I laugh. “Add it to the list. Answer the question.”
She grinds her teeth together. “Okay, fine. I’ll admit, I don’t have the closest relationship with my parents. But I don’t have a bad relationship with them either. We just… don’t see eye to eye.”
“Sound familiar.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“I agree, it’s not. You realize this isn’t about a philosophical difference in opinion? He believes my father killed his. And in retaliation he killed mine.”
She bites her lip. “Which is on a whole other level,” she admits, looking supremely uncomfortable. “But you have to admit, your reactions were exactly the same. An eye for an eye.”
“A father for a father,” I repeat morbidly.
I know I’m lying by claiming that Maxim only thinks my father killed his. When in truth, I now know he’s right. But admitting it out loud—even to Cami—feels like a betrayal.
And damn him for that. That wily motherfucker made sure to ingrain loyalty into me so deep that I can’t stop—even when I know he’s not deserving of it.
“What story did he give you?” I ask, mostly to distract myself. “Maxim, I mean. About himself.”
“He told me he was a businessman.”
“Technically true, I suppose.”
“He told me that he’d inherited a few businesses from his father and he’d expanded them since taking over. He said he had properties all over the world. He played the stock market. He was rich, he was powerful, yada yada yada. I had no reason to believe he wasn’t what he said he was. Guess I’m the idiot.”
“How could you have known?”
“When I entered the Witness Protection Program, Eric told me to be careful. He said that the Bratva were dangerous and their methods were unconventional. I didn’t know what he meant back then.”
“So you and Eric got close?”
She nods. “In a way, he was a father figure to me. That first year, I basically just cried on his shoulder nonstop.”
“Why?”
She gives a little start, as though my question has reminded her of something. “Just… the trauma of having to leave behind my life in the States. Leaving my sister and her family. I felt very isolated that first year. I mean, I never stopped feeling isolated. I just got used to it.”
“Guess you were ripe for the plucking when Maxim showed up.”
Her eyes flash to me and back, a little defiance sparking in them. “I’m not a piece of fruit. I wasn’t ripe for anything.”
I have to try very hard to suppress my smile. “If you say so.”
“I just… He was so persistent, and in some ways… he reminded me of you.”
Immediately after the words come out of her mouth, I know she regrets them. Hell, I don’t think she even thought about it before it came out. She looks as shocked as I am.
“You gave him a shot because he reminded you of me?” I press.
She looks completely mortified. “No, no, no, I… that… That’s not what I meant.”
“Freudian slip then?”
She glares at me. “Forget I said that.”
“Not likely.”
She groans and buries her face in her hands. I, on the other hand, am smirking from ear to ear. The little kiska has spent every breath since I found her again denying that our night together six years ago meant anything to her.
But it’s so fucking clear now: I’m burned in her memories, in her mind, in her heart. She can’t get rid of me no matter how hard she tries.
“Wipe that smug expression off your face. I just meant that he was confident and persistent, too,” she says. “All that means is that you’re both privileged white men who aren’t used to hearing the word ‘no.’”
“Should I tell him that next time we talk?”
“Isaak…” she warns.
My cock strains against my pants. If only she knew how hard she makes me with just those flashing green eyes. Like a lioness on the prowl.
“Fine,” I chuckle. “We’ll stick to the agenda.”
“So you are going ahead with the meeting?”
“Yes. We’ve already decided on the time and the place.”
“Wait—when is this happening?”
“This evening.”
“This evening? That’s… fast.”
“Neither one of us wants to give the other a chance to plan.”
“And you’re going in alone?”
“So is he.”
She looks out ahead to the koi pond, bordered in lush, sprawling vines of ivy. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Can I come with you?”
I freeze. “What?”
“I want to come with you when you meet Maxim this evening.”
“Why?”
“I… I need to see him. To talk to him.”
And just like that, I feel the existing peace between us implode. Has she been working up to this request the whole fucking conversation?
I think back, combing over every sentence, every response. It’s been an hour-long manipulation. And I fell for it hook, line, and sinker, like a goddamn fool.
“Isaak?”
I explode from my spot and leap to my feet. Cami just blinks up at me, clearly taken back by my reaction. I discard my soiled shirt on the ground and turn to face her.
“Listen,” she says, “I know how you feel about him, but—”
“But what?” I demand. “But what, Cami? You need to talk to him? You need to be with him?”
She recoils. “You realize that, since you told me who he really was, I haven’t said a word to him? He hasn’t said a word to me?”
“How long have you been planning to ask me this?”
Her eyebrows knit together. “Planning? I haven’t—”
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” I growl. “You’re on thin ice as it is.”
“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child.”
“You are a child if you think talking to Maxim is going to solve anything.”
“And you’re a jerk if you think that I don’t need closure.”
“Closure?” I repeat, dumbfounded. “Is that what you’re claiming this is about? For fuck’s sake, at least put some effort into your lies.”
I’m pushing her into the argument she’s wanted to avoid, but I don’t give a shit. We’re having this out now. Once and for all.
“I’m claiming it because it’s true. Not that I owe you an explanation.”
“Why shouldn’t I believe this is just an excuse to reunite with him?”
“What if it is?” she demands. She jumps up to her feet. “What if you’re the villain and he’s the good guy, huh? What if you’re the one who’s full of shit and he’s been honest since the beginning?”
“What if, indeed,” I mutter dangerously. I narrow my eyes. “Tell me: that whole performance you just gave… was it just a way to manipulate me?”
She frowns in confusion. “What performance?”
“Oh, you know,” I drawl. “Rewind to fifteen minutes ago, when you begged me to fuck you until you came on my cock.”
Her eyes go wide with shock. But it’s quickly replaced with anger. Hot, burning anger so deep that her knuckles go white when she balls her hands into fists.
“You asshole,” she spits, her emotion turning the words into a sob. “You fucking asshole.”
“Oh, grow the fuck up, Camila,” I say, digging the knife in. “It all makes sense now.”
Her anger writhes on her face. I’m expecting a slap. I’m ready for it. But what I get instead is…
Tears?