Dimitri’s fury is palpable, a warpath rage screaming bloody murder inside him, screaming for scalps and vengeance, but all he can do is stand there, silent and impotent, and watch as everything falls apart.
Pakhan turns to regard me again, his bushy brows knitted and his eyes narrowed. “Lionhearted,” he repeats thoughtfully, as if he likes the sound of it. He reaches out and brushes a rough knuckle across my cheek.
For a moment of sheer horror, I think I’ll be upgrading from a Mafia prince to a Mafia king. But then Pakhan asks gently, “Tell me, beauty, what happened to your face?”
“Dimitri pistol-whipped me.”
Aimed at his boss, Dimitri’s defense comes fast and hard. “My women are mine to do with as I please.”
Pakhan lightly cups my chin and turns my head to and fro, examining me as on
