21. Nik
Luna is stammering and stuttering her way through this dinner. She looks like she’s on the verge of tears, and I wouldn’t blame her at this point. Maria Buscetta is a shark. Every opportunity to cut Luna down, she takes. Luna has shrunk further and further into herself all night, intent on remaining in the background. With her own parents.
After my mom left, my father and I didn’t have the best relationship. Though, how fatherly can a member of the Bratva truly be? Still, he trained me. Taught me loyalty, dedication, service, and most importantly, confidence. Luna’s parents demand obedience. Instead of celebrating who she is as Luna, they’re cutting her down and forcing her to be the woman they believe she should be.
It’s pissing me off.
Luna’s body freezes every time she takes a bite of the salad she ordered. A salad. Who orders a salad when their favorite food is on the menu? Oh, that’s right, someone whose mother is Maria Buscetta. Each time I offer Luna half my bread, she looks to her mom and then shakes her head.
I scoop up a fork full of my carbonara and elbow her.
“Here. Eat a bite of this. You’re right, it’s pretty good.” I offer up my food, but instead of taking the fork, she leans over. Closing her eyes, she opens her mouth for me, and I slide the fork into her mouth. She closes around it, her perfect lips curving up in a smile. I practically jump as a shiver zips up my spine. The hell?I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.
“Thank you,” she says, and my fingers ache to touch her. This is not how tonight is supposed to be going. Lucky for me, Salvatore is exceptional at interrupting right when you need him to.
“Did Luka assign you guards, Luna?” Her father’s voice sounds stern rather than concerned, raising my interest as to why he asked the question in the first place.
“Yes, Frank and Lev are nice. Lev takes me most anywhere I need, or want, to go.”
I don’t miss the way she says want. Hinting to the fact that she hasn’t been home for a reason. Her father chuckles and brings his elbows onto the table beside his empty plate.
“Be careful with that, Nikolai. Luna has a history with guards.”
Luna goes red in an instant, the flush rising from her neck to cheeks. The worst thing I can do right now is ask about it, but I will ask. Later.
The air has a crisp, chilly bite to it, and I open the car door for Luna before I round to my own side. I glance at Luna. I hate how bruised she is.
She’s staring out the window, head tilted back as she looks up at the moon. I want to pull her out of her thoughts. Let her shine as deep as the moon illuminating the night—a moonbeam.
Hell.
Her annoyance on the plane when I used that nickname?—
I’m not sure where it even came from. It just spilled out of my mouth when I saw her standing there in the middle of the house’s grandeur. I knew instantly it was right for her. A beacon, illuminating my way past every fear I carry in the dark.
“I’m sorry you had to experience that,” she says suddenly. “It’s part of the reason I didn’t want you to come. I’m sure sitting across from the man who made you marry me was … insulting.”
She’s still turned away from me as she talks, jaw clenched and hands fisting her leather jacket she never put back on. Her mouth parts, releasing a sigh.
“I’d say it was a rather unpleasant meal,” I respond, and she snorts. “It’s because of who they are, Luna, not because of who you are—or who you are to me.”
“And who am I to you, Nik?”
I suck in a breath, unsure how to even answer that question. Yes, she was the woman I was compelled to marry, but Luna’s effect on me is?—
“He killed a man,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “My guard, at seventeen. That’s what he was referring to. I’m sure you were wondering.”
My mind reels. There are several reasons Salvatore Buscetta would have killed one of his guards, some more legitimate than others. But, when you’re the underboss, I’m not sure you even need a reason.
However, Luna at seventeen, and Salvatore killing a guard. I wonder …
“Did he hurt you?” I clench my teeth together as I say it, anticipating the worst. The idea that something like that could happen to Luna—my stomach churns at the thought.
“No. Not in that way. It’s a classic story of older forbidden boy … and a young naive girl thinking he hung the moon. My father found out and put a bullet in his head. Said I didn’t know what love was, and he was right. I didn’t—don’t. But he was a choice I made for myself; not one forced on me. I should’ve known better.”
She glances in my direction, fire burning in her eyes, before resuming her gaze outside.
“I lost my value to my family that night,” she continues, and I track a solo tear gliding down her cheek.
This is the toxicity of organizations like ours. Viewing women as currency—purchasing alliances and loyalty with them. The Bratva, as I’ve known it, has never used women like that, but that’s not typically the norm for most Mafia organizations.
Fraternizing with the boss’s granddaughter while on duty was a slap in the Cosa Nostra’s face—and, in our world, cause for punishment—so I understand why her father did what he did. Although, the situation shouldn’t have reflected negatively on Luna.
“Luna …” There’s too much distance between us. Reaching over, I turn her chin toward me. Her skin is cool to the touch; I should probably turn the heat on for her. My fingertips dance across her silky-smooth cheeks, aiming to wipe her tears away.
“Nik,” she says, breathless. Her warm exhale skates over my hand, and my pulse quickens at the sound of my name on her lips—it’s intoxicating. In this moment, I want to take away all her hurt.
This is madness.
“Thank you for coming tonight.” She sighs, no longer meeting my eyes. “Look, Nik, I don’t expect anything from you. It was nice of you to come to dinner and bring me to Russia. But I know what you said this was,” she motions between us, “and I know you have a life and certain … habits.”
“Habits?”My brows furrow.
“You know …” She trails off.
“No, Luna. I don’t know,” I say. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning a shade of white I’ve never seen before. She takes a deep breath, arranging her skirt over her knees.
“Forget it. I appreciate you coming with me.” She offers me a half-ass smile, and a festering pang in my chest grows. Forget it? What if I don’t want to? For some messed up reason, I long to know how she sees me.
But instead of trying to force an answer out of her, I start the car. I catch her watching me and give her a wink.
“How about a donut?”
I toss a donut and napkin into Luna’s lap, and she pins me with an exasperated look. Practically unhinging my jaw, I inhale the glazed goodness in my hand.
Moaning, I give Luna another wink. She rolls her eyes, but a hint of a smile twitches at her lips.
This shop is my little secret. I found it on my way out of the city a few years ago. I love the vintage vibe of the place, with its neon pink and orange awning, and the glowing signage with scrawled lettering.
But the real gold is their homemade donuts.
My addiction to them rivals Luka’s to coconut cake. Something about the sugary sweetness does something to me. I’m not a huge sweets guy, but these are perfection. And this shop has some epic flavors with unique toppings—and all kinds of other drizzled deliciousness. Although, at the end of the day, glazed are my go-to.
“Come on,” I say, “you have to try.”
She picks up the donut and rips a quarter off, popping it in her mouth. I wait for her verdict as she chews. A moment later, her eyebrows raise, a look of pleasant surprise lighting up her face. She closes her eyes and swallows.
Hell. Luna could make broccoli appealing, and I hate the stuff.
“It’s delicious,” she says, her words muffled by her bite. She gestures out the car window. “Such a cute place, too.”
“I always appreciate them being open late. Especially on nights after a hard meeting with Luka, or, you know … mafia business.” I skirt around mentioning specifics. “Next time, I’d love to take you inside. The owners are good people.”
Luna snickers.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s just weird thinking about you having a life where you go to retro donut shops and know the owners.”
I shrug, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“I like it, though,” she says, a blush dusting her cheeks.
I smile at her, but I don’t know what to say.
I like that she likes it—and that’s new.