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“I agree.” He rubs his jaw in thought. “I don’t have a clue how it all stitches together, but Raizo being responsible for Tolya’s incarceration makes a hell lot more sense than Clara. What does she have to gain from it? Nothing. But what does he have to gain from it?”
I laugh because now I want to kick my own ass. “Everything. Oleg said it himself at the bar: the investigation into Tolya got him deported. Between him being out of the country and Tolya in prison, it looks like a good wager to place on this Bratva failing. No more competition for the Yakuza, and no more so-called truce to worry about.”
“So where does that place Clara? As an accessory?”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Somehow, Raizo must have orchestrated the murder of Michael Little and placed the blame on Tolya, leaning on Clara’s involvement for leverage.
She was eight. A literalchild. No way are any Yakuza making up murder plots with children in lead roles.
Because, unlikeme, they can clearly see that children don’t typically commit murder.
I suck in air through my teeth and stare at the wall. It would be great if the stucco pattern would start forming solutions to all my problems.
But it remains stubbornly still.
“We need to tread carefully when we get to the warehouse. And in all our dealings with Raizo’s men. As much as my gut’s screaming it’s all his doing, I don’t want to burn any bridges without confirming.”
An idea suddenly strikes. I slowly lift my head as it settles in.
“And to do that… we need to talk to Greg.”
45
CLARA
When the door finally opens again, it’s just after sunset. I haven’t moved from the bed. Just haven’t felt the need to.
It’s easier not to move. Not to think. Numb inside and out, top to bottom—that is the way.
Master walks in with a bowl and bandages in one hand and fabric in the other. “On your stomach,umnitsa.”
I do as he says, rolling onto my stomach in the center of the bed so he has room to sit down and examine my wound. When he does, his touch has the same gentleness as before. It’s confusing, and I hate it.
“How does it look?” I ask, my voice partly muffled by my arms propping my head.
He smiles as he lifts the old bandage and takes a peek. “Beautiful. Still no infection, and the redness has gone down. Nice and clean, too. I was afraid I might have nicked you with the outer edges, but thank goodness I didn’t. There’s no do-overs with something like this.”
I’m sure it would be funny if it wasn’t my flesh he seared like a steak. “Thank you.”
Hold up—what? Why did I thank him? What the hell?
Master swaps the bandages with meticulous care. When he’s done, he sighs and holds a hand out to me. “Come, stand up. I have something for you.”
As much as I do not want to take his hand, I do it anyways just to keep him in this decent mood. Once I’m on my feet and standing in front of him, he holds up the fabric to me.
“Put this on.”
It’s not much more than a satin nightgown, but I’ll take it. Even though it hugs my body and reveals every dip and curve to his heated gaze, I feel better with something on to cover me even a little.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to thank him or remain silent, so I mutter, “It’s beautiful.”
Master smiles, then stands and takes both my hands in his. “Not as beautiful as you. Now, shall we?”
I’m unsettled by how nice he’s being. It’s harder to track his moods or anticipate his next move when he’s acting like a decent human being—a gentleman, even—and leading me on into a comfort zone I’m pretty sure is going to turn out to be a facade.
Just like someone else I know.
He leads me back into the dining room and I immediately suck in a sharp breath. My gaze flicks around to search for any men he might have hiding in the shadows, ready to throw me down onto the table and inflict some other form of torture on me.
