Weeping Roses: A Dark Mafia Romance (The Romanovs Book 2)

Chapter 1

Why does it always rain in England? It seems to, anyway. I stand shivering under my umbrella as I watch the spectacle playing out in front of me.

Death.

I shiver as the cold fingers of mortality remind me it happens to us all in the end and as I stare at the coffin that is being lifted on straps over the freshly dug hole in the ground, I make up my mind to be cremated instead.

The thought of decomposing in the wooden casket makes me shiver with fear at the thought of insects consuming my flesh and invading my lifeless corpse.

I grip my umbrella a little tighter as the lightning strikes high in the sky, causing a few of the onlookers to jump, one woman beside me stifling a scream.

The priest stands on the edge of the grave, his white robes now splattered with God’s earth as he attempts to say a prayer above the noise of the hailstones that are battering against the umbrellas of my fellow mourners.

Hell and damnation, perhaps. Is that where she’s heading? From what I know of my aunt, that could be a distinct possibility.

It strikes me there are no tears at this funeral. If anything, I doubt there is anyone here who knew her well enough to mourn her passing.

I heard of her somewhere deep in my past. I just never realized she was real, not the way my mother spoke of her sister-in-law.

They never got on and we had nothing to do with her and when my parents died, my aunt never even sent flowers.

It makes me question why I’m here at all, but then I remember why.

I inherited everything in her will.

A movement on the edge of the path distracts my attention from the open wound that is my aunt’s final resting place.

Two black cars have pulled up and I can’t see who it is because the windows are blacked out.

I continue to stare at the cars in fascination because it’s as if they are here to pay their last respects.

“The world has lost an angel.”

The woman beside me mutters, and I swear I have never met her before in my life.

“It has.” I lie because I’m unsure if she was, an angel that is, and I wonder if the mysterious car owners knew her.

A lot more than anyone else here, I’m guessing.

Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall …

The priest’s monotone voice commits my aunt’s body to the ground and, as we say a collective ‘Amen’, he retreats under his black umbrella.

I step forward. It’s expected. I am the only official family member here. Her legacy if you like. The last man standing and the keeper of all things unfamiliar because I haven’t got a clue how I’m going to deal with the tangle of red tape she has left me with.

I hold the red rose in my hand, the thorns thoughtfully having been clipped and I feel bad that I must toss an object of such beauty to its death before its time.

Is that what happened to my aunt? She was barely fifty when she died because of a freak accident that cost more than her own life. An explosion that came out of nowhere and killed everyone in the house.

I hold the umbrella a little tighter as the rain batters against the fabric and rather than prolong this, I toss the rose on the coffin and grasp a handful of wet sodden earth that lies beside the grave.

As I toss the dirt, it falls on the rose and strangely, that is what brings a tear to my eye. The fragile petals are buried under the dirt, the petals poking through as if imploring to be saved.

I turn away. I don’t need to see any more. My aunt is gone. There is nothing left to say.

I watch the rest of the mourners pay their last respects as I stand to the side.

The woman beside me cries as she tosses her rose to join mine and then stands before me and says mournfully, “I was a friend of her housekeeper, Mrs. Millen. It was such a tragedy.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I smile with sympathy because it’s obvious this woman is grieving for her friend.

She wipes a tear from her eye and moves away as the next mourner joins me and it takes no longer than five minutes for everyone to go, leaving me a solitary figure standing by the grave of a stranger.

The priest smiles with sympathy and leaves and then I notice one of the car doors opening and a man dressed in black steps outside. He must be a mourner too, and I wonder who he is, and I watch with interest as he removes a huge black umbrella from the car and opens it as he walks to the car behind.

He opens the door and I see another man step from the car, also dressed entirely in black. He is wearing dark glasses and waves away the offer of the umbrella with an impatience that interests me.

Who is this man?

He plucks a rose from inside the car and heads toward me and I sense his eyes burning into me as he advances with purpose.

For some reason, my heart beats a little faster, as if he comes with a warning. It’s surrounding me. I can almost reach out and pluck it from the air. Something is happening and I know it will be interesting.

I should leave. I must leave. It’s as if my aunt’s spirit is warning me somehow.

The rain slides down my back as the umbrella shifts and as it glides against my skin, it causes me to shiver inside.

Turn away now before he gets here. Walk away and don’t engage. Run for your life.

My inner voices are screaming at me, but I am rooted to the spot and couldn’t run if I tried.

He’s nearly here.

It’s not too late to run.

He stops by the grave and stares into it for longer than most, the rose twirling in the leather of his gloved hands, spinning in mid-air as it prepares to take flight.

My breath hitches and my heart beats way too fast as he reaches out and uncurls his fingers. The rose hammered by the falling rain apparently weeping as it tumbles to its final resting place. It strikes me there were no thorns removed from that rose. I see them from here, jagged and lethal as they plummet to earth.

He bends down and grabs a handful of earth and sprinkles it almost theatrically into the grave and I swear I almost pass out as the lightning strikes angrily above our head. Then a sudden loud clap of thunder announces him as he turns and stares directly at me.

My legs shake as he walks toward me, his gloves filthy with dirt and as he reaches me, he lifts his hand and removes the dark glasses and stares deep into my eyes.

Fuckity fuck, the devil is in town.

I swallow hard as I stare at a man who wouldn’t look out of place in a painting. The term tall, dark, and handsome was obviously invented to describe him and his piercing eyes glitter as he nods respectfully and speaks with a sexy accent, “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Scott-Stanley.”

My mouth drops open.

How does he know who I am?

I have told nobody my name and I wonder if he is part of the solicitor’s firm that is handling my aunt’s will. Something is telling me he’s way more than that. Something I really shouldn’t ask too much about.

My inner protective voice screams at me to smile politely, to walk away and don’t look back. The curious part of my brain wants to discover who he is.

“Thank you, Mr.…”

“Romanov.” His voice is deep and his accent rough and yet so sexy, my heart is panting right now.

“Valentin Romanov.”

“Well, um, I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Romanov. Um, did you know my aunt well?”

I’m babbling because part of me wants to run, but there’s a stronger part of me that is instantly fascinated by this man, and he shakes his head.

“I have never met her.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

I smile softly and if he’s surprised, he certainly hides it well because all he says is, “I wonder if I may take an hour of your time.”

“Why?” I’m curious and he smiles, but it doesn’t reassure me. If anything, it scares the shit out of me and I say, quickly, “It’s not really a good time. I mean, my aunt, well–” I point to the grave.

“It’s her funeral and all that. I should, well, go home to grieve, um, for the next six months at least.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“Excuse me.”

I stare at him in horror and glance around, realizing that everyone has left because of the pissing rain, leaving me with a terrorist, or at least he could be.

“Please, follow me.”

“No!” I shake my head. “My car is over there, and I’ll get a parking ticket if I’m not out of here soon.”

He raises his hand and the man by the car heads over and he says in a husky voice, “Keys.”

“I’m sorry.” I swallow hard.

“Hand him your keys. He will follow us.”

“I’m not handing over my keys. Are you crazy?”

“Miss Scott-Stanley.” His voice holds an authority I’m not used to hearing, and he says firmly, “You have nothing to fear. I merely have a few questions that you may be able to answer. You are in no danger, but your aunt may have the answer to something my family need and when I have what I require, I will leave you to mourn her death in peace.”

There’s that part of me that is so scared I should be crying terrified tears of fear, but I have always been a fan of mystery, and this one is personal.

I have so many questions myself and nobody to ask, so my curiosity gets the better of me and I nod with a resigned shrug.

“Okay. If you insist. I can spare you one hour of my time. There’s a pub not far from here where we can dry out and raise a glass to my aunt.”

He says nothing and holds out his hand for the keys and as I hand them to him, there is something telling me I have just made an incredibly terrible, life destroying mistake.