4. Alek #2
In Russia, cemeteries are often gaunt and bare-looking spaces. The graves line up in perfectly straight lines, matching headstones, and grass trimmed down as neatly as possible. Everything has its place, and its place is neat and well cared for… but dull and gray.
The embodiment of sadness is strong throughout this cemetery. Trees are planted just as neatly, between rows of graves. At this point of the season, the trees are bare and lifeless. Greying branches stick out like jagged bones reaching for the sky, providing neither shade nor protection.
The poppies in my hand are the brightest thing for at least a mile. Even the flowers already on the graves are dead and dying, lacking their once vibrant color.
Each footstep feels heavy underneath me, until I finally stop and turn to look down at the gravestone ahead of me.
I suck in a deep breath, and my eyes scan the words carved into the black and grey marble.
Felicia Volkov.
Daughter. Sister. Wife.
I get to the section that states when she was born, and when she died, and I can’t bare to look at it anymore. I close my eyes and simply stand here for what feels like an eternity.
All the thoughts are gone. All the memories. The voices. Now that I stand here before her, everything is silent. It’s always been this way. You would think that I would come here more often, but it feels like the trip is the hardest part. I often decide to suffer instead.
“I brought these for you,” I whisper.
I lean down and place the bouquet of poppies at the base of her headstone.
It’s strange standing here all alone, but I’ve done it before.
The very first time I’d been surrounded by her family; a family that was far more loving and caring than my own. One that actually grieved for me, rather than blamed me. Despite the fact that they damn well should have.
I swallow hard and try to think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind. It’s all been said before.
With a deep breath I turn around and prepare to walk back down the lonely pathway, but I feel a presence nearby.
“I wouldn’t take you for a flowers kind of guy,” a voice says. I recognize the voice just seconds before I see his face.
“Tommaso,” I say slowly. My hands ball into fists. “What are you doing here?”
He’s standing before me with his hands in his pockets, casual and lacking the same heaviness that I feel. At least, until he steps closer to the grave and his face shifts into something more serious.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he insists.
I shake my head. “You shouldn’t be here,” I tell him. “I’m not interested in talking.”
“You will be,” he tells me.
I huff. “Are you serious? You follow me all the way to Russia for this shit?” I ask him.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” he responds, his hands moving out of his pockets and waving around him. “I told you, you will talk to me, one way or another.”
“First you almost out me at the restaurant, now you follow me to my wife’s grave. How classy of you,” I sneer at him. “Do you really think this will make me want to talk to you?”
He shakes his head. “No, but you’ve already given me more information. Your wife. I didn’t know you had one, much less a dead one.”
I remove the distance between us and grab him the front of his leather jacket. “Keep her out of your fucking mouth,” I growl at him. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“I think she does, or you wouldn’t be here,” Tommaso says matter-of-factly. “I watched you storm out of the base to come here. Something set you off. What was it?”
I let go of his jacket and take a couple steps back, feeling anger boiling in my body, but I tamp it down. Keep it as cold as the snow on the ground.
“You’re a stalker now, is that it?” I ask him.
Tommaso is the one to step closer now and looks down at me with a heated expression. “I’ll be whatever I have to be to get you to talk.”
“Now you want me to talk about my wife? Is that it? You think following me here and getting me to spill my guts will get me to tell you about the Bianchis? Well, you’re wrong.”
He suddenly grabs me by the back of my hair and I grunt in response.
“I’m getting’ sick of this already, Aleksandr. I’m not a patient man. I don’t care what I have to do, you’re going to talk to me.”
I shove him away, but he maintains his grip on my hair and I have to grab him in return to get enough force to pull away from him.
Our hot breath causes the air in between us to fog up.
“You’re a child,” I say coldly. “You can’t get what you want so you force it. You’re no better than the Bianchis.”
He shoves me backwards until I nearly trip over the headstone next to hers.
My boots cause the grass and dirt to tear up from the ground in several small patches.
“You keep me out of your mouth,” he growls, and the sound brings goosebumps up my spine.
Guilt immediately follows.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell him. “Give me one good reason I should work with you, Tommaso. One reason why I should not just kill you right here and now.”
“Other than the fact that my family would have your head by tomorrow morning?” he asks me, panting softly. His own hands in fists and his gun still at his side. “Besides, if you wanted to kill me, you’d have done it already.”
“I’d be long gone before they could catch me,” I tell him coldly. “Believe me.”
He eyes me from head to toe and then tilts his head to the side. “Because I know you want Stephan Bianchi dead, and I can help you with that.”
I grit my teeth and try not to let him see any expression on my face. I simply look at him, trying to decide if I can really trust him. Trust his family.
“How do I know that I can trust you?” I ask him.
Tommaso steps closer to me, looking up at me and not breaking eye contact.
“I need you. You have what I need. Plus, I don’t want the Rose to come after my family.
I’d be stupid as fuck to double-cross you, and while I’m not known for holding myself back from a fight…
I’m not an idiot.” His voice is low and I can practically feel his hot breath against my face in the fog that it causes. He smells of pine and sweat.
I need you.
He says those words so easily. They mean an entirely different thing, but they still make my stomach warm. How can I stand here near my wife’s grave and feel my body tingle in the presence of this man?
How fucked up can I be?
I sigh and look toward the ground, at the tufts of dirt that my boots brought up.
“I admit, working together would be a benefit to both of us,” I tell him.
“See, you’re already in the spirit,” Tommaso says with a smirk.
I glare at him low under my lashes before I look up completely. “There’s nothing spiritual about this,” I spit at him. “If we work together, it’s only to achieve the same goal. Nothing more.”
“That’s…not what I meant,” he mumbles and shakes his head. “Never mind. If you’re willing to work with me, that’s all I need.”
I take a step to the side and onto the pathway out of the cemetery. I’m tempted to take one last look at her headstone with the poppies laid down on it, but I can’t bear it. So, I simply start walking out of the cemetery without another word.
That is, until Tommaso follows behind me and catches up to walk by my side.
“Why poppies?” he asks.
My heart squeezes in my chest. “They were her favorite.”
It’s quiet as we reach the gate, until he speaks again. “How did she die?”
I stop right at the gate and my body goes tense. “A fire.” It’s the only thing I can say. It’s true, but it’s not the whole story.
His eyes scan up and down my body again, as though he’s looking for something. “That explains some of your scars.”
“Do not look at me,” I huff and continue walking. I pull out my phone and begin to arrange for a car to take me to the airport.
I don’t intend on helping Tommaso get back to Italy in any way, shape, or form, but when he gets into the back of the car with me, I don’t stop him.
It’s quiet on the drive to the airport, and I almost hate it. The silence is uncomfortable and gives me too much time to think about everything.
For a second I’m back there, in the fire, listening to the screaming of not only my wife but all the others in the room. In the building.
The roaring of the flames.
Then Tommaso’s voice breaks through all of it.
“How often do you come back here?” he asks.
My brows furrow. “Why are you asking so many questions?” I ask in return. “Should you not be asking about the Bianchis instead of me?”
His eyes remain out of the window to the right of him, his arm on the side of the door. “Screw me for trying to make a car ride more enjoyable.”
“I am not getting into your business, stay out of mine,” I sneer at him.
He turns to look at me finally, gaze hot. “I’ll do whatever I want.”
I stare back at him, and we continue to look at each other, waiting for the other to break—until the car finally stops at the airport. We’re forced to look away from each other and get out of the car.
It’s going to be a long flight.
We part ways after the flight back to Italy.
Not a single word spoken to the other. I’m curious about how we’re going to plan a meeting to talk to one another when we haven’t exchanged information, but my wonder is quickly replaced by irritation the next day when I get a text from an unknown number.
I want the information today.
“And I want a billion dollars,” I mumble to myself as I lay in bed, shirtless and staring at the ceiling above my phone.
I sigh.
The agreement I made to work with him isn’t exactly some contract signed in our blood, but I know if I don’t keep my word, I’ll regret it.
My other only option at this point is to take him out to get him to leave me alone, and I don’t need the entire Dresvanni family on my ass.
I’m here to take down the Bianchis, and until that’s over, that’s all that matters.
I need to keep my head on straight.
After a moment of contemplation, I text him back.
Meet me here.