Page 36 of Dark Desires

He crouches besides me. “What’s going on?”

I shake my head, wiping at my face. “Just leave me alone, Alexei. I can’t do this right now.”

But he doesn’t move. “Can’t do what? Isabella, talk to me.”

The tenderness in his voice makes the tears come harder. His arms are around me, holding me steady, grounding me in a way I didn’t know I needed.

“You can’t be doing this here,” he says. “This is no place for tears.”

I laugh, just a bit.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Nothing. Just that even you being empathetic is hard-edged.”

A small smile curls his lips. “This isn’t my forte, exactly. You need a man—hell, a few men—dead? Come talk to me. But this…”

“I get it. Anyway, you don’t have to be here. I can work through this on my own.”

“But you don’t have to,” he quickly replies. “You’re family. Or you’re about to be. We look after our own.”

This reminder of the fact that I’m putting all of that at risk brings fresh tears.

“Isabella,” he says, his voice firmer.

I make a decision then and there. “We might not end up a family after I tell you what I have to tell you.”

“Tell me.” His tone is hard, uncompromising, like he’s speaking to someone he’s trying to grill for information.

I pull back slightly, my voice shaky. “I need a break from all of this: the hospital, Stephania, the doctors… I can’t talk here.”

He nods without hesitation. “OK, let’s go.”

I blink at him, surprised. “What?”

“You need out? I’ll make it happen,” he says, standing and pulling out his phone. “I’ll have my people let the hospital know you’re checking out. We can go back to my place and talk there.”

I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. I’m too tired to argue, and honestly, part of me is relieved.

“Good. Come,Devotchka.”

Ten minutes later, I’m in my street clothes and we’re in his forest-green sports car, flying through the city.

The drive to his place is silent. Rain starts to fall, streaking the windows as the city blurs past. I sit there, staring at my hands, my mind spinning. Alexei doesn’t say a word, his focus on the road.

We step into his apartment, the rain pattering on the towering windows of his apartment.

“Now I know how you can afford a place like this,” I say, stepping inside.

He slips out of his rain-slicked coat and hangs it up, gesturing for mine. I take it off and hand it over.

He gestures to the massive sectional couch, and I step over and plop onto it. He vanishes, and I hear the sink running in the kitchen for a moment. When he returns, he hands me a glass of water.

“You’ve been through a lot,” he says.

“You have no idea,” I shoot back.

He shrugs and looks at me. “I bet I do. We’re not all that different. You’re Italian and I’m Russian, but our lifestyles are very similar, no?”