37. The Phases of the Moon
Chapter thirty-seven
The Phases of the Moon
Kazimir
An hour later, I stood on our bedroom’s balcony, wearing only pajama pants.
A cool breeze gently brushed against my skin.
Tonight, the French Quarter was quiet due to our taking several blocks over.
The lively jazz music that normally filled the air, the laughter and chatter of tourists, and the clinking of glasses from the crowded bars—all had been replaced by silence.
Blocks—normally awash with the warm glow of streetlights and neon signs—now lay in subdued darkness.
The iconic wrought-iron balconies, often witnesses to the city’s endless festivities, stood empty, their usual occupants having retreated indoors.
Hmmm. Will New Orleans be the same after us?
Our control over these blocks was a necessary measure, a strategic move in a larger game, yet it came with the weight of altering the very soul of the area, even if temporarily.
And I didn’t know how I felt about that. I was slowly beginning to fall in love with this city.
I hope that you survive, New Orleans.
I turned my view up to the night sky.
It was a deep indigo, sprinkled with countless stars that twinkled like distant diamonds.
There, the moon hung amidst the sparkling space—this constant presence, yet ever-changing within the threadwork of night.
Always glowing.
Always transforming.
A perpetual dance of shadows and light.
While my mother and father had taught me a lot about the criminal world, the moon had been my true professor of life.
Its phases paralleled the rhythm of living.
Life never remained static.
It was a series of ebbs and flows.
Of brightness and darkness.
There were days when everything was illuminated, clear and beautiful, much like the full moon.
For me, these moments oddly reminded me of the peaceful moments with Emily, when her presence brought clarity and joy, lighting up my world with the sheer force of her being.
Then there were the phases of waning and waxing, where life and my feelings were like the crescent moon—partly illuminated, partly obscured. These were the times of uncertainty and change, of partial understanding and gradual learning.
Of my wanting to kill and bomb, and her convincing me to stop, to think things through, to have compassion.
Yet, even in these moments, there was a certain beauty, a sliver of light in the darkness that promised the eventual return to fullness.
And, of course, there were periods of complete darkness, akin to the new moon, where everything seemed lost and invisible.
I thought back to the vision of Maxwell in that hospital, unconscious. . .that maze of wires keeping him alive.
What if he dies? How will that destroy my mouse? How will that. . .destroy me?
Suddenly pain and pressure soared in my chest.
And it was strong and causing multiple sensations.
Like a flock of anxious birds taking flight in my chest. Their wings beating against my ribcage, causing this frantic, rapid fluttering of anxiety.
Anxiety was a heavy weight within.
A tight grip.
A suffocating embrace.
All at once.
No. Maxwell will be okay.
Still staring at the moon, I deeply breathed in and exhaled all that fear and pressure out. And because it eased the flock in my chest, I did it again and again, finding peace in the process of pulling in oxygen and letting it go.
Yes. Yes. Much better.
Calm came.
I gave a sad smile to the moon.
And yes, old friend. You are right. This too will change. Even this darkness, must bring light.
Like the moon, this was just a phase that came in life—the challenging times, the periods of loss, doubt, and fear.
Just as the moon vanished only to reappear, I knew this dark phase was only a temporary, part of a greater cycle leading back to light.
It will all be. . .better.
I breathed in again and felt an overwhelming sense of peace and perspective. The night air was cool and refreshing, carrying with it the subtle scents of the garden below—jasmine, a hint of rosemary, and the earthy aroma of damp soil.
Life is like the moon.
I chuckled to myself, remembering how Sasha would hate when I said things like this.
And then a frown hit me as I also thought of Sasha’s betrayal.
Now you are dead. Perhaps you should have studied the moon more.
That day long ago came to me.
In New York, I’d headed to a meeting that Sasha knew I would be at. My enemies had gone through great lengths to get me inside that building so that eventually. . .the structure would explode and I would be gone.
But as we drove up, Emily noticed that something was off.
A gang around the building looked suspicious.
We entered and she took me down into the sewer.
And the building did explode.
And my enemies thought they had won.
But the Lion had met the Mouse. . .
I gripped the balcony’s railing.
I wish I could mentally save her like she saved me. . .go in that head and match the puzzle pieces together.
I turned my thoughts to my mouse.
But, then. . .she’s also like the moon.
I grinned.
Emily had phases that left me in awe of her complexity and beauty. There were moments when she shone brightly, her laughter and energy infectious, filling my days with light.
Then, there were times she was more reserved, her inner thoughts casting shadows.
And. . .I desperately longed to penetrate her mind, to share her burden and bring back her light.
No. She is not the moon.
In my mind, I replayed her yelling at everyone in the hospital tonight.
She is a mouse merged within a lioness.
I considered Lunita and the other alters.
No. She is much more than that.
I let out a long breath.
I do not think there is one word or phrase that could truly embody what she is.
But what remained constant, like the ever-present moon, was my love for her.
That I knew for sure.
No matter the phase, no matter the change, my love for her was unwavering. There was this gravitational pull that kept me orbiting around her, always returning, always constant.
For in her, I had found my sun, my moon, and all my stars, wrapped in one breathtaking woman.
Movement sounded behind me.
I turned around.
Tisha stepped onto the balcony. “They are here.”
“And is my mouse still asleep?”
“She is.”
“Good. She must get her rest.” I took my cousin in.
Exhaustion covered his face. His eyes were heavy and drooping, dark circles etched underneath. At least a new bandage was wrapped around his body.
Clean and white.
It was a stark contrast against his dirt-stained clothes.
I frowned. “Go to sleep, Tisha.”
He shook his head. “I am on right now. I will sleep later—”
“You are tired and—”
“Sinaloa Cartel delivered sicarios to New Orleans.”
Goddamn it.
The weight of Tisha’s words brought all that pressure back to my chest.
Sicarios. . .here. . .and so close to my sons and mouse. . .
The term wasn’t foreign to me. In fact, it’s very mention conjured images of cold-blooded assassins.
The sicarios were the stuff of dark legends, a nightmare brought to life from the underbelly of the criminal world.
Brutal psychos with no code.
No mercy.
No remorse.
Vicious men and women drenched in bloodlust.
They would slaughter a man’s mother, wife, and kids right in front of him, and then take his life after hours of torture.
Even the Brotherhood had a thin moral line to keep us somewhat human.
They had nothing.
No lines.
No souls.
I gritted my teeth. “So, Sinaloa has decided to raise the stakes, even higher.”
Tisha’s nod was grave. “I have discussed this with King David.”
I quirked my brows.
He is king now?
Back in Moscow, Tisha had joked about David’s title. After tonight. . .Tisha now chose to call him king.
Apparently, my number one had utterly earned my cousin’s respect.
I smirked. “What did you and David discuss?”
“The Cartel knew we blocked ports and all ways into New Orleans. David and I believe that the strip club bombing was not truly about killing you or Emily.”
“Interesting.”
“It was a distraction. When they attacked, our men were called away from their posts to help out in any way possible.”
“Giving them the opportunity to slip the true killers in.”
“Yes, Kazimir. The Cartel’s most lethal killers. They are not just hitmen. They are shadows. Phantoms known for their ruthlessness and inability to be traced.”
A chill ran through me. “How many do you think entered New Orleans?”
“At least thirty.” Tisha swallowed. “However. . .”
I leaned my head to the side. “What?”
“These particular sicarios are being led by someone named Milagro .”
I considered the meaning of the name in Spanish. “Miracle.”
“Apparently, Milagro does not miss.”
I sneered. “He will miss this time.”
“We do not know if Milagro is a man or woman, but David pulled Misha into our phone call so that we can get the person’s identity.”
That earlier phone call I had had with Misha told me all I needed to know about his energy. Some of the tension left me. “The Mosquito will find Milagro, before he or she finds us.”
“Still, we may need to head to the Comedienne’s estate tomorrow.”
My frown deepened.
“Kazimir, sicarios move like ghosts, leaving only a trail of bodies in their wake.”
The balcony, once a refuge, felt too exposed, too open. I glanced back at the bedroom where Emily lay, oblivious to the new danger that now shadowed our lives.
The thought of those cold, efficient killers anywhere near her and my boys tightened the already suffocating grip of anxiety in my chest.
“We will move before the dinner tomorrow.” I sighed and glanced back at the moon.
They dare bring fucking assassins around my kids?
That dinner would be heavy with the promise of bloodshed.
Did the Butcher and everyone else coming to New Orleans truly understand that this would not be a simple dispute.
It would be a massacre.
I turned back to my cousin.
Tisha rubbed his tired eyes.
I shook my head. “Go to sleep. You have done well for tonight—”
“I am on.” Tisha gave me a sad smile and then winked. “But you must go to sleep, Kazimir.”
I tensed at the very idea of simply heading to bed on such a dangerous night. Then, I thought of Emily and stressed even more. “Lunita may show up—”
“We have put precautions in place.”
I looked through the glass door, showing the view into our bedroom.
Shadows cloaked the space due to the only source of light being the soft glow of a bedside lamp.
My mouse lay there, so peaceful in sleep, her chest rising and falling rhythmically.
I thought about the moment after our bath when she gathered up her wet hair and began looping and twisting those soft strands into long braids. Those fingers moved with such grace and precision.
There was something mesmerizing about it, something profoundly intimate in the way she wove her hair into a pattern of undeniable beauty.
I realized then, as I do now, that I could watch her braid her hair for the rest of my life.
I should let my hair grow out. It would be nice to have her fingers in my hair as she did the same sort of braids she did for Paolo.
It was in those quiet moments that my feelings ran even deeper and more all-consuming.
And now my mouse is asleep.
It had been my plan—the rum and marijuana—a concoction potent enough to give her a temporary escape from the agony over Maxwell as well as lull her into a deep sleep.
Sighing, I turned my attention to Boris and Wassily who also stood in our bedroom, stationed like silent sentinels in the shadows of the space.
“I have something else to tell you.” Tisha grabbed my attention. “The Butcher arrived and has been calling all night. My people reported that he has placed pansies near Maxwell’s room and all around the hospital.”
Hmmm.
I shrugged. “Jean-Pierre now knows about the attack. He probably wants to see if we will still do the dinner.”
“And will you?”
“Emily wants to go, so we will attend.”
“Will we attack there?”
“The Butcher is smart, and he is the host of a neutral setting that is intended to bring peace.”
Tisha nodded, immediately understanding. “The French are about reputation. The Butcher will not let anyone get harmed while he is hosting, even our enemies. No one will trust him to host a dinner again, and that sort of thing means a lot to the pansies.”
It gives him power among friends and foes. To lose it would be to possibly make him an enemy.
I leaned against the railing. “I am also not sure how friendly Jean-Pierre is with the Cartels. He knew too much, and too quickly. My mouse trusts the Butcher. I do not.”
Not completely.
Tisha eyed me. “Then, if the Butcher knows that Emily and you are coming, what do you think he will do?”
“Jean-Pierre will never tell us the location of the dinner. He knows what I will do with that information.”
Smart, nosy bastard.
I continued, “In fact, the Butcher will probably send a car to all guests, including us. And before we get in that car, his men will check for weapons.”
Annoyance hit me. “He also is well-versed in the violence that my mouse can bring. Therefore, he probably would not let her even have a tube of lipstick on her before entering the dinner.”
Curiosity replaced the weariness on Tisha’s face. “Can someone actually kill another with lipstick?”
My gaze drifted up to the moon. “Emily’s number one, Blue. She is skilled with putting together unconventional weapons. She is expected to be here soon.”
“But, lipstick?”
“It can be hollowed out and filled with something lethal. A sharp blade, a needle, poison. It can become a weapon, disguised under the guise of vanity. And with Maxwell in the hospital, and my mouse on this. . .dark path. . .” I stiffened in horror. “Even a tiny needle would be a murderous weapon for her.”
And Lunita. . .
Tisha disrupted my thoughts. “And the Butcher understands this?”
“More than I am comfortable with.”
The Butcher was now in New Orleans.
How would that change our situation?
On one side there was his obsession with me.
On the other side, his growing affection for my mouse. . .and I was still not sure if it was a good or bad thing.
So far, their friendship had served us well. However, it was one merged with deals and promises.
Was that a true friendship?
Or was it more frenemies finding common ground?
Tisha spoke, “Then, we will not plan to retaliate at this dinner?”
I thought of Emily and her current tango with darkness. “Well. . .my mouse may surprise us all. While she will abide by the Butcher’s rules and not bring a weapon. . .We will see if he understands that Emily can make a weapon of anything, even a tablecloth.”
Tisha widened his eyes.
My mouse is mad. Blood will be spilled at that dinner. It is not a matter of ‘if,’ but ‘how much?’
I placed my hands into my pockets. “Any news of Maxwell?”
“None. However, the hospital is uncomfortable with so many men around his room and the hospital.”
I raised my eyebrows. “How many men are there?”
“I was told that it is close to impossible to walk in the hallway on that floor due to it being very crowded. There is Harlem Crew, Valentina’s people. Ours. Black Axe. The witch’s men.” Tisha shook his head. “And of course now there are Pansies.”
I smirked. “Maxwell will be happy to hear how loved he is.”
“And what should I tell the hospital?”
“Remind them that it is my hospital now.”
“Understood.”
I shook my head at their audacity. “Americans.”
Tisha chuckled. “Eventually, they will learn, cousin.”
“Let us hope it is soon. It will make this war shorter.”
Tisha’s face shifted back to serious. “Do you have worries about the war?”
“I do.”
“Is it the addition of the sicarios?”
“It is more.”
Tisha blinked. “This is new for the Lion.”
“How?”
“As a boy, you always ran toward the fight. As a man, you typically slapped the man first, and as the Lion. . .” He chuckled. “You typically bomb first.”
“With this war, I am not worried about myself.”
“You are worried about your kids?”
“Yes, and Emily.” I gazed back at her sleeping form. “I am not sure if she can handle another war? Italy was a lot. She came here to heal, and now. . .I wonder if this will break her.”
“No, cousin.” Tisha came closer. “Emily is just as strong as you, if not stronger.”
I studied him.
“Kazimir, I have been a first person witness to her ruthlessness, her ability to stand up and fight when it is needed. She has survived things that would break many of our men.”
“You are correct.”
Our fight in that bathroom flashed in my mind.
My mouse and I had been fierce together.
Unstoppable.
“Your mouse brought a new life into this world amidst chaos. Emilio is strong and healthy with no signs of the war in Italy.” Tisha shrugged. “If that does not symbolize strength, I do not know what does.”
His words seeped into my pores. “My mouse is strong.”
“She is.”
Relief came. “Thank you, Tisha.”
“I only reminded you of what you already knew.” Tisha gazed back at my mouse. “You and Emily. You both are a team. Unbreakable.”
His words, simple yet profound, anchored me back to reality, to the present moment where fear had no stronghold.
I took my hands out of my pockets. “We are unstoppable.”
“Yes.”
Sighing, I curled my lips into a smile. “She thinks that we should have the wedding here.”
“Amidst the war?”
“Will there ever be a time when the Lion is not in war?”
“That is a question I cannot answer.”
I thought about her dressed in white—breathtaking and sparkling in diamonds. “A wedding would be nice in the midst of this war and her healing.”
“Then, I will fly in the best tailors.”
Excitement filled me. “The best for you and me.”
“Me?”
“I expect you to be a part of the wedding party.”
Tisha’s face brightened.
“Of course. . .the best man will be Valentina.”
A low chuckle left him. “Of course. I am sure she will love that.”
“King David, you, Misha.” I rubbed my chin. “This is a good group to be in my wedding. Perhaps, I will think of one or two more, if my mouse has a lot of women.”
“I assume Maxwell will be her maid of honor?”
I nodded. “It will be a unique line up indeed.”
“Excellent.” Tisha pointed at me. “Now please go to sleep, cousin.”
I scowled.
“You must.”
“I will.” I put my gaze on Boris standing in our bedroom. “But first, I must have a conversation with them.”
“A conversation?”
“Yes.” I frowned at Boris. “A conversation.”