Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
Kirill
I had conflicting feelings about Anya’s death.
Rage. If she tried to kill my wife, then I would have murdered her myself.
Sorrow. Because I’d sworn she’d always have me to protect her, and I didn’t.
I doubted now whether she really hired Oz’s crew, or Peter was on a rampage and his denial was only to throw us off until he got his complete revenge.
He wasn’t above playing mind games. Trevor said that Davenport’s account could’ve been easily hacked.
Anya had been part of the coverup of Davenport and Viktor’s deaths.
And to execute her in the same way as the Mistress Strangler was a fuck you to the Zahkarov bratva, putting us once again under fed scrutiny.
As expected, the FBI paid me a visit. Anya’s harassing messages to me like a woman scorned gave them enough cause to question me. But it was more of a formality. They didn’t dare accuse my family again after we’d sued the City of New York for Kolya’s wrongful imprisonment.
Especially since I’d been a devoted husband staying by the side of his comatose wife.
Sato was handling beefed-up security around the bratva. I had to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t mope and haunt the halls of the hospital feeling useless and guilty as fuck that Lucy got badly hurt.
Lucy was off the ventilator, and I had her moved to a suite close to the ICU with all the monitoring equipment necessary. Sato stationed two soldiers on the floor and another one inside the living room.
Sloane had come in with Bianca. Somehow, I wondered if their appearance this morning, a day after Anya’s killing, was attributed to their interest in true crime. “Ladies,” I murmured tiredly from my chair in front of Lucy’s bed.
“So Lucy is off the ventilator,” Sloane said. “That’s good news.”
“Yes,” I said shortly.
“I’m glad they didn’t have to extend it. I told Dom the next step would have been a tracheotomy.”
“Doctor Ripley mentioned that possibility if her oxygen levels were a problem.” I turned to the woman beside her. “Bianca, I’m surprised to see you without your shadow.”
She laughed briefly. “Hey, my husband’s not my constant stalker.”
“He doesn’t want her around you by herself,” Sloane teased.
“And yet here you are.”
“Oh, the De Luccis have been singing your praises about being a devoted husband,” Bianca said. “Sandro approves.”
“Really. The De Luccis, hmm? Or is it just Lottie?”
Sloane laughed.
Lucy’s parents had been constant visitors.
Morning and night. They drove me crazy, but I couldn’t blame them.
It took two days before Lottie could bring herself to ask me how I was and to ask for medical updates.
Paulie was still a simmering rock of anger, and all he exchanged with me were grim, tight-jawed nods of acknowledgment.
I could understand that because Irina said the same about me.
Something about a heavy black cloud hovering above me, threatening to lash out at people who said the wrong thing.
I shouldn’t hold it in. The release valve was two nights ago when we wiped out Oz’s crew.
“The De Luccis are a tough bunch,” Bianca responded, walking over to Lucy’s bedside and gazing down at her with tenderness, patting her shoulder, and holding her hand.
“You are, and I’m married to one,” I muttered.
“Is that a complaint, Kirill Zahkarov?”
“No, it’s said with fondness,” I deadpanned. “But tell me the reason you guys are really here.”
“What?” Bianca said. “We’re visiting Lucy.”
I raised a brow. “And there’s no other motive.”
The two side-eyed each other.
“You all want to know what I know about Anya Davenport’s murder.”
“Well, was she your mistress?”
“Absolutely not,” I growled.
“Then she doesn’t fit the profile.”
“It’s a copycat,” I said. “That’s Peter’s first mistake.”
“Peter? The Moscow mob, right?” Bianca asked.
“Yes.”
“Dom said the medical examiner hasn’t filed an official cause of death yet. It might take another twenty-four hours for the preliminary report,” Sloane said. “But someone in the true crime discussion thread thinks this is the real deal.”
I made a scoffing sound.
“Someone on the inside said he’d seen the crime scene photos.” Bianca walked around the bed and faced me. “The word written across the stomach was comparable to the ones from the original murders that ended years before.”
“Again. Anya was not my mistress. Unless she was someone else’s?” I shrugged. “And can we stop talking about—”
I cut my words off and shot to my feet.
Lucy yawned.
I blinked.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Bianca let out a tiny squeal.
I threw a scathing glare at her before I bent over my wife.
“Lucy, baby?” I caressed her cheek. “Can you hear me?”
Her brows knitted.
Sloane walked over and studied her. “She’s trying to wake up.”
“Talk about serial killers,” Bianca whispered.
“Would you stop it?” I hissed at her, then back to my wife. I coaxed, “Lucy, baby, wake up.”
All movements ceased.
“That’s still promising,” Sloane told me when my shoulders drooped in disappointment.
“Baby steps,” Bianca added encouragingly.
“Don’t expect her to wake up and suddenly be okay,” Sloane said. “She suffered a brain injury. It’s not unheard of if she has to relearn some things or to need rehabilitation. Her recovery is going to be a marathon, not a sprint.”
“I know that.” And I was prepared to be with her every step of the way. I was suddenly exhausted and sank into the chair.
“Tre—”
All eyes flew to Lucy again.
“It was her, right?” Bianca said. “She spoke!”
I rose slowly to my feet again. “Lucy?”
Her eyelids were struggling to open.
“Don’t have to open your eyes,” I said, holding her hand, wondering why I didn’t do that the first time. “Squeeze my hand, Lusenka.”
Her fingers tightened on mine briefly. “She’s responding!” I let out a relieved laugh and glanced up to see the women with tears rimming their eyes.
“Oh, baby.” I bent down and kissed her forehead.
“Tre—”
“She’s trying to say something,” Sloane said. “What is it?”
“Tray?” Bianca asked. “Food tray. Maybe she’s hungry.”
“No,” I said, as a sneaking suspicion snaked itself around my heart. I couldn’t even say it, but my darling wife finally uttered it.
She’d finally opened her eyes, half lidded, but she did open them and said, “Tre-vor.”
“Look, it’s not like she wanted Trevor.” Sloane tried to keep a straight face as Doctor Ripley checked over Lucy.
Meanwhile, I was brooding and fuming with jealousy so irrationally explosive that I wanted to smash every piece of equipment in sight.
I was imagining myself snatching my wife and spiriting her away so she’d never lay eyes on fucking Trevor Hayes again.
Her first word out of the coma, and it had to be that motherfucker’s name.
“She’s right.” Bianca hurried back to me. “Trevor is Lucy’s data guy. Maybe in her coma dreams—wait, do people dream when they’re in a coma? Anyway, maybe it was just a dream.”
That didn’t sound any better and only made my jealousy worse. But even jealousy couldn’t overtake the relief I felt that Lucy was awake. If I had to re-earn her affection, I was damn well going to do it.
Doctor Ripley finished running down his checklist and turned to me. “She’s groggy, which is to be expected after nine days in a coma. Her brain might be slow to sort information into its right slots, but it’ll be good not to force it,” he warned.
“Of course.” I glanced down at Lucy. Her eyes were closed again.
“She’s out of juice,” the doctor said when I glanced at him questioningly. He closed his clipboard. “But it’s good that we can begin therapy now. Still, try to limit visitors.”
“Oh, I have no problem there,” I assured the doctor while feeling the need to hold Lucy’s hand in mine again.
When he left, I turned to Sloane. “You’re in charge of letting everyone know to space out their visits.”
“You've got it.”
Lucy’s hand tightened in mine, and my gaze dropped to our joined hands and then to her face. Her eyes were half open again, and I could have imagined the curve of a faint smile.
“Hi,” she whispered.
All the feelings. All at once. I finally understood the meaning of a heart exploding with emotions.
“Hi,” I choked, dropping my forehead lightly on hers. “Welcome back, baby.”
Lucy
“How are you feeling, Stellina?” My mother’s tearful gaze hovered over me. She couldn’t help but become emotional every time she visited. I hated having my parents see me this way. Dad broke down the first time he saw me awake. But I had a suspicion he cried every time he came to visit.
When the doctor said the current state of my brain was like file cabinets tipped over and emptied of their contents, he wasn’t kidding.
The first day was a jumbled mess. I had to sort through every piece of information and memory into their respective drawers. I didn’t even want to open my eyes, but maybe my natural gravitation toward chaos eased the process and stress.
Days later, my neurons were firing and landing information better. Walking around the hospital hallways certainly helped. The physical therapist was by my side although I could tell Kirill wanted to take over. He stalked us like a thundercloud.
“Okay.”
I still wasn’t very verbal. I continued to receive speech and writing therapy every day.
It was hard to speak the full sentences that were in my thoughts.
It was easier to write them. My left arm was in a cast, though from a broken wrist. It was as if there was a disconnect between my mind and my speech.
But on day four since coming out of a coma, my recovery was exponential.
“You look better today.” She looked out into the living room where Dad and my husband were finally talking. Apparently, Dad was so angry at Kirill, they never exchanged a word until today. “Your cheeks have color again.”
My mother pulled the chair Kirill had been spending his days in while watching over me. “You know the first thing that occurred to me when I saw you like this? That I would never get the chance to tell you how proud I am of you.”
Really?
“Not because you married a Zahkarov. I knew you could handle it. You’re a Moretti and a De Lucci after all.”
That I am.
“I’m proud of you because you stand for what you believe in.
I thought about it a lot. And I was disparaging of your accomplishments because they were opposed to what I envisioned for you.
But after your dad’s health scare last year, I realized it was unfair to hold you back in how you wanted to live your life.
Also, I thought, I’d never tell you how sorry I am for not being the best mother. ”
If I could raise my brow, I would. We were doing this now?
“I tried. I know I was selfish and…” She shrugged. “Manipulative. I know I gave your pops a hard time.”
“Why?” I asked.
She paused, surprised I’d pressed for an answer. “Resentment,” she said slowly. “It wasn’t fair, and your dad and I talked about this over the years.”
“Punish him?”
More tears rushed down her face. “Yes. I know he felt guilt for taking me away from mafia life. That was why he let me treat him that way.”
“I hated you, Mamma.” My voice was soft. A whisper. Tears sprang to my eyes.
“I know, Stellina, and I’m sorry.” She stroked my hand as if I hadn’t put into words my animosity toward her. “I knew you blamed me for your brother becoming a made man.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I was mentally sapped. Maybe emotionally too, but I had to string together the words to the sentences that would finally bury the rift between us in the past.
“Dom loves being don,” I told her, voice breaking. “Not mad anymore.”
“Is everything all right in here?” Kirill stood there glowering at Mamma. “She can’t be exhausted.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “A long…” I searched for the word. “…overdue talk…conversation.”
Dad eyed us warily. “Are you sure? We can come back later?”
“No. Stay. Both of you.”
Kirill quirked a brow. “And me?”
“Dinner.”
“You want me in charge of dinner?”
I nodded. “Four.”
I was back to one-word answers.
But Kirill didn’t seem to mind, and he understood me.
Dad and Mamma stayed for a while. There was a round dining table in the suite.
It was strange that the first time Kirill and I had dinner with my parents, it was because I was in the hospital.
My husband picked Vietnamese food, and I couldn’t be happier with my beef pho.
It was nothing fancy—street food, and no time for pretense.
Kirill insisted on feeding me because of the left wrist cast. He cut up the beef and the noodles and fed me using a soup spoonful at a time.
I could see Mamma smile with approval. Before they left, even Dad looked on with reluctant respect because Kirill was showing them he took his responsibilities to me seriously.
Bianca told me Uncle Cesar didn’t warm up to Sandro for the longest time.
But I think today, my dad finally saw the promise of Kirill as a husband worthy of his daughter.
And suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get back to the way we were.
I knew I was mad at Kirill before the accident.
He hadn’t been honest with me. But after I heard the nurses gushing that I had such a devoted husband who barely left my side, that told me more than anything that I was Kirill’s priority. That I was important to him.
We made mistakes, but it wasn’t too late to have a marriage beyond my wildest dreams.
“Go home?” I asked Kirill.
He held my gaze. “I’ll check with Doctor Ripley.” He lifted me up and carried me to the bed.
“Should walk.”
“You’ve done enough walking. I want to carry you.”
He laid me on the bed like I was a wounded bird. But I grabbed his arm. He paused and gave me a questioning glance.
“Cuddle with me?”
He frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I might hurt you.”
I pouted. He laughed.
“All right, just a few minutes. Don’t want the nurse to throw me out.”
That made me laugh, then I started coughing, which led to my head pounding. I still couldn’t believe I had a hole in my skull and a titanium plate. This made me laugh again.
Kirill climbed in behind me and draped an arm over my stomach. “Why are you laughing?”
“Metal on my skull.”
“I hardly think that’s funny.” Even without seeing his face, I could picture him scowling judging by his roughened voice.
“More stubborn.”
He breathed a laugh. “Please have mercy.”
We cuddled for a while. I was feeling better. I really wanted to go home. Home. “Kirill?”
“Hmm?”
“Jigsaw puzzle?”
“You want the jigsaw puzzle we had in the cabin?”
“Want to complete.”
“You shouldn’t exert yourself.”
“Stronger.”
He kissed the side of my head. “We’ll see what the doctor says, all right?”
“K.”