Page 38 of The Mad Don
He looks at me for a long time, and then he smirks but does not make eye contact.
“A sob story,” he says.
“I was just.”
I admit, I said it to move him. He catches on quickly. But I can see that the tension in his face is gone.
“Whatever it is. Save it!”
He pulls away, and I say, “I can help you with your sister.”
His smirk fades; the gun does not move from my jaw, but the pressure changes. Then his hand drops it down to his side.
He turns and walks away from me toward the desk. He sets the gun on the wood. He does not turn back.
“Go to your room,” he says. “Stay there.”
I do not move. “I can help your sister,” I say again.
He is at the window now, his back to me, both hands on the desk.
“Don’t bother yourself,” he says before I have spoken. “I have doctors and specialists. I have flown half of Europe to that room. I do not need a Russian assassin’s opinion on my sister.”
“Keeping her locked up in that airless room is making her sicker. You heard the doctor; she is so cut off from reality that she can’t recognize you. She’ll soon forget you.”
“You don’t know anything! She is only having episodes!” he thunders, his face red with rage. It’s the third time today I have seen him lose his calm, and I am oddly fascinated.
I walk a step closer, not too close, not close enough to incur his wrath. Close enough that he hears me.
“She doesn’t look sick enough to be cooped up. Leaving her locked up in a dark room is only making her worse! She is all alone!”
“I spend time with her.” His voice is low. “You do not know anything.”
“She is physically safe,” I say. “Yes. I understand that part. I do.” I keep my voice low. “But her mind is not safe in that room. That is exactly why she is troubled.”
He turns, and his face is closed.
“I can help her.”
“You cannot.”
I think about the basement in Sokolniki. Several men were tied to chairs, three days in, eyes already going dark. Kirill’s voice teaching me how to tear a person’s psyche apart with nothing but information and the careful manipulation of what they thought they knew. And how to heal their broken minds when he wanted them to be functional.
“I don’t know what your game is, but thank you for the offer. I’ll pass.”
“Give me a week.”
He looks at me.
“Supervised,” I add. “Your men in the room. Your capo at the door. I will not be alone with her. You watch every minute. One week.”
“And what exactly,” he says, “do you propose to do?”
I look at him.
“I’ll help you get her back.”
His hand reaches out, and he grabs my jaw. He tilts my face up, his eyes are on mine, I feel the heat of his palm against my skin, I feel the snake at his collarbone moving when he breathes, and I feel my body jolt.
