Page 113 of Ruthless Sin
He doesn’t interrupt or move. His chest keeps rising under my hand. He’s listening — only that, nothing more — and something in my throat pulls tight.
“Yelena pinched him for it. She was six years older.”
He’s still. His chest keeps rising under my hand, steady. I keep my hand flat against him.
“He taught me languages in the garden. The horse’s name was Buran. The stable was French but he didn’t like to say so. Yelena taught me how to read men in a room. Papa taught me the languages they spoke.”
Mila, watch his hands. Watch where his eyes go when he thinks no one’s looking.
I can hear her when I say it. Her voice. She was sixteen and I was ten and she already knew everything she needed to know about men in rooms.
My chest aches.
His chest rises and falls under my hand. Steady.
He doesn’t speak or try to fill it.
I’ve never told anyone any of this. There was never anyone to tell.
I keep going.
“On Sunday he didn’t take calls. Ever. The Bratva could wait. Mama made eggs. He put them in front of us and said this was all God gave our house that week. That we had to eat it with gratitude.”
His arm tightens around me. Just slightly. Not much. Just enough.
I keep going.
“He was joking. He never joked the rest of the week. Only on Sunday.”
The light moves a quarter inch on the rug.
My face does something before I’ve told it to.
I’m smiling.
It catches me off guard. My own face catching me off guard. My right hand on his stomach tightens — reflex, like I’m bracing for something — and the smile doesn’t go away. It stays.
I haven’t smiled in years. Not in a room with a man in it. I’ve smiled in bathrooms. At walls. Where no one could see it and take it.
He’s watching me. He’s stopped breathing.
I don’t stop.
The diminutive comes out before I’ve decided.
The name my father gave me. The name Yelena said when I was small and needed to be called back from somewhere far away. The name I’ve kept in a closed box for years because saying it means those people existed, means I was that girl once, means I lost her.
“Papa called meMilochka.”
His chest stops moving.
I have my right hand on his stomach. His chest stops under my hand.
A long beat.
The pulse at his throat stutters. Once.
Then his jaw goes hard. His mouth goes flat. His eyes go cold.
