Claimed Bratva Virgin (Yezhov Bratva #4)

Chapter 22 – Leonora

The afternoon was quiet, and it was the kind that felt heavier than it should have.

For the past five months, the weight in my chest grew as steadily as the child in my womb. I sat on the edge of the sofa, resting my hands protectively over my swollen belly. The house was still, except for the distant noise from some of the men beyond the windows.

When I heard familiar footsteps echo through the foyer, I knew it was Rafayel before his tall frame came through the parlor. Relief swept through me. He was home.

Recently, I craved his presence as much as I craved his body. Just having him in the same space kept me from teetering off the edge or crying for no reason. I looked up as he stepped inside, his tie loosened, his phone still pressed to his ear. I smiled, but he didn’t. He mouthed, “Just a second,” and retreated to the kitchen to finish his call.

I sat there, staring at the pattern on the rug, rehearsing the words I’d been turning over in my mind for weeks. When he finally reappeared, I cleared my throat, backing my voice with the confidence I felt. It was taking a lot of pride to do this, but I couldn’t hold off much longer.

It’d been eight whole months since I heard from Papa, and it was killing me.

“Rafayel,” I started, my hands clenching into fists in my lap. “I’ve been thinking. It’s been a while. Eight months. Phew. I can’t…I can’t keep holding onto this anger. I want to talk to Papa. He’s just as stubborn as I am, so I guess he’s never going to call. But maybe it’s time to make things right.”

Rafayel sat on the couch face and put his phone on the center table. His face shifted, and I saw it, a crack in his usual calculated demeanor. “Leonora, I just got off the phone with Marco.”

Marco? Why would Marco call Rafayel and not me?

“Enzo….” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “He passed away this morning.”

For a moment, I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Papa? Passed away? No, he couldn’t have. The last time I saw him, we were at each other’s throats. He wouldn’t leave without giving me a chance to apologize. He wouldn’t—

Papa wouldn’t leave me.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “You’re fucking joking.” I laughed, but it was strangled with tears I struggled to keep in because, somehow, I knew Rafayel wouldn’t play with me like that. I shot to my feet. “Marco’s fucking joking. This is a—no.”

The room swam around me, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears. “No, that can’t be. He—”

Rafayel was at my side in an instant, his hands firm on my shoulders as though he could anchor me to reality. “Fuck, Leonya. Breathe,” he coaxed in Russian. “Fucking breathe.”

But what would it matter if I did? The walls were caving in again, and a grief deeper than anything I’d ever known swallowed me whole.

I clutched at my stomach instinctively. The tears spilled freely now. I hadn’t made peace with him. I hadn’t said goodbye. My father was gone, and the chance to fix what was broken had gone with him.

****

Five Days Later

It rained a lot today.

As I stood frozen beside his grave, the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and roses. The sky mirrored my heart, overcast and gray, as though the world itself mourned his absence. The soft murmur of the priest’s voice barely registered in my ears; I could only hear the echo of my own regrets.

Matteo stood beside me, silent and composed, but his hand gripping mine betrayed his struggle to keep it together. The second I told him, he’d booked the last flight back from Ireland to California. He’d grown so much and looked a lot older and more refined, like a responsible adult. They didn’t have the rosiest father-and-son relationship, but Papa cared for him deeply, and I knew he’d have wanted him to see how manly he’d become. He’d left the path Papa paved for him, but the Colombo blood visibly ran through his veins.

I envied my brother’s strength. My knees felt like they would give out any second, and my body trembled under the burden of guilt.

I stared at the casket, the polished wood glistening with rain, as if the heavens themselves shed tears for him.

The great Enzo Colombo—gone forever.

The words I never said haunted me now, louder than the funeral prayers, louder than the shovels of dirt waiting to bury him away from me. I should have called him. Should have swallowed my pride. Should have told him how much he meant to me before it was too late.

But I hadn’t.

And now, all that was left were broken memories and the hollow ache of what could have been.

“Leo.” Matteo’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts, his hand tightening around mine. I turned to him, his face pale and etched with lines of pain I couldn’t erase. He was strong but not untouched. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, reflecting my own misery.

I shook my head, unable to find words. My chest heaved, and I covered my mouth to muffle the sob that clawed its way up. The tears I had tried to hold back finally spilled, burning hot trails down my cheeks.

“I should’ve….” My voice cracked. “I should’ve told him, Matteo. Papa didn’t know how much I—how much we loved him. How sorry I was.”

Matteo’s jaw tightened, and he pulled me into his arms. His strength, his silent solidarity, was all that kept me from crumbling completely. I pressed my face into his shoulder, letting the sobs shake me, feeling the raw agony that refused to be soothed.

The priest’s voice rose for the final prayer, and Matteo gently released me, guiding me closer to the grave. I stepped forward, my legs trembling, and stared down at the casket. My vision blurred with tears, but I could still see it. The stark reality of it.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words choking me. My fingers gripped the edge of the rose I held, its thorns biting into my skin—a fitting pain. I deserved it.

“I love you,” I said, louder this time, though it felt like shouting into an abyss. The wind carried my words, but I knew they would never reach him. Not now.

I let the rose fall, watching as it landed on the smooth wood, its crimson petals stark against the dark rain-soaked surface. My heart twisted as the first shovelful of earth fell, a dull thud that felt like it echoed in my soul.

Then, I looked up, and I remembered Mama.

“He’s alone.” Salty tears dripped on my lips. “Watch over him, too, okay?”

I took my fingers to my head and my chest and drew the cross to my shoulders.

****

Heavy footsteps approached me, loud against the cobblestones, and when I looked up, it was Marco.

I didn’t bother asking him how he was holding up. He wasn’t. The hardness in his red eyes and the tightness of his jaw were enough evidence.

Without a word, he handed me a folded letter, the edges worn as if someone had held it for far too long. I stared at it, my fingers trembling as I took it from him.

“It’s from your papa,” Marco said softly, his voice strained. “He wrote it before….” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. My father had said his time was running out.

The funeral felt like a blur after that. Faces came and went, whispers and condolences barely registering. I felt weaker when Matteo drove back to his hotel, with Marco and some of Papa’s men accompanying him. He wasn’t ready to stay in the house. And by the time Rafayel and I climbed into the car, my chest felt hollow, as though the sorrow had emptied me out entirely.

I held the letter tightly, my gaze locked on the handwriting that was unmistakably his. Rafayel sat beside me silently, with his hand resting lightly on my knee. A quiet reminder that I wasn’t alone.

With a deep breath, I unfolded the letter, the faint scent of my father’s cologne lingering on the paper.

Principessa,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer by your side. I’ve always believed there would be enough time for everything—time to fix my mistakes, time to hold you close, time to tell you just how proud I am of the woman you’ve become. But time, it seems, is never truly ours.

The words blurred as tears filled my eyes, spilling over before I could stop them. Rafayel’s grip on my knee tightened, grounding me.

I promised your mother, my Angelina, that I would love you and your brother more than life itself. I gave it my best shot and loved every moment of it. But you two are the only ones that can say for sure if I did—

My heart shattered to more pieces. “You did, Papa. God. You did.”

Your best interests have always been my priority. Hurting you was not the plan. But I got blinded by my greed and selfishness, and I did it anyway. When you left and never once looked back, I knew I’d lost you forever. I forgive you for the rash choice you made, for the ones you couldn’t. I hope, in time, you can forgive me, too—for the things I didn’t say, for the moments I caused you pain. You and Matteo were my greatest joys, even when I failed to show it.

I let out a shaky breath.

You have my blessings, principessa. I hope to live long enough to see my grandchildren and to watch you be the wonderful mother I know you’ll be. But if I don’t, know this: My love for you and Matteo will carry on beyond this life and into the next. Never doubt that.

The letter ended simply, his signature scrawled at the bottom as though he’d run out of words but not love. I clutched it to my chest, sobbing openly now. Rafayel pulled me into his arms, and his warmth cut through the icy ache in my heart.

“If it’s any comfort, everyone knows how much your father loved you and your brother,” Rafayel murmured against my hair, and the world around me blurred as I buried my face into his chest, my sobs breaking the heavy silence in the car.

My hands gripped his shirt like it was the only anchor keeping me from drowning in the sea of grief that tore through me. His musky scent wrapped around me, but it did little to fill the hollow ache inside my chest.

“He’s gone,” I choked out, my voice cracking under the weight of the words. Saying it aloud made it unbearably real. My father was gone.

Rafayel’s arms tightened around me, as though he could physically shield me from the pain. “Let it out, Leonya,” he whispered, his breath warm against my temple. “I’m here.”

I cried harder, tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. His hand smoothed over my back in soothing circles, his presence grounding me in a way I’d grown familiar with.

After a while, the sharp edges of my grief dulled enough for me to lift my head and meet his gaze.

“I feel so…lost now. Papa was all we had,” I admitted. My throat was raw, my words fractured, but I needed him to understand.

Rafayel’s dark eyes brimmed with warmth, like the first rays of sunlight after a storm. He cupped my face gently, brushing away the tears with his thumb.

“You’re not alone, Leo. I’m right here, and I’ll never let you feel unloved again.” The whirlwind was still in my chest when he said words I hadn’t dared to expect. “I love you, Leonya.”

My heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, I nodded, a small, shaky smile breaking through the sorrow because that was what it had been this whole time—the mad obsession, the insane attraction, the stubborn need to always be close to him. The pieces fell into place.

“I love you, too, Rafa.”

He pulled me into a gentle hug, murmuring in soft Russian, “Everything will be fine.”

And for the first time since the world had shattered around me, I began to believe it. His arms felt like home, and the ache in my heart lessened, replaced by the faint flicker of something new.

Something whole.