Page 104 of Dance of Devils

Outside, I exhale slowly, watching the flatbed truck unload the shitty old Accord. The thing is completely banged up, streakedwith grime and scrapes, with a busted window barely taped over and bird shit covering the hood.

It’sshockinglyout of place compared to the white gravel driveway, manicured grounds, rose gardens, vast mansion, and panoramic views of Manhattan on the horizon.

A profound sadness hits me as I walk over to the car and pace around it. My jaw clenches when I peer into the windows, glancing at the back seat.

She fuckinglivedhere. For more than a year.

Christ.

When I was sent to Zavolzhsky Penal Camp Eighteen as a child, that was hard. Arguably much harder than having no place to call home and living out of your car.

But, in a sense, I’d been preparing for that hardship my whole life. My father was never a wealthy man as he tried to build the fledgling Nikolayev organization into something bigger. Home was a two-bedroom shithole in an old Brutalist Soviet apartment block. I grew up on the streets, fighting sometimes for fun, but frequently for survival.

So, yes: Siberia was hell, and penal camp a nightmare. But I was ready for it.

Brooklyn, I’m guessing, wasnotready for the life she’s had the past year or more. Living out of this shitty car. Stripping. Sending all her money to a lawyer to keep her stepfather out of prison, even if the idiot is the reason she went into foster care in the first place. Even worse, she’s a young, attractive woman.

And she’s had no allies throughout this ordeal. No friends she could truly confide in or lean on.

In every scenario, even Siberia, I had things better than her. And I fucking hate how unfair that is, and how cruelly life has treated her.

Isaak clears his throat behind me, pulling my attention away from the miserable little Honda. He’s got one of “those” looks on his face, weighing his duty to protect me and aid me in decisions against his desire to speak freely.

I’ve told him for years that there are no restrictions there. But Isaak’s old-school, and takes the whole me “being his boss” thing to the level of King.

“Just say it,” I sigh.

He frowns, and I roll my eyes.

“It was easier to talk to you when you smoked, you know.”

He cracks a grin, lifting a shoulder. “Apparently, cigarettes are bad for you.”

“Imagine that.”

Isaak shrugs. “It feels good not to be addicted to them anymore. I wanted to get healthier for…well, me.”

I arch a brow. “And howisKai.”

I will never, ever tire of watching my number twoblush.

It’s like watching the bull in the china shopsit down and make teainstead of…doing what you assume he’s going to.

“Kai is good.” He cocks a brow. “Andyou?”

“Care to get specific?” I grunt.

Isaak chuckles. “Not really.” He turns to eye the car, then glances up at the house. “But I do have to ask…”

“Anything.”

He peers at me. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I can handle it,” I growl.

He clears his threat. “She’s a very talented dancer.”

“Indeed.”