Chapter 8
1238words
Shock, unease, fear—the fleeting emotions that dance across Camila's face transform her beauty in ever-changing ways. But in an instant, she masks them behind a veneer of genuine rage, her fists clenched at her sides.
Advancing towards me, she demands, "What the hell is going on? What is all of this?"
"You'll have to be more specific," I chuckle lightly.
Furrowing her brow, she gestures towards the photos on the wall. "Have you been following me?"
"Just doing some research," I reply casually.
It's the nonchalant manner in which I deliver those words that seems to unsettle her. Camila stiffens, as though restraining an impulse to strike me. A surge of adrenaline courses through me; I enjoy provoking her, though it's neither professional nor part of the plan. Some things are beyond prediction.
She exhales sharply, her shoulders slumping. "Stop playing games. I want to know why you're doing all of this."
"I'm not playing any game, ptichka," I assert, closing the distance between us in a single stride. We stand chest to chest, my presence casting a shadow over her until her complexion pales. "You and your family have been on the frontline of a Bratva war led by a man so terrible, you'd consider me a saint in comparison."
Her lower lip trembles between her teeth as she tries to maintain composure, but it's a futile effort. She may act brave, but no one could remain calm hearing what I've just revealed.
"The Bratva," she murmurs. "You're part of the Russian Mafia?"
Her inquiry highlights the stark divide between her world and mine. Camila's innocence is almost endearing. "I'm the pakhan of the Grachev Bratva."
She recoils, reassessing me with newfound wariness. "Stay away from me."
I chuckle deeply. "Didn't you hear anything I just said? You should want to be as close to me as possible, Camila. There's someone out there hunting you. Someone far worse than me."
"Who?" she whispers.
"Yannick Grachev." The name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I clench my jaw, trying to rid myself of its unpleasant flavor.
Her face registers blankness. Either the name means nothing to her, or she's adept at hiding her reaction.
"You call him a monster, yet you're the one who blindfolded me and led me through your mansion!" She rounds on me. "I don't understand why, especially since you let me see where I was going all the way here in the car. You probably have people watching me to ensure I don't leave, so was it just to disorient me?"
'Very observant. Impressive."
She grouses at my compliment. 'I still don't understand what this has to do with me or my mother."
I jerk my head at the photos. 'It has everything to do with you, Camila. The reason I'm buying your dance studio is because it's part of my plan to destroy Yannick." Saying it out loud makes my heart beat quicker.
Camila's scowl twists her whole face up.
'You think I'm lying," I continue. 'Tell me, have you ever noticed anything strange about your studio? Anything slightly off in all the years you've grown up there?"
Suddenly she can't look me in the eye. 'I don't know what you mean," she stammers. 'It's just a normal dance studio."
'You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
There! The defiance is back in her glare. 'You've been there, Asher. Anything strange can be blamed on the fact it borders the seedier parts of the city."
Crossing my arms, I move around her to study the photos closer. 'Whatever you think, I'll say it plainly. Yannick is a cruel man. He has no qualms about hurting people." My finger runs down a picture of Camila, her head tilted low, face in shadow as she mourns her dead father at his funeral. 'And he clearly has some interest in you and your mother."
'It looks like you do too."
Glancing over my shoulder, I note that Camila hasn't moved. The exit is right there, but she ignores it. Good.
'Only because of his interest." I turn around. 'My interest is in keeping you two safe from him."
'That's why you kidnapped me, right?" She throws her arms down with a sarcastic laugh. 'You have a funny idea about what protecting somebody is."
'The rules are different in the world of the Bratva, ptichka. If I didn't act tonight, Yannick would have reached you first."
'And why should I trust the word of a murderer?"
This dance again. Her accusation rings hollow—not because she's wrong; oh no, far from it—but because she doesn't know the full picture.
'Because the man I killed was following you." The color drains from her face; she's starting to feel the weight of my news. 'He was one of Yannick's boeviks. He was watching you at your studio before tailing you to Topher's. One word from his boss, and he'd have cut your throat without you even seeing his face. You didn't notice him once, did you?"
'You don't know that," she argues, but her voice is frail.
'You have no idea how much more I know than you." Closing the gap, I stand over her. In the cloak of my shadow, she looks smaller than ever. This is my chance to push her over the edge and guide her where I need her to go. 'Do you want to live, Camila?"
'Of course I do."
'And do you want your mother to live?"
'Yes!" she snaps.
'Then there are two conditions." Lifting my hand, I spread two of my thick fingers in front of her. 'The first is that you must stop trying to sink our business deal. You'll agree to sell your studio to me."
Camila eyeballs my fingers, then she meets my stare evenly. 'And the other?"
It's a struggle not to smirk. 'You will stay here, in my mansion, with me."
Her jaw trembles. She's not afraid; she's trying not to say something she'll regret. 'For how long?"
My lips twist into a cruel smile, and I feel my heartbeat quicken as I dictate my terms. 'Until I have what I want, however long it takes. And then, only then, will you be allowed to leave, Camila."
She closes her eyes, allowing her thick lashes to drape across her cherry-tinged cheeks. I'm positive she's considering my words carefully. Weighing them … searching for other options, or for any hint of a lie. After a minute, she opens her eyes again, but she doesn't look at me. Her attention is on the wall of photographs. One by one she studies them, as if inscribing them into her memory.
Her hand touches her throat, the way I saw her do earlier. Only then does Camila, this fascinating woman, hold out that same palm to me.
'All right." Her reluctance isn't subtle.
I don't need her to be ecstatic though. All I need is exactly what she's giving me—herself. Wrapping my hand around hers and watching her fingers vanish in my grip, I can feel her trembling in my grasp. I know it's taking every ounce of strength in her body to not break down in tears.
Not because she's afraid.
But because she knows she has no other choice than me.
I stop fighting the expression I've been warring with since I entered the room as I give her hand a firm shake, and I smile.
