Chapter 77
1689words
Nothing tastes better right now than peanut butter and yogurt on top of a blueberry muffin.
I didn't have this epiphany until this morning, but I'm confident I'm right. Why else would I be slathering my third muffin in thick white yogurt, licking chunky peanut butter off my thumb while hovering over the sink in the kitchen?
Because you're a crazy pregnant woman.
Well, okay. That probably factors in.
Humming to myself, I wash down my mouthful of food with a glass of orange juice. It was freshly squeezed this morning, which boggles my mind because it's only nine and I've been awake for half an hour. Does the staff ever sleep? Or do they wake up fully functional at the crack of dawn? I could never. Especially not lately. I'm a walking ball of exhaustion mixed with ravenous hunger.
Running my palm over my belly, I sigh. Sure, my feet are swollen and killing me, and I'm eating weird things, but I'm living my best life.
If you ignore the mystery surrounding my husband-but-not-really-my-husband's possibly child-murdering inclinations.
Frowning as my mood takes a nose-dive, I stuff more muffin past my lips. I still haven't had the guts to ask Asher about Pyotr. Adriana hasn't brought me any news either. I'm swimming in a sea of uncertainty as the baby I share with a possible murderer grows by the day.
'Good morning," a familiar voice says. Layla has joined me in the kitchen. She's dressed in her usual—she must have a closet full of the same-length skirts and blouses. Her blue eyes sparkle kindly at me. They match the gems ever present on her ears.
'I can make you a fresh pot of coffee. Decaf, of course."
'I'd like that." I rub my belly gently. 'Thank you."
Layla moves through the space in that efficient way of hers. The bitter scent of coffee grounds wafts to my nose. I've become more sensitive to smells in the last week.
Sitting at the table, I wait for her to join me as the coffee percolates in the background. 'Any plans for the day?" I ask.
'Take stock of the pantry, organize the spring collection of drapes, make sure that the girls scrub the first-floor bathrooms." Layla ticks off the tasks with her fingers. 'Rotate the wine bottles in the cellar."
I'm overcome with a wave of unease. The wine cellar … Just mentioning that place makes me recall the weird behavior between Asher and Mila. The pair of them were being suspicious, but I dropped the topic because of other pressing issues at the time.
Why do I always feel like they're hiding ghastly things from me?
Because they probably are.
One is an assassin, and the other, the head of the Grachev Bratva. It would be weird if they weren't doing something ghastly that they don't want me to know about.
The coffeepot stops hissing. Layla rises and gathers two small porcelain cups. She sets one in front of me, and brings over a silver tin of cream with a white cup of crystallized sugar cubes. The cubes remind me of the big chunks of sugar that gave the muffins their crunchy coating. And just like that, I'm hungry all over again.
She smiles fondly at me while stirring sugar into the dark liquid in her own cup.
'And you, devushka? Any plans with Asher today?" she asks lightly.
'I don't know." Just the mere mention of his name sends me tumbling backward into the unease I've been fighting to quell.
Hunching over my coffee, I swirl it absently. The scent is burning my nose. I don't want it anymore. I have to know about Pyotr. I glance up from my cup. It's a risk, but at this point, I'll be eaten alive by anxiety if I don't find out somehow.
'Layla … can I ask you about something?"
'You sound nervous, devushka."
I shift in my chair. 'It's not an easy question to ask. It feels like prying."
Her head tilts and her earrings sway. 'You can ask me anything, Camila."
I nod but don't speak. Not right away. I draw the moment out by adding sugar and cream to my coffee as I gather my thoughts. Layla grabs a cup and does the same as she waits. It's a big deal, what I'm about to ask. I'm dancing on an edge here, unsure if the nervousness I feel is because I'm about to fish for information I'm not supposed to know.
Or because I won't like what I find.
I can't just ask about Pyotr, not yet. I have to be cautious. 'Kristina … um … did Yannick have a reason for murdering her?"
Her hand stirring the coffee slows to a stop. 'Because she was Asher's wife."
'Right, but was there another reason?"
Sitting deeper in her chair, she takes a long sip of her coffee. The steam wafts around her face. 'Why do you ask?"
Her sharp eyes catch every little twitch of my eyebrows and lips. My hands on the coffee cup slide to the table. She sees that too. Layla is too clever to be fooled like this. She can see right through me. If I leave without explaining, I'll look more suspicious. What's the harm in revealing some of the truth?
'I'll tell you," I reply. 'If you promise to keep this a secret."
Her lips purse. 'A secret from Asher, you mean."
I nod. Who else can I keep secrets from?
Layla studies her nails for a while. I would count the seconds, but I'm distracted by making sure the cup doesn't shake in my hands when I pick it back up. I take a small sip, but the coffee tastes far more bitter than I thought.
'All right," she finally manages. 'I'll do this for you."
Slumping from relief, I nearly spill my drink. 'When I was with Yannick, he told me that he killed Kristina as revenge. He wanted Asher to know how it felt to lose a child … because she was pregnant."
Layla stares at me without blinking. I let out a weak breath.
Now or never.
'Because Asher killed Yannick's son. Pyotr."
'Hm." Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. Not enough for me to figure out what she thinks, but enough to tell me that I'm not going to like what I'm about to hear.
'Is it true, then?"
'This is about more than the answer to that question, isn't it?"
'No," I say too quickly.
But Layla doesn't argue. Instead, she links her fingers over her lips and just looks at me. I can't tell if she's smiling or frowning. Neither would be good. Of course it's about more than Pyotr. I need to know if Asher is capable of killing a child!
I need to know if he's capable of killing another one. I force my breathing to slow down. 'You're right," I lie carefully. 'There's more. Yannick said that my position in this war isn't different than my mother's in regard to him. Do you think that's right? Am I blind to the fact I'm trapped with an abusive monster?"
'There is a world of difference," her hand falls to the table with a thud, and her eyes flash with anger, 'between Asher and that monster." She chews each word, spitting out the next. 'Asher has a moral code. Yannick never did."
The steam of her coffee swirls around her like a righteous cloud of anger. Yet in spite of how worked up she's getting, it doesn't convince me. This is it. There's no more point in delaying.
'If he has a moral code," I say. 'Then you should be able to tell me he didn't kill Pyotr."
She holds my stare evenly. Like a puddle in the rain, her doubt grows steadily. The pride she wore a moment ago is all gone. Settling back in her chair, she pulls her cup closer but doesn't drink from it.
'You know nothing, Camila Yannickevna!"
'Then tell me," I argue.
Layla sizes me up. My conviction wins out, and she hangs her head in defeat. 'Yes. Asher killed Pyotr."
Her words hit me harder than I could ever expect. It's as if someone has shoved me face-first into a pond of ice and is now holding me there. My throat closes and I find it hard to breathe. No. My God, it can't be true. But Layla wouldn't lie about this. There's no reason.
Shivering, I grab my coffee cup, seeking warmth, but the hot drink isn't enough. Either it's gone lukewarm, or I'm too beyond what it can offer me.
He did it.
He killed a child.
And that means ...
He can do it again.
Recalling Roman's smile, so similar to my mother's, I fight down a ripple of nausea. I loathe Yannick, but I have no wish for an innocent child—even if that child is his son—to suffer the actions of his father.
Why did I ask?
Because you wanted to know, stupid girl!
Now I do, and I can't forget it.
'Why?" I croak hoarsely. 'Why would Asher do that?"
Layla turns away from me to look out the window. There's nothing to see. The sky is flat gray without any defined clouds, but she studies it like it's a painting in a museum. 'That's not for me to tell you."
'But you know!" I argue. 'Why won't you tell me?"
'Because this is not for me to tell!" she says flatly. 'If you want to know, then you must ask Asher yourself. But know this: there will be consequences, Camila."
'There always are," I mutter.
'Not like this," she snaps, and I sit up in response.
In profile, her face is all angles. There's not a hint of softness here. When she twists, shifting her attention from the window to me, I hold my breath.
'The deeper you look into this," she warns me, 'the more pain it will bring." The agony in her eyes has turned her sapphire irises pitch black. 'Not just for you, devushka. But for everyone."
