Page 36 of Sinful Hearts

I snarl my lip in disgust.

She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, kisses his cheek, and yells for the girl to save her some coke while hurrying back into the living room.

Aleksy chuckles.

I follow him further through the foyer and into a large office with gold panels and expensive artwork. Lev trails behind me and shuts the door behind us.

“Are you here about Dasha?” Aleksy asks. “We’re still working on her whereabouts, but we know she ran off with some guy we had grown up with. I have one of my men working on finding his family. We can probably torture some information out of them.” He smirks, strolling to the bar cart, and pours himself a glass of whiskey.

I shake my head when he holds a glass in my direction. “What’s your plan with her?”

“What’syourplan, Lastro? She was supposed to beyourwife. Not mine.”

The fucker doesn’t have a plan.

He wouldn’t know what a plan was if it punched him in the mouth.

So, he wants me to figure it out for him.

“Correct. She wassupposed to,” I reply. “You never fulfilled that contract, making it voidfor you, meaning her running off is your responsibility.”

“She defied”—he pauses to gesture back and forth between us with his glass—“us.”

“She defiedyou. She fuckedyou.” I straighten my cuff links. “I still got a wife out of it. I’m happy either way.”

He downs his whiskey and pours another. “Lev, leave us.”

Lev pays me a glance, nods, and then disappears from the office.

“We need to talk,” I say as soon as the door shuts behind Lev.

Aleksy walks behind the desk and collapses into the leather chair. A framed Sylvester Stallone photo is on the wall, and an AK-47 is displayed above it.

That’s new.

Yaroslav didn’t have that when I last visited his office.

It was a painting of his old-as-fuck parents, who looked miserable.

But I don’t have time to give a shit about Aleksy’s decor choices. I need to get this over with so I can go home and force my wife to eat something before she starves to death.

“Why didn’t you kill Dr. Oswald?”

“Who?” Aleksy props his feet on the desk.

“The doctor who sexually assaulted Liliya. Why didn’t you kill him?”

“That wasn’t my business.”

“Someone hurting your sister wasn’t your business?”

If someone hurts my damn pinkie toe—let alone my own blood—I want to bash their fucking head in.

Aleksy goes quiet for a moment, as if contemplating every word he wants to say before allowing it to leave his mouth.

Smart.

“Where’s your sister, Emilio?” A sudden cockiness is in his tone. “Did you protect her?”