Page 19 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

“It is not right to discard one family for another,” he says, shaking his head.

Secretly, deep down in my heart of hearts, my inner child agrees.

But I’m not allowed to agree; I don’t let myself.

“I don’t hold it against her; I know she deserves to be happy, too.

” I’ve said it so many times—mostly to myself and my therapist—that it’s true for me now.

So why does it feel more like a lie when I say it this time?

“I’m not bitter or anything; we’re just… not close. Like I said.”

He cocks his head, brow furrowed as he evaluates my story. “You see this situation with remarkable clarity. ”

“Yeah, well,” I blow out a breath, “I’ve had some therapy about it.”

I move my bishop out into the middle of the board, and he squints at it, then at me, like he can’t believe I did that—I only realize why when he takes it with his own.

I didn’t see that countermove at all, and it makes me want to drop my face into my hands.

I maneuvered myself right into another question when all I want to do is shut up for a little while.

“Why did you choose to be a nurse instead of a doctor?” he asks.

I scoff, immediately put off and maybe still a bit raw from the last one. I feel flayed, on display for him to poke at all my half-healed emotional wounds.

“Pick a ruder question, why don’t you?”

“Why is it rude?”

“It implies that everyone should want to be a doctor, like they’re more important. Nurses are just as crucial.”

He holds up his hands in surrender, my white bishop still tucked against his palm. “I meant no disrespect. I asked only because you mentioned your father was a doctor. This is something that people do exactly as their parents do. At least, in my country.”

If I had detected even a hint of attitude, I wouldn’t have believed him, but he sounds sincere.

“Oh. Okay, yeah, people follow in their parents’ footsteps here, too.

Sorry, I guess you found a sore spot. I get that question all the time, but people always mean it like, ‘why would you take the job cleaning out bedpans instead of cutting open bodies’ and it’s really demeaning.

It’s not better to be a doctor just because you don’t have to do some of the grunt work. ”

“Cleaning up messes is an important part of a job,” he agrees with a nod. “A person is not made better by removing the responsibility; it sometimes makes them more thoughtless of the consequences.”

I eye him, frowning slightly because I know he’s not talking about the healthcare industry, but it feels like he is.

I’ve watched doctors prescribe medications that keep patients up all night or give them diarrhea, when an alternative existed that wouldn’t.

But doctors like that don’t think about it because they don’t have to deal with the day-to-day patient care and the side effects that only impact those of us who do.

“Do I want to know what kind of messes you’re talking about?” I ask hesitantly.

“Probably not,” he allows.

“Well, then, I’ll answer the question I think you were trying to ask. Which is ‘why go into nursing?’”

He nods.

I sit back, dropping my hands into my lap.

“I guess the idea did ultimately come from my dad—he definitely believed healthcare is the noblest profession. Nursing seemed like a better fit for me in a lot of ways. I graduated sooner, with less debt. It offered a better work-life balance and had excellent opportunities, like travel nursing. That one was a no-brainer. I didn’t really have ties anywhere, the pay was better, and I got to see new places and then leave after a few months when my contract was up. ”

“You prefer this life of moving from place to place?”

“I mean, traveling was exciting, especially at first—I got to try out new cities to see where I’d fit,” I shrug. “But it’s getting old. I’ve lived in nine cities in as many years.”

His brows shoot up. “So many places. Are you running from something or looking for something?”

I blow out an amused breath. “Both, probably. It was always part of the plan to put down roots eventually. I’ve just been waiting for somewhere to feel right —somewhere to call home, somewhere to buy a house and get a permanent position and join a gym and make friends…

This was supposed to be the last move,” I mutter. “Guess it won’t be.”

“Why?” he demands.

“Um… was that a serious question?” I narrow my eyes at him, but his neutral expression gives nothing away.

“Maybe because there’s a guy in th e mafia after me?

Because I’ve potentially got drugs in my stomach?

Because I don’t know what I’m up against?

I think even if Kyle is dead, I’ll be looking over my shoulder forever.

It’s honestly easier just to pick up and move far away.

I’m good at it by now, and I have nothing holding me here. ”

His jaw flexes, giving him a distinctly angry look, and he nods once, curtly.

I know his next move is meant to bait my queen into taking the piece, but I don’t see a better move, so I make it. “What about your family? Did you grow up in Russia?”

Dimitri crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, regarding me with a shuttered gaze. “I grew up in a very small village. My father was a soldier in the Chechen war, and my mother was…” he pauses, and the corners of his mouth twitch, “a nurse.”

“Really?” I ask brightly. I love that.

“Yes.”

“What did your father do after the war?”

He sighs. “This is not something I share with people.”

My happy heart deflates, and I nod, understanding. Of the two of us, he has way more secrets to guard. “That’s o—”

“When I was a boy, my father owned a bar where the locals would come after work,” he begins ominously, like he’s gearing up.

My heart bangs around wildly. He wasn’t refusing to answer; he was warning me, trusting me with an untold story.

“One night the bar was robbed. Some men beat him and burned down the building. Knowing what I know now, I believe he was approached by a Bratva and offered protection, which he turned down.”

I tuck my hands under my thighs, warming them. “Protection?”

His smile is wry—no mirth at all, just a baring of his teeth—as he scrubs at his short hair with his knuckles.

“A Bratva has the unique position of acting as shield and sword. They offer protection from dangers for which they are responsible. They take tributes from local businesses to mark or expand their ‘territory,’ and in return these businesses receive protection. If they are attacked, the Bratva they pay tribute to will respond on their behalf. Of course, they are only attacked for being part of that territory to begin with.”

“Sounds like the business owners get the raw end of that deal.”

“My father believed so, but after the fire, he wished to protect my mother and me. Because he had experience as a soldier from the war, the Pakhan— the leader—of a neighboring Bratva hired him to be an enforcer. That is how he got involved in organized crime. When it was obvious that I would grow to a similar size as my father, I was also recruited.”

I don’t want to know, but I ask, “How old were you?”

He’s quiet as he rasps, “Not old. Too young. The Pakhan told me he saw my potential early. When I was a boy, it filled me with pride; and so, to keep his favor, I became what the Pakhan told me I was—strong, ruthless, and loyal—an ideal soldier. As a man, I understand it had little to do with me; it was a thing he did to keep my father in his grasp. Aleksandr was a clever man, one who knew how to control those around him. Son to control father, then later, after my father died in a fight over territory, mother to control son. He took my mother as a mistress when he sensed I was pulling away. She died some years later, but it was exactly the right thing to do to keep me in his fist at 16.”

The information alone feels like an assault; I can’t imagine living it.

What Dimitri is describing is the worst kind of stolen childhood.

His anger wraps around him like a shield, even now, though he delivers the words with a kind of resigned detachment, like the memories are more inconvenient than horrific.

I want to reach out to him, but I tuck my hands more firmly under my legs. My heart aches for him .

“You weren’t part of what happened at the wedding.

You’re not in a Bratva, ” I realize suddenly.

All this time, I’ve kind of been assuming that he knew what was going on that night because he was in on it, to some extent.

But after what he just told me, I find it hard to believe he’d willingly involve himself with that kind of organization.

“No. And I never will be again,” he declares, voice low in a repeated promise he’s clearly made to himself.

Hope swells. Maybe he really is just trying to help me.

He makes a move that I didn’t see coming, and I take another pawn. I finger it, assessing his posture and the look on his face. He’s so stoic, he hardly ever gives anything away, but I recognize the rawness in his expression now because I was just wearing the same one.

Time to shift gears and do what I promised—make this a bit more lighthearted.

“How old are you?”

“Pass.”

Fair enough. If he won’t tell me his birthday, I guess it makes sense he’d keep this one to himself, too. “What’s your middle name?”

“Pass.”

“Oh, come on. Okay, what’s your favorite food?”

He makes a face. “How does one answer this question? Why must I prefer one above the millions of other options?”

I roll my eyes. “How did you get that scar on your face?”

“Pass.”

0 for 4.

“Well… okay…” My gaze falls into my lap for my next question. “You told me about your family, but what about your friends and job and… um, lovers?”

When I dare to peek, he’s staring. I’m pinned in place by shards of ice that somehow burn like the hottest part of a flame. “I have no lover, Nicole,” he tells me, blatantly ignoring the rest of the question and answering the only part that matters.