Page 123 of Cruel Kiss

"I called you here," Lev says, "to answer for what he did when he was fifteen years old."

I feel Ronan's hand find my wrist. He's looking at Lev, and his face has gone somewhere I've never seen it go, somewhere behind the scars and the suit, all the way back to whatever's in that envelope in the briefcase in my kitchen. The thing he tried to hand me on a piece of paper so it wouldn't gut me in a room full of strangers.

I chose not to know.

And now, it seems Lev is going to tell me instead.

He turns to one of the shapes in the dark at the back of the warehouse, near the loading bay where a chain of light doesn't reach. He lifts one hand and calls out,

"Bring in the old man."

36

RONAN

Pyotr Vasiliev shuffles into the light on legs that don't want to hold him. He's thinner than the last time I saw him. There's a yellow-green bruise under one eye and a split at the corner of his mouth that's scabbed over.

But his eyes are clear. Lev took everything else, but his eyes are clear. They find me across the concrete and hold, but I can't read what's in them. Fear? Shame? Something older than both?

"Sit him down," Lev orders.

Two of his men bring a chair. They shove Pyotr in it and step back into the dark.

Lev walks over and claps a hand on the old man's shoulder. "You know Pyotr," he tells the captains. "He kept the Bratva's books for thirty years." He tips his head at me. "If Igor or his son needed something buried, it was Pyotr who did the digging. Numbers, debts, bodies—you name it, Pyotr was the man who made it disappear." He pats the shoulder. "Tell them, Pyotr. Tell them what you buried the night Igor Akov died."

Pin-drop silence in the room. Pyotr tries to talk, but his voice doesn't seem to be working.

Lev's smile curdles. "They told you Igor died of his heart," he says to the room, sweeping his eyes across them. "Some of you were young. You heard it and you believed it, because why would you not? A big, loud man, always red in the face, always shouting—of course his heart gave out. It's a good story."

He crouches down in front of the old man, so they're eye to eye.

"But it wasn't his heart that killed him, was it, Pyotr?"

The old man looks at the floor and shakes his head.

"Was it enemies?" Lev presses. "A rival crew? A hit?"

Another head shake. Smaller than the first.

"No," Lev agrees. "It was the son."

He stands up straight and points one damning finger at me across the warehouse.

"This man killed Igor Akov. Fifteen years old and he killed his own father. How do I know? Because Pyotr here is the one who had the task of burying Igor's body.” He drops the finger. "That's your real charge, Ronan Akov. You think we give a damn about business decisions? Bah! Fuck the gunrunning trade; I don't care about it. What matters most is that you're sitting on a stolen throne, paid for in blood. You murdered thepakhan.You killed your father. And in our world, there is only one sentence for that crime: death."

The captains are looking at me now. All six of them. Grigor's face has gone gray.

I don't say anything for a long moment.

I look at Cali. Not at Lev, not at the captains, not at Pyotr. Ather.

She's staring at me and there's fear in her eyes, but there's noretreatin them. She hasn't pulled her hand off the table. She hasn't stepped away from me. She's just watching. Taking it in. Adding it up.

New data.

I told her I'd tell her the worst thing on her steps, with a bottle of wine, after this whole saga had concluded. I meant it. That's still where the whole story will belong, if I do survive this—what I did and why and how old I was and how it felt to see the light drain from my father's eyes.

But this room? These people?