Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
August
The dog days of summer are hotter than the ninth circle of hell where the humidity is jacked up to a thousand, the mosquitoes are ravenous, and sweat covers you the instant you step outside. Those are the best days for a game of flag football in the backyard.
Tristan tries to intercept the pass I throw to Constantine, then watches helplessly as he runs to the other side of the yard and scores a touchdown to the trumpeting of Cocky B’s crows.
“Aw, come on! Aleksander is on my team next time.”
Hendrix holds up his middle finger. “Fuck you very much.”
Jogging back, Constantine and I bump fists. The score is now four to zero.
“You’re getting better, baby,” Syn says from the back deck just as Fénix’s sleepy cry comes through the baby monitor sitting on the patio table next to her.
Before I get a chance to offer, Constantine beats me to it. “I’ve got him.”
He catches Syn when she gets up from her chair, and she bursts into delighted giggles when he peppers her face and neck with enthusiastic kisses. Playful morphs into sensual when he captures her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that leaves her breathless and dazed.
Fénix’s cries grow louder. “Our child gets his impatience from Hen.”
“I’m standing right here,” Hendrix gripes.
Signing something vulgar, Constantine lets Syn go and heads inside.
As if she’s savoring their kiss, she licks her lips, and the sight has me yearning to taste their sweetness.
Sauntering into the yard, Syn snatches the football from Tristan. “Hendrix is with me.”
He flashes a smug smile at Tristan and picks her up. Her toned legs wrap around his waist, and I’m subjected to another display of PDA that leaves my heart aching. Unrequited love sucks.
Tristan throws a sweaty arm around my even sweatier shoulders.
Even after two months, gestures like that and the ease with which they are given still take me by surprise.
Things have been…different…since June. Not only between him and me.
Hendrix hasn’t been as big of an asshole, and Constantine actually talks to me in full sentences, not just one-word utterances or grunts.
And Tristan…our baby steps are now full strides.
Somehow, without me noticing, they’ve pulled me into their family unit, a place I never expected to be, but a place I never want to leave.
Having him and Dierdre in my life feels good.
They don’t replace Aleksei, no one ever could, but they help fill the gaping holes in my heart he left when he died.
And being close to Syn, being an uncle to Fénix, they are the steel threads stitching those broken pieces together.
Leaning into my side, Tristan says, “Don’t let our girl deceive you. Her throwing arm can fast-track a football with precision.”
Our girl. I wish. Fuck, how I wish.
Syn spins the football in her hand, a challenging smirk on her lips that turns into a puckered air kiss when our eyes clash, and my damn chest constricts. It’s an all too familiar sensation whenever I look at her.
“What’s the strategy?” I ask.
Tristan chuckles. “Accepting defeat. She hates losing. And she’s sneaky.”
He absentmindedly touches the faint scar on his head. I don’t think he realizes he does it. The surgeon did a good job, and you barely notice it’s there, but the memory of how he got it will never fade.
Neither will the white-hot anger.
Not until I cut out the beating heart of the person responsible for almost killing him.
“You two playing, or are you just going to stand around and look pretty?” Syn shouts.
“Both,” Tristan replies, flexing his biceps.
Syn lets loose a ribald whistle that has him grinning. Happiness looks good on him.
“First team to score five touchdowns wins.” She crouches, setting the football on the ground between her feet as she prepares to snap the ball back to Hendrix. “Get ready to go down, Boston.”
“Isn’t that what you said this morning, Red?”
She giggles.
Hendrix moves in behind her and eyes her backside with appreciation. “Gonna fuck that tight ass later.”
A very inappropriate, pornographic image swiftly comes to mind, and I start choking when I aspirate air in too quickly.
“Ignore him,” Syn tells me, her face bright red, but it’s too late.
There is no fucking way I will ever be able to erase that from my mind. How beautiful she would look, naked, on her hands and knees, her flame-red hair fisted in his hand while he—
“Hike!”
Tristan advances on Hendrix just as Syn dashes past me.
Shit.
I take off, watching how Hendrix hastily throws the football before Tristan gets to him. With a wobbly spin, it arcs over my head, and I make a play to intercept it. So does Syn.
Palming the football one-handed, I curl an arm around her and twist midair as we both plummet to the grass in a heap. The air gets knocked out of me when my back hits the ground, Syn landing on top of me.
Pushing up on her arms, sunlight weaves through her hair and streaks it a burnished gold. Fuck, she’s so beautiful.
“That was impressive. But it’s touch football, not tackle,” she says.
My mind dives right down into the gutter because I want to touch her…everywhere. She sits up and straddles my waist. For the love of God, do not get aroused.
“Foul!” Hendrix shouts.
Tristan groans in exasperation. “How many times do I have to tell you? There are no fouls in football.” He lifts Syn off me and hauls her over his shoulder, much to her delight.
Constantine comes outside, bouncing a fussy Fénix in his arms. “Little man is hungry,” he tells her, then says to me, “Pyotr is here.”
Pushing up on my elbows, my brow furrows. He never just shows up at their house.
“Did you at least invite him inside?” Syn asks as she takes the baby.
Constantine kisses the top of Fénix’s head. “Was I supposed to?”
Syn settles down on the patio lounger and lifts her shirt and bra out of the way. Squirming excitedly, Fénix eagerly latches onto a breast. “Baby, we’re going to need to work on your hospitality skills.”
“I don’t see a problem,” he replies, stroking Fénix’s hair as he suckles.
With effort, I avert my gaze from the tender bonding moment between mother and child.
Syn has taken to motherhood with ease, and despite Tristan’s fears, he, Hendrix, and Constantine have been there with her and their newborn son every step of the way.
They are proof that you can break the cycle and not grow up to be like the parents who raised you. I wish Aleksei had gotten that chance.
Heading through the kitchen to the foyer, I find Pyotr standing on the front porch, wearing a hard scowl.
“What’s going on?”
Pulling his hands from his pockets, he checks behind me to make sure we’re alone and lowers his voice. “Sorry to show up unannounced, but I felt it was better to tell you in person than over the phone.”
“Okay,” I reply, unnerved by his gravitas.
Pulling me to the side, his voice goes even quieter. “Dad found out who was responsible.”
Constantine has been doing his own search with no luck. So have I. Neither of us coming up with good leads. It’s been driving me crazy.
“Tell me.” So I can end that motherfucker’s life.
Behind the anger in Pyotr’s eyes is apprehension. “Tristan wasn’t the target, Aleks. You were. Viktor Androv green-lit the hit.”
I absorb that information, trying to stay objective, but it’s an impossible endeavor.
Viktor had made threats right after we killed Anatoly, but nothing ever came of them.
Until now. I know better than anyone how patient revenge can be.
If he’s coming after me, Pyotr is in danger, too. I’m just the easier target.
Guilt immediately comes crashing in. It’s my fault Tristan got hurt. I can’t let him, or Dierdre, or Syn become casualties in a war they were never a part of to begin with.
“How do you want to handle this?” Pyotr asks.
My emotions get the better of me and make my decision. “Scorched-earth style.”
“You’re not doing anything without us,” Tristan states from the doorway.
Knowing he must have eavesdropped on every word, I adamantly shake my head no. “This is my fight, not yours.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” he snaps, stepping out onto the porch, his arms obstinately crossed across his chest. “Who is Viktor Androv?”
“Someone who is not your fucking problem, Amato,” Pyotr harshly replies.
Pyotr is the most affable guy I know. Quick to laugh and an all-around goofball most of the time.
Don’t let that easy-going persona fool you.
He would slit your throat and not even blink.
He is Drako’s son, through and through. The next in line to lead the Petrovs.
An underworld mired in blood and death that Tristan and his insular Society upbringing are clueless about.
“That’s absolute bullshit, and you know it. He is very much my problem. My son almost lost a father. And Syn—”
That knife of guilt penetrates deeper. “You’re not bratva. We’ll handle it.”
Tristan’s face twists with something very close to offended hurt. “I may not be part of your bratva brotherhood, but you’re my brother, and you’re not doing whatever you’re planning to do without me there to have your back.”
You’re my brother. His words bury themselves deep into my heart. No matter how much I pretended to hate him over the years, there was always a part of me that yearned for that connection.
But I can’t let him risk his life again. Like he said, his son needs his father. “No.”
I curse the heavens when Syn appears at Tristan’s side, Fénix swaddled fast asleep in her arms. This house has no fucking privacy. They were probably listening to me and Pyotr over the security feed, one I was stupid enough to suggest they upgrade after it was so easy for Pyotr to hack into.
“You’re family, Aleksander. Your fight is our fight. If you don’t like it, get the hell over it because that will never change.”
“You should listen to your wife,” Pyotr says, and I shoot him an exasperated glare.
“You literally just said it wasn’t his fucking problem.”
That stupid grin appears. “Your wife is very persuasive.”
“She’s my wife, jackass,” Tristan huffs.
“I just agreed with you, jackass, so a thank you would be appreciated.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Oh my god. Shut up.” My head is starting to pound from their back and forth. “I appreciate the support, but—”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” Having the last word about the matter, Syn sashays her pert ass back inside.
Pyotr’s amused smirk flashes wide as he follows her. “You heard the lady. Let’s get to work.”