25. Luna
Acreaking noise startles me awake. Panic surges inside me and my heart begins to race. Could someone be in here?I open one eye, cautiously scanning the room. A man-shaped silhouette fills the leather chair over in the corner of the room near the window.
Nik.
The chilly air makes me shiver. I want to bury my head under the covers, but instead, I reach over to switch on the nightstand lamp. I freeze when I see him in the light.
He’s slouched back in the chair, a tumbler glass pressed to the side of his forehead. His hair is tousled, as if he’s dragged his hand through it too many times. His white shirt is unbuttoned, exposing his rigid muscles. Swirls of black ink run from his peck muscles to the lower left side of his neck.
“Nik, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
His nostrils flare, and his gaze travels down my torso. My eyes shift to my red silk cami and its matching bottoms; cringing, I quickly pull up the covers.
“Dmitry was killed tonight,” he answers, voice rough and gravelly. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are black as night. It’s an expression I’ve never seen on him. Fist strangling his glass, he takes another sip of something. Probably liquor, based on his glazed eyes. And it looks like he’s had several.
“Are you okay?” I ask again.
“No.”
My gaze flits around the room, attempting to evade his intense stare. I’m at a loss for words, unsure how to console him. There’s anguish in his eyes, and I wish I could shoulder some of his pain. The typically witty and charming man is now overshadowed by an agony I can’t stomach.
“What can I do?”
My hope is he’ll put the liquor down and get some rest. His head tilts to the side as he studies me, a thumb coming up to flick his lower lip. His eyes seems to grow darker.
Anticipation roils in my gut as he stands and slowly moves closer to the bed, blocking the brisk air from the window. When he makes it to the edge of the platform, I hear his shoe hit against the wood. His proximity is palpable; he stands so close, his eyes wavering as they seem to struggle to decide where to focus.
“Luna,” Nik whispers.
Touch me. The words explode through my thoughts. Flirtatious statements from the bar in Russia slip to the forefront of my mind, and I fight the urge to yank him closer to me. Perhaps this is something we both need, I think as I move toward him, extending my hand and then grazing the one that isn’t holding his empty glass.
Nik tips his head down, watching as I entwine our fingers together. Cold and calloused, his thumb caresses my skin. He swipes gently back and forth, and we stay that way—him gazing down at our hands, and me searching his face.
There’s a mixture of dark desire and genuine pain in his eyes. Firmly, I tug at him, bringing his hand to my lips and pressing a kiss to each of his knuckles.
Touch me, I silently beg again.
It’s as if he heard me, because he releases my hand and grips the side of my face, fingers tangling in my hair. He stares at my lips. They part on a sharp breath, and a prickling sensation tingles through me.
I lean into the contact, savoring it. Attraction to Nik was instant when I first saw him at our wedding. I won’t deny it. But it’s his selflessness within the Bratva, and his attempts at making me comfortable in an uncomfortable situation, that make me want him?—
Nik’s face tightens and he steps away.
“Nyet.” His nostrils flare, hand twitching like he’s holding himself back. He groans. “Damn it, Luna.”
His expression turns stoic as he looms over me, and my heart pounds in confusion. I’m fairly certain my cheeks are on fire.
He bolts to the living room, leaving me utterly stunned. I wait for several minutes, thinking he might return, but he doesn’t. I step shakily out of bed and pad to the bathroom. By the time I come back out, he still hasn’t returned. And when I wake the next morning, he’s already gone.
Several days go by, and I barely see Nik. When our paths do cross, our interactions feel awkward and misplaced. I can’t look at him without my face bursting into flames. I’m embarrassed—why did I reach for him? Nik tries to pretend it didn’t happen. He gives me winks, but his usual playful demeanor has been muted.
The funeral is today. I”m in the bathroom touching up my makeup when Nik knocks on the doorframe, home early from work. Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi …”
I add some lipstick as he steps up behind me, a black tie in his hands. The pain from the other night is no longer masked by alcohol and desire; it’s written all over his face, and my heart aches for him.
“Can I help you?” I ask, eyes going to his tie.
“Nah. Been doing it myself since I was a young boy.” He smiles a weak smile.
“Yeah, but you don’t have to.”
I hold his gaze, desperately trying to convey to him I’m here for him. Regardless of how we were brought together, we are together, and he doesn’t have to deal with any of this alone.
An undercurrent of something passes between us. As if the tie is a metaphor for something more.
Relenting, he hands it to me. I push up onto my toes, wrapping the tie around his neck and bringing the two sides together in front. This close, his pine scent is much more potent. I inhale, subtly trying to breathe it in.
Air filters out through the vent in the ceiling, blowing small tendrils of hair in front of my face. Nik brushes them from my cheek, tucking them securely behind my ears.
My skin prickles, but I keep my gaze trained on the tie, pushing the knot to Nik’s neck then tugging his collar back into place.
“It’s been forever since I’ve done a tie. Surprised I still remember how.” I step back, allowing the space between us to resume.
“Your dad?”
“Yeah. I used to beg him to let me do his tie when I was little. He never deprived me.” I smile at the memory. Warm feelings about my father become few and far between these days.
Nik smiles, rubbing my shoulder. “Are you ready?”
Nik heads to the door, pausing to wait for me.
“Yeah. Let me grab my shoes.”
The ride is quiet. Nik drives us, and several cars of the warehouse men follow. The cemetery comes into view after half an hour, enclosed by elaborate patinated gates. A few trees are spread throughout, but mostly it’s a large hill of gravestones and monuments.
We park, and I watch others exit their cars to travel the meandering pathways and walkways that crisscross the grounds. Before I can open my door, it opens for me. Lev smiles down at me, and I offer him one in return. Ignoring his extended hand, I step out myself.
“Thank you,” I say. Searching for Nik. I spot him on the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on Lev with a stern glare.
“You got it.” Lev winks at me, but it doesn’t dip my stomach like Nik’s does.
Soon, I find myself trailing behind Igor, with Nik close behind. His hand on my lower back gently guides me through the crowd and toward the graveside service.
The air is crisp and refreshing, signaling the onset of summer. There’s a warmth in the air, but it’s not laden with sweltering heat yet.
Rows of chairs face a freshly dug grave, the deep mahogany casket catching the sun’s glimmer. An elderly woman sits in the front row, delicately dabbing her eyes with a tissue. We come to a halt beside Luka and Kate, and behind us, several other families begin to file in.
A few minutes later, I inhale a sharp gasp as my father and several Cosa Nostra men approach. My father acknowledges Luka with a nod, and his gaze connects with mine, and then Nik’s, before he positions himself opposite the Bratva. A faint smile graces his face.
The opening remarks are delivered, followed by a heartfelt prayer. Dmitry’s sister delivers a poignant eulogy, painting a beautiful picture of his life. Unmarried and without a partner, his thirty-five years seemed to be entirely dedicated to the Bratva.
The older woman I noticed earlier, presumably his mother, places a single white rose on the casket, tears streaming down her cheeks.
I glance at Nik; his gaze is fixed on the spot where the rose sits. He swallows repeatedly, and I wonder whether he’s suppressing tears. Luka remains composed while Kate clasps his hand, her eyes glassy as she gazes up at him with profound love and unwavering devotion.
A twinge of discomfort tightens my chest as I observe other Bratva men holding their wives or significant others, highlighting the noticeable distance between Nik and me.
Closing remarks start, expressing gratitude to all attendees and announcing a post-service gathering at Dmitry’s mother’s home. As the music fades and the crowd begins to disperse, my father approaches with two guards flanking him. He directs his attention to Luka.
“Our condolences for your loss. I’m sorry he had to die at their hands.”
I don’t understand who they’re discussing, and Luka doesn’t give it away with his response. He merely nods and introduces Kate, who’s standing by his side.
As they talk, I absentmindedly twirl the hideous family ring on my finger. Curious if Nik’s wearing his, I attempt to catch a glimpse of his hands, but they’re tucked into his pockets.
“Luna,” my father says. “Are you well?”
I blink, unprepared for such a question.
“Yes.” I offer a smile, but it feels like a lie.
“Good.”
And with that, he’s finished with me. He moves to speak more with Luka, but I don’t even care to listen anymore. I back away, my mouth suddenly dry.
Nik stays to talk with my father and several members of each respective side. Kate stays by Luka’s side, her arm firmly looped through his. I doubt Nik even realizes I’ve moved away.
Ugh, Luna. Stop.
But I can’t.
I see it. Both sides working together, discussing their next move, honoring the alliance—an alliance I paid the price for. I’ve been used up, like a coin for candy. They got the sweet deal they wanted, and I was their payment.
I shudder, annoyed with myself. I’m having a pity party in the middle of a man’s funeral.
It feels trivial, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
My sister is running late. It shouldn’t surprise me. The whole family has always been subject to operating on her time.
I take a sip of my lemonade, served neatly in a mason jar glass with a sprig of fresh mint, a slice of lemon hugging the rim. The restaurant we’re meeting at is a small eclectic sandwich shop I’ve never been to. It’s closer to my parent’s home than the warehouse.
Mirrors appear to be a passion here. They’re hanging all over the walls, casting playful streams of sunlight throughout the restaurant.
A small bell dings when the door blows open, and my sister strides in. She’s in a tube top, cutoff shorts, and heels, the exact opposite of my t-shirt, jeans, and Vans.
“Sorry I’m late,” she huffs, throwing her sunglasses up on top of her head, and placing her cell phone face down on the table.
“It’s okay. I ordered a lemonade and I’ve been people-watching.” I take another sip of my drink and raise my eyebrows. “It’s really good.”
“I’ll probably just get a water. What are you eating?” Isabella’s eyes rove over the menu in front of her, her long fingernails tapping absently on her phone.
“I think I’m going with the chicken salad.” I smile when she scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out like she sucked on something sour.
“I don’t know how you eat that.”
No one in my family likes it but me, so Giulia never made it. However, on the rare occasion I visited a place that had it on the menu, I’d get it.
“What have you been up to? Mom said school was going well.” I notice the tension in her shoulders when I ask, but she nods, picking up her phone to scroll.
“Yeah, it’s okay, I guess. I wish I didn’t have to finish. Mom knows I want to model. It would be a whole lot easier to go to auditions during the day if I wasn’t in class.”
The waitress delivers a water and takes our orders before I get a chance to respond.
“You’re so close to finishing, Bella,” I say once she leaves.
“You sound like Mom.” She rolls her eyes, and I cringe at being compared to my mother. “I’ve been skipping a few classes when it’s a big audition. I don’t want to be void of goals in life. I don’t want to be you.”
Well, that hurt. It’s like I’ve been smacked.
“What do you mean?” I ask, unsure if I want to dive down this rabbit hole.
“It’s just—you didn’t have many goals, and then you got married, and now what? What do you do for you? No offense, Lu. I know you didn’t have a choice.” She casually sips her water as if she didn’t insult me.
I’m trying to find a hole in her logic, but I can’t. I don’t have any goals. I spent my late teen years tucked away, and to be honest, I never really thought about what I’d do after I got married. Not because I don’t want to do anything, but because I don’t know what I could do. I didn’t go to college. I have no experience.
“I want to travel,” I say defensively.
My sister raises her brows at me. “Travel,” she deadpans.
“Nik took me to Russia. I didn’t get to explore much, but I enjoyed being immersed in another culture—the food, the language, the people.” Excitement thrums through me as I talk about it. I take another sip of lemonade. At this rate, I’m going to need a second.
Our food is placed in front of us, and we chat about a few of the projects Bella’s working on—which makes her comment about my lack of such things even more of a slap.
However, the more she shares, the more concerned I get. She’s hanging out with some pretty well-known businessmen, along with several other girls interested in modeling. They’ve been invited to a new VIP club stuffed full of millionaires and politicians. Her claim is it’s going to be great for networking, but that is no place for a young girl.
I don’t want her to have the secluded life I did. Although, I picture her getting ice cream with her friends while talking about prom. Not partying with thirty-year-olds, surrounded by drugs and alcohol. This world she’s inserted herself into is dangerous.
“Just be careful, Bella. If they find out your last name—it won’t be good.”
Now I sound like my father. But if people found out she’s the daughter of Salvatore Buscetta, it would be more than just not good—it would be devastating. She’d be found bait. A way to get at my father and the Cosa Nostra. She could even be sold off to our enemies. We’d probably never see her again.
“God, Luna. Could you be any more of a buzzkill? I don’t look young, and these people treat me like an adult, like I’m worth something.” She digs into her salad, stabbing a cherry tomato four times before picking it up with her fingers.
The shop’s air kicks on, rustling the stack of napkins on our table. I stare, watching them flap around. I can relate to what my sister said. I want to feel like I’m worth something. Like I’m something more than a piece in a game to be moved around for the benefit of the Buscetta name.
“So, how is married life? Enjoying the perks of marrying a hotty?” She snorts, half choking on a crouton.
A small chuckle flees from my mouth, and she glares at me. “It’s not a traditional marriage, Bella.” I drop my eyes. I don’t want to talk about this with my younger sister. I drink the last of my lemonade and wrestle down the rest of my sandwich, keeping my mouth full to avoid talking anymore about Nik.
“Don’t count it out yet. He’s lucky to be married to Luna Buscetta.” She raises her water to me, smiling.
If only Nik thought that.