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“Do you ever see your mom?”
“Only once,” he divulges, a strain in his voice. “After I made it out of Sergei’s prison, I hid her in North Carolina, but when I left for Moscow, somehow your father found her. He sent her a letter saying as long as I hunted him, he would hunt me. Once I made it out of Columbia, and joined the Tabella Della Morte, I took her somewhere she couldn’t be found and never visited her again. It was for her own safety.”
“Must have been hard for her.”
There’s a faraway look in his eyes. “My mom is resilient. Besides, there’s enough swamp to keep her feeling at home and enough eyes on her to keep me sane.”
I want to ask more, but when Niko’s lips press tightly together and his hand falls from my hair, I know the discussion is over. He’s finished sharing, and if I push him, I’ll break this truce we’ve built.
Continuing my exploration of his body, I run my hands down his ribcage and up his sides, enjoying the soft grunts as his erection swells against my stomach. When my fingertips brush over a rough dip in his shoulder I stop. Lifting my head, I rub the spot again, feeling the dented and bumpy scar tissue that mangles his perfect ink.
“Battle scars?” I ask, skimming my thumb over the obvious bullet wound.
“Friendly fire.” I lift my chin in shock, smacking his arm as I catch the amused crinkle forming at the corner of his eyes. “Ava, the Cavalieri Della Morte are faceless men. No one knows who we really are. Not our names. Not our alliances. Nothing. There could come a time where our paths cross with an enemy, and we have to be prepared to save each other’s asses while appearing to be taking them out.”
His confession shocks me. “So you’ll shoot an ally just to kill an enemy?”
He shifts, careful not to jostle my still tender breasts as he tucks his arm behind his head. “Sometimes you have to take a bullet in a fight to knock your opponent off their game.”
“Won’t you die?”
“Not if the bullet misses anything important.”
I stare at him for a moment, still trying to process if he’s being a smartass or if the Cavalieri have a whole toolbox full of screws loose. “That’s psychotic.”
He shrugs. “It’s the Kansas City Shuffle.”
“The what?”
“You know, when they look right, you go left.”
No, I don’t know. I have no fucking idea what’s he’s talking about. I suppose my bewilderment shows because he groans and slaps a hand over his face.
“Ava, come on. I know you’re sheltered, but you can’t tell me you haven’t seen Lucky Number Slevin? It’s a classic bait and switch movie. See, the Kansas City Shuffle is a con Bruce Willis sets up. It’s where the mark knows they’re being conned, and they think they know how, but they’re wrong. When they try to throw a monkey wrench in what they think they’ve uncovered, BAM, they’re hit with the real con.”
Well, that makes a little more sense. Sounds like basic Bratva stuff. “What’s that right and left thing?”
“It’s the basis of the con. When your mark is distracted and looks right,” he explains, pausing to point out the window. When I look, he flips us over until I’m flat on my back. “You go left. You strike. You hit.”
I run a hand over his thickening beard. “Sounds simple.”
Niko groans and rocks his hips against mine. “It is, if it’s done right.”
“And if it’s not?”
He lifts my leg and kisses his way up my inner thigh before dropping it over his shoulder. “Then the bullet doesn’t miss.”
