop, abruptly, and catch Vlad’s gaze. “Does he know?”