He closed the door and locked it, flipped on the single lamp for the living room, then located an under-cabinet light in the kitchen and turned it on as well.

Still watching him from the far side of her tiny living room, Cassie dove right in. “You were right. About your family, I mean. They’re not at all what I expected them to be.”

Kir rounded the kitchen counter, but did so slowly to give her time to say what she needed to say.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “Sergei’s a pretty scary-looking guy when he’s not smiling, but tonight went much different than I thought it would.”

“I’m glad you see them as I do.”

“I do. I get it now.” She stepped a little closer and laid her purse on the coffee table, the gesture tentative. “But you still can’t tell me that Sergei and those of you who work for him play by the rules.”

There it was. The truth of the matter laid bare, yet with care and deliberation. Which was fine by him. “We play by the rules—our own.”

“Kir, your rules don’t count were the law is concerned.”

He inched closer, more aware than he’d ever been in his life of the importance in how he traversed the next few moments. “You report on reality every day. How often does the law get it right?”

Her gaze shifted to the side and grew distant, that agile mind of hers clearly evaluating the question he’d posed. Given the frown that deepened with each subsequent second, he’d struck a powerful point.

Kir closed what was left of the distance between them and cupped the sides of her arms. Beneath his palms, her skin was pebbled with goose bumps. He smoothed his hands between her elbow and shoulders and lowered his voice. “My family helps those who need help. Yes, we also further our business interests whenever and wherever we can, but we do not do it on the backs of those who want no part in our work. We do not hurt innocents or force people to our will—not unless their actions threaten those under our protection.”

“And what happens to the people who threaten those under your protection?” The way she whispered her question it seemed as though she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted the answer.

“It depends on the transgression.”

“Your own brand of justice. Judge, jury and executioner.”

He anchored his hands at her shoulders, held her stare and gave her the truth. “You met Sergei tonight. You met his wife. The child he’s accepted as his own. The kind of people he surrounds himself with. I followed him to this country because of who he is. Because of his vision—not just for personal success, but for bringing back old traditions that once served communities in a positive way.

“Yes, we are bratva. Mafiya, if you want to call it that. But, in the right hands, who’s to say that our brand of justice is wrong?”