Lying and Kissing(57)

“Trust me,” said Luka. “Being warm is more important, in this place.”

We both went silent. The tension ratcheted higher with every second we waited there, until I could barely breathe. Then Luka said, “Besides, I like your ass in those jeans.”

I felt myself flush and gave him a half-shocked, half-turned-on look. But the truth was, I was glad of the momentary distraction. This was a whole new kind of fear.

We were waiting for the guards to tell us it was safe to disembark. They were checking the whole area for snipers. Any moment, Yuri was going to wave us forward and we’d emerge into the daylight, blinking and helpless. And pray that the guards had done their job.

“Who is it?” I whispered, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “Who is it, who might try to kill us?”

“Olaf Ralavich and his men. A rival family.” He shook his head. “Not like us. They are not part of the brotherhood.”

“They have less...honor?”

He looked as if he was going to spit. “They have no honor at all.”

Yuri waved us forward. After long minutes of waiting, now we had to move fast. Luka went first and I almost wanted to press up against his broad back like a child, cuddling up to him until we were safely inside. But Yuri had warned us not to even hold hands, in case we had to break and run.

I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. And found myself at the end of the world.





It happened while we were at sea. There’s been a war, and we missed it. God, what if we’re the only survivors?

That’s what it looked like. Like every post-apocalyptic movie I’d ever seen.

The yacht was moored at an ugly, concrete dock. The sky overhead was almost the same shade of light gray, the clouds completely covering it. Even the sea looked a sickly gray. The gray blankness made the desolation before us stand out even more.

There had been factories, once. Now they were just shells, walls ripped down to expose their innards. There were scorch marks from fire—or possibly bombs. There was no bird song and no greenery of any kind that I could see and not even a blade of grass.

The guards marched us towards the nearest building: three men in front, three behind, guns drawn and eyes watchful. Other guards were already patrolling the cracked, crumbling road and I could see a few perched high up on walls, keeping a lookout. “What is this place?” I asked.

Luka shook his head. “Nowhere you ever want to come again.” Even he seemed unsettled by it.

Crossing the open area felt like being a mouse crawling across a highway. My heart was a tight, pounding ball in my throat as I waited for a shot to ring out. Despite the instructions, I grabbed Luka’s hand and squeezed it tight. He squeezed back.#p#分页标题#e#

Seconds later, we reached the building and trooped inside. I let out a long sigh of relief. Looking out through the cracked windows, I could see the yacht. It looked very small and vulnerable out there on its own. Luka had been right—it wouldn’t have been safe to leave me there.

As the fear receded a little, I became aware of the cold. Luka had been right—it was freezing. And very, very, creepy. The sooner we got out of there, the better.

Soon, we heard a car. Luka gave me a meaningful look. I looked down at myself as if checking my appearance. I was still trying to play the new girlfriend, eager to make a good impression—and, weirdly, part of me did actually want that. The rest of me was scared as hell that Luka’s dad would see straight through my cover. Unlike his son, he wouldn’t be blinded by feelings.

A car door slammed. New guards entered, exchanging nods with our own guards. They all stood to attention and I could see the fear in their eyes. The same dread that Luka inspired in civilians, this man inspired in criminals. And then he was walking into the room, his long coat flapping like a cape.

“Luka,” said Vasiliy Malakov. “It’s been too long.”





I could see immediately where Luka got his build from. Vasiliy was almost as tall as his son, almost as wide and, despite being in his fifties, he seemed to have retained most of his muscle. He was almost like a prototype for Luka—not quite as big, not quite as handsome (Luka must have inherited his gorgeous eyes and cheekbones from his mother) but still a man that made you stop and look, even at his age.

He embraced Luka and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he turned to me. “And you are?” he asked me in Russian.

I had to remember to blink and look uncomprehending.

“She doesn’t speak Russian,” said Luka quickly, in Russian. “She’s American.”

I got the sense the Vasiliy had seen enough in his lifetime that very little would surprise him, but that did the trick. He turned and stared at his son as if he’d said I was radioactive. “You brought an American here?! To a meeting?!”