Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (83)

“Have you informed his family?” I ask.

“Of course I have. Do you think I’d have kept them in the dark about his death?”

“I was just asking, Isaak—”

“Ask better questions.”

“You know what? You clearly need to be alone right now. I’m going to go inside.”

I’ve already turned away when he speaks up again.

“It was your fucking fiancé that killed him,” he spits. “Maxim’s the one that pulled the trigger. He was gunning for me. But the fucker’s aim has never been very good.”

I pivot slowly. “He’s not my fiancé anymore.”

“No?” Isaak asks. “Because you still seem to have some sort of sick preoccupation with him.”

“Seriously? We’re back to this, after everything that’s happened?”

He shrugs, but his muscles remain tense. “He seems to believe that you’re still loyal to him. That you still love him.”

“What do you care, Isaak?” I demand. “You obviously don’t give a shit about me.” I’m only riling up the beast, but at this point, I don’t have any more fucks left to give.

His eyes flash again. “You don’t know—”

“You and Maxim are exactly the same.”

Yeah. Definitely the wrong thing to say.

He grabs me instantly, yanking me against his body. The collision knocks the breath out of my lungs, but I don’t have time to regain my bearings before I’m staring right into his fierce blue eyes. It feels similar to staring down the barrel of a gun.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“Get your hands off me right now,” I say, as calmly as I can manage.

His grip on me tightens. “I could have killed him, you know,” he snarls at me. “I could have slaughtered him like a fucking pig. But I didn’t.”

“Then maybe Lachlan’s death has more to do with you than me.”

His eyes go wide. His grip on my arm slackens for just a moment. I don’t feel guilty for saying what I said. If he’s going to around casting blame, then he better be willing to take it, too.

He drops my hand and takes a step back. He opens his mouth to speak. I’m ready for anything. For fury. For venom. For unbridled rage.

Well, I thought I was ready for anything, at least. But I was wrong.

“Maybe you’re right.”

I feel as though I’m standing on quicksand. I try to grab onto something to hold me steady, but the only thing within reach is him.

I still don’t understand why I feel such a strong pull towards Isaak. Every time he pushes me away, every time he gives me another reason to hate him, I just find an excuse to stay.

Maybe it has something to do with the way his face falls when I lay Lachlan’s murder at his feet. Like I just sliced off a little part of his soul.

“I… Isaak… I didn’t mean that…”

“Didn’t you?”

His tone is still biting. He’s not asking for pity or sympathy, though. He’s not even asking for understanding. He’s just trying to wade through a loss he never saw coming.

“What even happened?” I say, desperate to keep him from retreating back behind that icy wall of aloofness he wears so well. “I thought this meeting was meant to be peaceful. Unarmed.”

“Maxim didn’t keep to his side of the bargain.” His voice is a hollow croak. It makes my heart ache. Like I’m forcing him to relive the moment—but this time, I feel every ounce of his pain along with him.

“I expected it,” he continues. “I was ready. And then the fight broke out. We were outnumbered almost two to one, but we won anyway. They were fucking retreating. It was almost over. But of course, Maxim being the coward he is, decided to take one last shot at me. And like I said… his aim was always shit.”

I want to reach out, touch him. And only because I have no idea how that gesture will be taken, I resist the urge. So instead, I stand a few feet away, wishing there wasn’t this uncrossable chasm between us.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He’s staring into the middle distance. “I should have killed him when I had the chance. I had him right underneath my fingers. One move. I could have snapped his neck and ended all of this for good.”

I flinch at the brutal fantasy. Isaak doesn’t miss it.

“Something wrong? Was that visual too much for you?”

“You’re talking about snapping someone’s neck, Isaak,” I whisper. “That’s not a visual I’m comfortable with.”

The thunder creeps back into his expression. The walls go up. The temperature drops.

And just like that, the moment of fleeting connection—the single instant of Isaak Vorobev acting like a fucking human being with feelings, as opposed to an emotionless beast—is gone. Severed like it never existed.

“I’ve forgotten who I’m talking to,” he sneers. “Maxim’s loyal little lapdog.”

In my head, I know what’s happening. It’s textbook. He’s trying to hurt me to mask his own sense of loss.

But there’s only so much a person can take. And I’ve reached my limit.

“Fuck you,” I snap.