Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Lucy
“Stop!”
It took me a few seconds to clear the cobwebs from my dead sleep and realize we were in the cabin and Kirill was in a nightmare.
He was thrashing beside me, but I was facing away from him, facing the window.
He slept on the side closest to the door.
I wasn’t sure whether I should wake him.
If it was a PTSD episode, I had to be careful.
“Let him go,” Kirill shouted. “Roman!”
The anguish in my husband’s voice was more than I could bear. It sent a blizzard of goose bumps up my arms and spine and scalp. I’d never heard such emotion coming from him uttered in a single word. His dead brother’s name. I cautiously shifted around to face him.
But he was already awake. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as if he were catching his breath. He was facing me, eyes intensely focused on my face. Deep pain etched in glassy blue, before they hardened into ice and lost all emotion.
“Go back to sleep,” he said gruffly.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep,” he repeated. He rolled off the bed and left the room, quietly closing the door.
He expected me to go to sleep after that?
My stomach grumbled, and I checked the time on my phone.
It was a little after two p.m. and I debated what to do.
Knowing Kirill, he needed to regroup, but wasn’t it time he told me about what happened to his older brother?
If we had any chance of making this marriage work, I needed to know the tragedy that shaped the man he was now.
What caused the rift between him and his father?
But did you need to know though? a taunting voice said inside my head. You’re going to divorce him, anyway.
My heart contracted painfully. This whiplash of events led to a whiplash of emotions in the last week.
We had trouble navigating a truce and especially last night, and with my pesky eavesdropping, I jumped to conclusions that almost had fatal consequences.
And yet, other than Kirill punishing me, which if I were honest with myself wasn’t punishment at all, it was an insight into his dominance when it came to sex.
He didn’t seem bothered that his wife had shot him.
In fact, he almost seemed to relish holding the incident over my head, with him acting as the aggrieved party.
Manipulative asshole.
But he was my asshole.
Still, I had to be careful not to confuse lust and love.
Shit. Love?
Urgh. I'd better get up and see what my husband was up to. Act like the concerned wife. Except this was not acting anymore. There was no one here to keep up pretenses for. I had no ulterior motive. I was genuinely concerned for my husband.
Double shit.
I left the bedroom and went to the bathroom to freshen up.
There were fewer shadows under my eyes, but they still bore the remnants from a stressful night.
I winced at the mess we left behind. I was a clutterbug, but personal hygiene was something else.
I hung up the wet towels and used the spare plastic bag to gather up the trash.
When I exited the bathroom, the cabin appeared empty. It had an open interior. The kitchen opened up to a living room and a hearth. A square table was in front of the kitchen island.
I shuffled to the front of the house and found him standing on the stoop. He had a glass in his hand, and he was smoking. The vodka bottle on the counter indicated his drink of choice.
Well, I should get food on the table at least. I was afraid to use the cast-iron pan because I knew how finicky those were.
Luckily, I found a nonstick one. Making the tomato and Parmesan soup was easier.
I didn’t need to go the gourmet route since I didn’t have cream, and all I had to do was fancy up a canned tomato soup instead of starting from scratch.
Luckily, there was an enormous block of Parmesan cheese and other fancy cheeses. No fancy bread. American white bread, sharp white cheddar, and butter.
When next I looked up, it was to see snow flurries. When did that happen? Didn’t we just have a sunny morning?
The front door opened, and Kirill stepped in. A grin softened the stoic lines on his face. “Smells good in here.”
“Butter and burnt cheese,” I muttered. “Don’t expect anything gourmet.”
Kirill chuckled. “I’m not.”
“Hey!” I glared at him.
He raised a brow. “Too frank?”
“Yes. Say, ‘Anything you make is delicious.’ Geez, I need to train you on being a supportive husband.”
He walked over to me and kissed the side of my head because I was busy flipping the grilled cheese over. “I’m a fast learner.”
“You are.” I searched his face. “Are you okay?”
His mouth twitched. “Is this you being a supportive wife?”
“No, this is me being genuinely concerned.”
A breath hissed out of him. “I didn’t mean the harsh wake-up call.”
I shrugged. “Hunger would have woken me up. These are ready. Grab the plates, will you?” I wanted to be as casual as could be, like if this was something normal for him, I didn’t want him to be defensive about it.
When Kirill returned, I asked, “It was a nightmare about your brother?”
“I haven’t dreamt of Roman in a long time. A very long time.” He muttered the last sentence as if to himself.
Suddenly, I had to know. “Did I trigger anything by shooting you?”
He shook his head emphatically. “I’d been shot several times, Lusenka.”
His back was a map of tattoos, but underneath them, I felt the bumps that painted a story of a violent life, including four long scars that might have come from a rake, which he seemed sensitive about.
It didn’t escape my notice that he kissed me in the shower to shut me up from asking questions.
But baby steps. My husband had a complex history that molded the man he was today.
He didn’t have a sheltered childhood despite their Russian nobility bloodline and billions at their disposal.
Quite the opposite. “I’ve added another one. ”
We’d grown quiet. I transferred the sandwiches onto the plates. I already had the bowls out and served up the tomato soup. I had questions. A boatload of questions, but I didn’t know how to ask them. We transferred to barstools to eat, but I struggled to fill the silence.
“So, it looks like snow is coming our way,” I said.
Kirill didn’t say anything. He seemed to be concentrating on his grilled cheese sandwich like it was a Michelin-star meal. “This is good.”
“It’s usually better,” I groaned, thinking he was just taking the “supportive husband” role too seriously. “I usually pile on four cheeses.”
Silence again except for the tinkling of utensils against porcelain, crunching of bread—at least I got the crispness right—watching the snow flurries grow smaller but coming down faster.
Kirill was checking his phone when he said, “There’s more snow than expected, probably a foot.”
“Isn’t that too early for November?”
“It’s happened before. I’ll bring in the firewood.”
“Are we going to lose power?”
“There’s a generator, but it needs maintenance.”
“Okay.”
Another stretch of silence punctuated with a million questions.
Kirill wolfed down his food. And I expected him to stand up and go get the firewood, but he turned to me and said, “I don’t like talking about Roman.”
“I get it. It brings back painful memories, but have you talked to anyone about the loss?”
“Besides the wild animals in the forest?”
“I can’t believe Ivan sent you there. You were only nine years old.”
“Old enough, I could have saved my brother.”
“You know what?” I turned to him. “Tell me, and I’ll be the judge.”
I tipped my chin up. Kirill was hiding behind his brother’s death as a shield from emotional loss.
The name of his brother ripped from his vocal cords was haunting me.
Kirill once felt deeply, but he’d become this hard, unemotional man.
But I seemed to be cracking his armor, and I was done treating him with kid gloves.
We locked gazes. His were his usual blandness and added frostiness. I wasn’t backing down.
His jaw clenched. “All right, but you asked for the whole sordid story.”
Kirill, 9 years old
“Come, Kiroshka, don’t be a scaredy-cat,” Roman called while he skipped ahead. We were in the mansion of the new brigadier Papa had promoted. My eldest brother wanted to explore the woods around the property. It was rumored that a creature that looked half bear and half man lived there.
“Mamushka said not to loiter around. It’s not safe.”
Roman turned to me while walking backward. “Mama treats you like a baby.” He brought both hands to the corners of his eyes and made the crying gesture to mock me.
My face grew hot. I hated it when Mama mothered me too much. I told her to stop kissing me on both cheeks. And I stopped giving her a kiss when she asked for it because Roman made fun of me all the time.
I followed him reluctantly past the manicured lawn and into the fields where the grass was taller. “We should tell Maksim where we are going?”
“And what? Have him tattle on us? You know that bastard is so insecure he’d do anything to look good in Papa’s eyes.”
Maksim was twelve. Three years older than me and two years younger than Roman.
I liked him all right. He was coming around more often.
I heard his mother had died, and Ivan was hoping he could be brought into the bratva.
Maks and Roman didn’t get along. I also didn’t like how Roman looked down on him. “You shouldn’t call him a bastard.”
We trudged closer to the edge of the woods. It was dark, but the lights in the mansion were bright enough. We carried flashlights too. My heart pounded. I didn’t like this one bit. I carried only a pocketknife. How would I stop a bear if it was as big as they say?
Roman turned to me again. “Why? It’s true.
His mother is a whore who Papa wouldn’t look at twice if my mother hadn’t died.
Even after she gave birth to Maks, Papa wouldn’t marry her because she’s low class.
At least with Irina, she’s got good bloodline.
” His teeth flash. “You have that going for you at least, Kirill; you have blue blood, but the bratva needs warriors, not politicians. You need to be—”
The whites of his eyes grew bigger. He was looking over my shoulder, but a tall shadow appeared behind Roman…actually several. I was about to yell before pain exploded at the back of my head.
I woke up to mayhem. People shouting. There was also a barrage of gunfire.
But I really woke up because Roman was kicking my feet. “Wake up, Kirill!”
I was groggy, and my mouth was dry. “What happened?”
“Papa found us, but they’re giving a fight.”
“Who’s giving a fight?”
“Why are you whispering?” my brother asked harshly. “Do you have your pocketknife?”
I nodded to my feet; he was able to reach for it. His hands were tied in the front while mine were secured in the back. He tried several times to free himself, but he couldn’t, so he cut through my wrist ropes first. He actually made me bleed, and I hoped he didn’t sever any arteries.
The shouting came closer.
“Sorry,” he said. “I think they shot us up with something.”
Yeah, I was feeling dizzy, but I still tried my best not to cut Roman. We attempted to stand up, but the room spun. My legs were as wobbly as the Jell-O I ate that afternoon.
That was when the door slammed open. And a rough woman who was over six feet tall stood there. She was dressed like a soldier and had a rolled-up handkerchief around her head. Her hair was almost white, and she was sneering at us.
“Ivan’s spawns will never live,” she said. “Not when he did not show my sons any mercy.”
Men appeared behind her. “Do we take them or kill them here? They are almost through the gates.”
“Take them,” she ordered. “I want to scatter their carcasses for him to find.”
Roman started crying. “Don’t hurt us. We’re only kids.”
I was too frightened to say anything.
The men dragged us from the room. Smacking us in the back of our heads. Hard enough to hurt but not render us unconscious.
I had visions of myself being chopped up.
I’d seen one of the bratva enforcers do this.
Was that what Papa did to her sons? I’d overheard Mama and Papa argue about his methods.
That he was too cruel. That the universe would find balance.
Papa told her to stop her cosmic bullshit.
That she knew what she married into. The bratva couldn’t show weakness.
And yet, here I was. I could have pissed my pants, but at least I stayed silent. Unlike Roman, who was in tears.
More shouting and gunfire bounced around us as they hauled us to the back of what looked like a warehouse of boxes stacked twenty feet high.
The older woman was leading the way, while the men were dragging Roman and me like rag dolls.
I was still stumbling on my feet, and the back of my head still throbbed.
In fact, my entire head felt like a balloon about to burst. My vision turned blurry.
I wasn’t sure if it was my attempt not to cry or from the pain.
We were almost at the exit when a pop sounded behind me and the man holding me went down, sending us crashing to the concrete flooring. But my eyes focused on his gun. My hearing tunneled as if I were underwater. Noises were muffled except for my breathing.
A bullet tore through the man holding Roman. I saw the blood splatter out of his head.
The old woman screamed and shot behind me. Then she dragged a dazed Roman to his feet and continued to pull him to the exit.
I struggled to my feet, the gun heavy in my hands. I had a shot at the old woman’s back, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. My hands were trembling and my vision wasn’t clear. I’d never shot a person before. What if I shot my brother instead? “Stop!”
The woman spun around. The rush of footsteps and men shouting were coming closer and closer.
Hurry, so I won’t have to do this.
“Kirill,” Roman whispered, his gaze pleading.
“Let him go.” My voice trembled. What if the woman shot me first?
But she didn’t. She pointed the gun at the back of Roman’s head and fired.
“Roman!” That was when I pulled the trigger.