9. Rage
Chapter 9
Rage
Taking Celia’s mother out to lunch wasn’t part of the original plan. Celia and I were supposed to meet with her gala clients today, spend a few evening hours unwinding with my brothers at her house, and end the day with a nightclub appearance—the two of us on stage while Celia sits on my lap in the skimpiest lingerie possible, her hot lips on my ear while I finger her cunt beneath a spotlight. The goal is exposure—use Celia as bait to lure out our father. When people see us together at the club, word of mouth will spread like wildfire. Secrets are meant to be kept at Midnight , but I’m not stupid. I know that people talk.
Especially when there’s a gorgeous woman on display.
But when Celia’s phone rang a half dozen times this morning, all of which being from her mother, I improvised.
Mrs. Monrovia was not happy when I picked up the phone, much like I wasn’t happy with her tone.
Like Heather Hanson said, the bitch can be venomous when it comes to her children, and the news about Celia’s boutique going up in flames didn’t go over well with her.
But…
Imagine how lethal she could be when it comes to her grand children.
By the time Celia and I arrive at the French cafe Adella Monrovia favors, it’s bustling with activity as mother and daughter duos and groups of women purchase dainty sandwiches or pastries to go with their tea and coffee. The lunch crowd doesn’t pay much attention to Celia on her own, but the moment I lace our fingers together and bring her knuckles to my lips for a kiss, it doesn’t take long for the whispers to begin.
They’re not used to men like me stepping into their establishment.
A few of the women, I recognize, chief of whom being Mrs. Monrovia herself. All of the bratva women have laid claim to the far side of the cafe, taking up every single window seat in existence. The thing with bratva women is that appearances matter to them. It’s important for others to see who they are dining with, what connections are being made between family lines, and which ones may cross over into business relations—usually, all of them.
In essence, the women’s emphasis on appearances is the opposite of what their men need. The pakhan is the exception since he’s the face of the bratva, but the rest of us slithering through the underbelly of the city take more clandestine measures with our meetings and operations. I’m not used to having business lunches in broad daylight—I’m used to dragging some sorry sack of shit into a back alley and talking with my fists.
This is different, but different might be good for me.
Rebel’s voice cuts through our comms unit. “Don’t fuck this up.”
Noted.
Celia walks in her mother’s direction on instinct, hardly looking in the elder woman’s direction before her feet begin moving. She cuts across the dining room like she owns the place, not sparing a second glance at any of the other diners. In her eyes, there’s only one woman in the room.
One glance at Adella tells me that the feeling is mutual.
I pull out Celia’s chair and push it back in for her before taking my own seat at her side, to Adella’s right.
A chainsaw couldn’t cut through the tension in the air.
“Mom, this is Rage.”
Adella doesn’t spare me a glance. “When were you going to tell me that you returned home, Celia? I’ve only been throwing Russian men into your path for the past six months. The least you could do is tell your mother that you’re not interested in her choice of men. Not because you’re still sad, but because you’re seeing someone.” She sniffs as she unwraps her cloth napkin and places it in her lap. “I could have spared myself the indignity of telling all of those bachelors that my daughter was still grieving.”
Celia’s lips press into a firm line. “You didn’t tell them that.”
After a server delivers a bowl of lemons for our table, Adella replies, “No, I didn’t.”
This turn of conversation is interesting, and not at all what I’d expected. Celia hasn’t exactly said much about her relationship with her mother, so it was easy to guess that they weren’t close. I’m not sure why—most bratva women stick together like they’re glued at the hip—so animosity between Celia and her mother is a puzzle I have yet to solve.
Rebel comments on the conversation in our ears, and I catch Celia’s flinch. “What is there for her to grieve?” he asks, scoffing.
Although I couldn’t agree more, unlike my brother, I understand that Mrs. Monrovia won’t see it that way. A loss of a husband to death is one thing—but losing him to divorce? It tarnishes a bratva woman’s reputation, regardless of Celia’s ex-husband’s status as a normal citizen and not a bratva member.
Celia has been fighting an uphill battle with bratva tradition and societal expectation since she turned eighteen, if not even earlier. Sixteen , maybe, with how early girls are betrothed.
Not my daughter , I silently vow, clenching my fist under the table. Fuck an arranged marriage. I won’t have my future child become a bargaining chip for some fat fuck to use as leverage for a grab at Baranova bratva power.
If Mikhail has any balls, he won’t stand for it, either. Not for his future niece or nephew.
I lift my other hand from beneath the table and take Celia’s hand in mine, carefully wrapping her fingers in mine and setting them on the table in a public display.
It’s more than affection—it’s claim. I rub my thumb across Celia’s ring finger, my mouth twitching at the subtle frown pinching Adella’s lips.
“I assure you, Mrs. Monrovia, Celia has nothing to grieve. I’m taking care of her better than her ex-husband ever did.” I lick my teeth, enjoying the way Celia’s cheeks dust with a rosy pink. “In fact, we’re expecting.”
Celia plants her heel on my toes and presses down, stabbing my foot as best she can in her little white shoes. “We are trying ,” she clarifies, her smile tight. “Not expecting.”
“We’re expecting results,” I continue, smiling fondly. “I invited you here today to give you the good news first.”
Adella’s lips twist into an ugly sneer before she catches herself. Smoothing her expression, she slices a croissant in half before setting it back down on her bread plate without taking a bite. “Good news?” Scoffing, she folds her hands together at the furthest edge of the table. “You are unmarried. You cannot have a baby out of wedlock.”
“That’s not your decision to make.” Celia’s grasp on my fingers tightens. “I’m going to have a baby, Mamá, and Rage will be its father.”
My heart soars to new heights, filling me to the brim with such warmth and light that even Adella’s disdainful glare can’t bring me down. I lean over and press a kiss to Celia’s hair, enjoying the way she glows. Fucking radiant. The little white dress, although not a sundress in the winter, hugs her body in the softest material, like the warmest blanket I’ve ever known. Her cheeks flush a perfect shade of pink as she meets her mother’s eyes.
I can’t help but add, “I’ll be the first, then my brother Rebel will likely be next. He’s trying really hard to beat me, though.”
Celia slams her knee against my thigh, bumping the table and clattering the silverware. “He’s joking,” she says quickly, her voice pinched.
Smirking, I lay my arm across the back of my chair. These lunches might actually be fun. “I wish I were.”
“You have got to be joking,” Adella hisses, glaring at the table next to us that’s clearly eavesdropping. “ Two men, Celia? Oh, your father must be rolling in his grave. Our daughter! A common whore . ” She shakes her head. “If I’d known that Ted’s infidelity would bother you so much, I would have paid him to keep it secret. First the divorce, now this. ”
Celia’s gone completely still, her face paling. “What did you just say? You knew he was cheating?”
Unbothered, Adella rolls her eyes. “All men cheat, docha. Even him.” She nods towards me. “I’m sure after you’ve given birth to your first, he’ll wander. Oh, yes, they always do. It won’t be long before he finds another hole to fill. Your father didn’t even wait until you and your brother were born; he strayed from our bed before I even knew I was pregnant.” She wrings her hands together, the first nervous tic I’ve seen. “But he was my husband, and we have a duty to our husbands, Celia. This man—” she points a sharp fingernail in my direction—“is not your husband. He’ll surely leave you just as soon as Ted did, especially if you can’t produce an heir. What did Dr. Sakovia say when you last saw him? Hostile womb? ” She tuts. “I doubt having two dicks between your thighs will change that.”
Fury roars like a hurricane in my ears, igniting my blood with a vengeance. It pulses through my body like lava, thick and scalding hot, tearing a burning path to my heart. How dare this woman speak to my wife that way. Mother or not—and clearly not a good one—she doesn’t get to speak to Celia that way.
I stand from my chair, my throat burning with every despicable thing I want to say to this woman. Celia grabs my wrist and tugs hard, but she’s no match for my strength. I glare at Adella Monrovia with every ounce of my rage, baring my teeth at her and hoping she cowers.
To my surprise, she doesn’t look the least bit intimidated. She clearly knows who I am—and what I’ve done to lesser humans—and yet she doesn’t bat an eye as I tower over her. From this height, Adella has clearly aged well. I can barely see the wrinkles around her eyes, and there’s not a speck of gray in her hair. But her eyes—those dark, fathomless pits of righteous shit —are as ancient as the night sky. She looks tired, worn out from a life running circles around a man who may not have loved her and two children who took unconventional paths to find love.
Thanatos’s voice is loud and clear in my ear. “Tell me when.”
A tiny red dot appears on Adella’s chest, both women freezing as they realize what it’s from. Adella looks at the laser dot, then up at me, then through the wide window to wherever she thinks my older brother is hiding. “You’d shoot a defenseless old woman?” Shaking her head, she chuckles as her shoulders relax. Fearful at first, but only for a moment. When she realizes that whoever is aiming a gun at her chest is with us, all the fear in her eyes melts away. “You can’t shoot me without consequences. Do you really want to explain to the pakhan why you killed an elder—your future child’s own flesh and blood—after he’s only just let your beast of a brother back into the bratva?” She clicks her tongue. “He’ll kill all four of you in a heartbeat. There’s no room for bad blood in our ranks.” Lifting an eyebrow, she continues, “oh, yes, I know who Thanatos is. I also know who you are, clearly more than my daughter, or she would never have gotten close to you. Do you know what he’s done, docha ? What all of them have done? They’re unworthy of you, of your blood, and will sully our good name if you breed with them.”
Breed with them.
I nearly laugh at loud, but Celia finally moves, slowly standing from her seat. Whipping her hand out, she cracks her mother across the cheek, slapping her hard enough that Adella’s earring pops off. It tumbles forgotten to the floor, but no diamond can compare to the way my woman burns.
An inferno rages in her eyes, making her body shake from the raw power coursing through her veins. “You’ve said enough.”
The red dot moves to Adella’s forehead, right between her eyes, as she turns her head to face her daughter. She doesn’t speak, which gives Celia the floor.
“You have preached about my precious reputation since I was a little girl!” She straightens her spine and glares down her nose at her mother. “After Dad died, you told me that he’d picked out a husband for me—oh yes, I haven’t forgotten that monumentous birthday present— a forty-year-old man. It’s no wonder I ran away from the bratva and its fucked-up traditions and into the arms of the first man I found! Ted! A man you approved of, if you recall!”
“I wanted you to be happy. He seemed to make you happy.”
“He was all I’d ever known!”
Adella’s lips pinch into a frown. “Sit down , Celia.”
Our altercation has drawn the attention of the room, leaving little room for other conversation. Every bratva woman’s ears are burning from how closely they’re listening, and all of the regular city inhabitants are all looking the other way while pretending not to listen. I’d rather have them carefully observe, like the Russians. At least they’re honest with their curiosity.
Celia flicks soft waves of her chestnut hair over her shoulder. “I know you think that my broken marriage is my fault—that somehow, you’ve failed as a mother for producing a daughter that can’t have children—but I’m here to tell you that none of it is my fault, and you shouldn’t automatically blame me for everything that’s wrong in your life. Dad cheated, then he died, and now you’re bitter and alone since I won’t call you. None of that is my fault. I wouldn’t even say that Dad’s faults are your fault. But this—” she gestures between the two of them—“ this is entirely your fault. I wanted you to be happy for me. I wanted you to think, Celia has found someone that makes her happy! Let’s celebrate the miracle of life and love and try to patch our relationship. If not for our sake, then for my unborn child’s.” Tears fill the corners of Celia’s eyes, but none fall. “I may not be pregnant yet, but I won’t stop until I have a child to love. Maybe it will have my genes, maybe it won’t, but the one thing I now know for sure it won’t have?” She draws a deep breath, her shoulders dropping as some of her anger cracks. “A grandmother.”
In the raw silence that follows, I wrap my arm around Celia’s waist and pull her into my side. Grinning wickedly at Adella, I say what’s on my goddamn mind. “The next time my wife’s name leaves your lips, make sure that you have nothing but good things to say, or I’ll rip your fucking tongue out myself.” Steering Celia away from the table, we walk through the silent dining room and out the front door, leaving the bitch for good.
I don’t give a damn if Adella Monrovia falls to her knees and grovels for forgiveness—not on my fucking life will I let her near my woman, or our child, again. I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that having a strong bratva woman in our corner would be a good thing. Another mama lion to protect her family should be an asset. But nothing about that woman screams important cargo.
Heather was right—Adella is pure venom.
Just not the right kind for my family.
Rebel’s gone quiet, and it’s not until we’ve stepped outside that I understand why. Ruin is holding him hostage, pressing his chest and face flat against the brick side wall as he fights to break free. Thanatos is nowhere to be found, even now, and it takes me a second to understand why.
“Do you want me to shoot?” he asks, still hidden from view. A perfect hit man.
I lean down to whisper in Celia’s ear. “It’s your call, beautiful.”
She clenches and unclenches her jaw, staring mutely into the busy traffic on the street in front of us. The streetlight changes from green to red, then back to green again before she speaks. “No,” she says finally, closing her eyes. A silent tear tracks down her cheek before she hastily brushes it away. “I want her to remember the day she ruined her life for good.” Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she dials her brother’s number and leaves a quick voicemail for him to call her when he gets the message and to avoid all contact with their mom.
Gently swinging her around until we’re facing one another, I cup her warm cheek in my palm. “Are you sure about this?” Cutting off our dad was easy for us—but we had each other as a support system, and our father never was one to begin with.
Celia’s been relying on her mother for years. It’s not an easy tie to break.
Nodding, she swallows hard. “I think I’ve always known that she wasn’t good for me. This was the proof I’ve been too afraid to see.”
Rebel crashes into Celia from the side, wrapping her tightly in his arms and murmuring words of encouragement in her ear. “You’re so fucking strong, baby, so strong. We can still go in there and fuck her shit up. Just say the word. I promise, I’ll make it hurt.”
Although I’m annoyed that he stole her from me, I’m grateful when she laughs. “I don’t want you to do that, Rebel.” She meets Ruin’s gaze from over Rebel’s shoulder. “You either, okay?”
He’s taken to wearing his mask in public, and a part of me withers to see it. I wish he’d not give a damn about his appearance, but I know there are likely more layers to his rationale than I realize. Grunting, he acknowledges her request.
Thanatos finally arrives, jogging across the parking lot toward us. “She’s still sitting at the table. I think she’s in shock.”
“Let her rot,” Rebel huffs angrily. “ Now, can we go home?” He slips his hands into Celia’s dress pockets and caresses her hips, earning a blushing smile from our woman. All four of us stare at her, waiting for her call on where to go next. After the bullshit she just experienced on her mother’s behalf, we’re all on the same page about the rest of the day.
Let Celia decide how she wants to decompress, if at all.
Shaking her head, she releases a long exhale. “We’re not done yet, are we? We still have step two to complete.”
“We’re still on step one,” I clarify, licking my lips. Thanatos meets my gaze over Celia’s head and nods. We talked about this at length outside of Ruin’s door this morning so that he would hear the plan, too. After flaunting Celia around the city, we need to ensure that our father takes the bait and comes for her. If not tonight, then tomorrow night, or the next, or the next. No matter how long it takes, we’ll catch the bastard, and we’ll make him suffer.
“Pretending that everything is normal?”
Rebel murmurs the real reason we’re parading Celia around the city in between a series of kisses across her jawline. “Putting you on display, baby. You’re our arm candy until our dad comes out of hiding.”
Her jaw pops open. “You can’t be serious.”
Thanatos crosses his arms over his chest as he comes to a stop behind her. “I don’t joke. This is the plan, Princess. You agreed to do whatever it takes.”
“It won’t take long,” I assure her, turning her face back toward me. “He’s getting impatient. Making mistakes. It’ll be easy to grab him once he’s stepped out of the shadows.”
I glance at Ruin, gauging his response. We all agreed that when the time came, we would let Ruin make the killing blow. It’s only right, after everything our dad has put him through. My youngest brother stands completely still, looking out of place against a cafe backdrop, but without an ounce of discomfort, even in broad daylight. His eyes are trained on Celia, like she’s the only thing keeping him anchored to the present. I doubt he’s truly listening to our conversation, lost in the fog of his thoughts about Celia.
He’s been doing that a lot—losing pieces of himself.
I only hope that no matter what happens, she can help him find whatever it is he’s been looking for—whether that means regaining what he’s lost, or creating something new to fill the void.