"But it's one of those dresses," she argued, lifting her arms into the air. "A twirling dress. You have to twirl or you may as well not wear it."
"Don't twirl if you're going to get dizzy and pass out."
"But I must."
"One twirl."
"Two!" she argued, leaning up on her elbows so that our faces were nearly touching. "Please?"
We were so close I could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. I tried to ignore the hypnotic pull I felt just by staring and blinked away.
"Fine." I licked my lips, my gaze entirely too focused on her mouth, considering I was trying not to stare into her eyes. "Two twirls but go slow, no passing out."
"Careful, Sicily, your true colors are showing." She leaned up and whispered in my ear, "Don't want people thinking you actually care."
"I don't." Even I wasn't convinced with the lack of passion behind my words.
"Sure." She nodded and patted my shoulder. "And thanks… I think I'll pick this dress. Your reaction was perfect."
"But I didn't react."
"My point exactly."
I kept staring at her, trying to figure her out, while at the same time irritated that she seemed to see right through everything I threw at her. Big brown eyes stared right back at me, knowing me, seeing me.
I jerked back.
Having forgotten there were other women in the room, I nearly collided with both Mo and Mil while I made my escape.
I slammed the door behind me then leaned back against it, my hands clenched into clammy tight fists as I closed my eyes and muttered a curse.
"Wow, the dress was that nice, huh?" Nixon was leaning against the wall, his eyes missing nothing. Damn him.
"For a dress," I said in a weak and completely unconvincing voice.
Nixon smirked, his silver lip ring caught the light filtering in from the high windows. "You know it doesn't have to be a punishment."
"Ha." I pushed away from the wall. "But it is. You're forcing my hand, and why? That's what I want to know. What makes that girl—" I pointed at the closed door. "—in that room so damn important? Say her father finds her… What then? I protect her with my life."
Nixon sighed. "I'm disappointed you would even need to ask that question. A husband always protects his wife, regardless of his feelings. Once you're married, you're blood. You share something precious, something eternal. Protect her with your life? Damn right, you better. Because if you don't, if you hesitate, if you fail us one more time…" His expression didn't waver. The man wasn't even flinching as his words dealt physical blows to my body. "…I'll kill you myself."
"So die or marry." I exhaled and put my hands on my hips, willing my mouth to shut the hell up.
"You could try to enjoy yourself. She's beautiful." Nixon turned on his heel and started walking back down the hall. "Or you could just continue being an asshole and let me shoot you."
"Good talk, cousin," I muttered under my breath.
"Yeah well," Nixon called over his shoulder. "You're lucky I don't do worse. You deserve worse and you know it."
Yeah, I did.
Guilt gnawed at me from the inside out. I deserved worse than what was getting handed to me. Then again, I couldn't actually comprehend what was worse than being forced into a marriage with a bloodthirsty Russian only to be told to keep her alive while her equally bloodthirsty father hunts her like a dog, only to have that same Russian die a few months later.
Death had always surrounded me, always.
I thought after I confessed my involvement in the FBI to the families they'd at least kill me — silence the whispers and screams of all the people I'd killed — and put me out of my misery.
Instead, the voices were louder than ever. And I knew it was only a matter of time before it got worse, before all I saw was death, and I would be powerless to stop it.
That's the thing about killing, about dying. When you're the one dealing it, you think less and less about it until it's as normal as reading the morning paper.
But when you lose your grasp on it, when for one second, you lose control… it turns into a monster again.
And chases your every waking nightmare.
Andi was death — but she was also life, and I didn't know how to fuse the two. I wasn't even sure I wanted to.
CHAPTER FOUR
Andi
THE DRESS WAS PERFECT. I'd never been one of those girls who got overly emotional about anything. My pet bird died when I was six. Instead of crying, I'd simply made it a gravestone, written a eulogy, then asked my father for a new one.
He'd said yes. And so the circle of life continued. My adopted father, the one I'd lived with my entire life, made sure to give me everything I could ever hope for, while never lying to me about where I'd come from or why I'd been given to him.
I was blood money, plain and simple.
My real father, Petrov, as I so lovingly called him, had given me to the head of the FBI organized crime unit as a bribe when he discovered Smith wasn't able to have children.
Smith, overjoyed he wouldn't have to adopt — considering it was expensive and his salary was crap — had said yes.
But Petrov had one condition.
Train me in all ways Russian.