Chapter 2
TWO
JULIAN
PRESENT DAY
Awet tongue glides against my throat and nibbles at my neck.
I wish I could enjoy it, but all I want is to push them away.
My body twitches but it’s with disgust, not arousal.
My cock doesn’t even get up these days. By now, even in my drunken stupor, I know it’s not Igor’s mouth on me and the scent of whisky wafting off those lips that feel wrong also clues me in. Igor doesn’t drink.
I tried to kiss someone else once since Igor was taken. It was so wrong I had to wash my tongue with soap.
Moans and obnoxious pop music mingle with the smell of sex and debauchery, the backdrop of my every night since Amsterdam. At least my Saturdays.
Is it Saturday, today? I don’t know.
I’ve lost track of time.
“Get off him,” a voice I’d recognise anywhere barks next to me.
The man at my side stumbles and scampers away.
“You’re no fun,” I slur to my best friend, Lana, who’s decided she needs to be my baby-sitter recently.
I squint to reconcile the two versions of her standing over me, arms crossed over her white suit and brows pinched together.
She looks like she needs a good fuck. I snort, because her husband is my half-brother.
“And you’re drunk.”
“Very astute, ma chérie.”
I stand and almost topple over, the alcohol in my system preventing me from escaping the clutches of the fun police. Strong hands band around my waist.
“Come on, let’s go,” my half-brother, Lisandru, says.
As Lana’s husband and second-in-command, he follows her everywhere she goes. It’d be cute if I didn’t hate any display of love and affection with my entire being. Oh, and he also wants to make sure she doesn’t get abducted again. This time we wouldn’t have Igor to exchange his life for hers.
“Didn’t think I’d see the day you of all people come to this shithole.”
I laugh as I throw my hands in the general direction of the disgusting dive bar I’ve spent so many nights in, in recent months.
The booze is known to burn the throat, and probably some synapses, the sound system is terrible, and don’t take a UV lamp to the couches.
But the people are always horny and down for a good fuck.
Not that I ever participate. Even catching the exhibitionists in the act doesn’t make my body react.
Not a single twitch. But it’s better than to stay home.
In the silence. In that flat I’ve had to get because I couldn’t stand to sleep a single night in the home I wanted to have with him.
That beautiful home I had built in the mountain so it’d be quieter. Igor hated noise.
And I hate the silence.
A mixture of shame, disgust and resentment fill me. I seem to crave them more than any drug and alcohol I consume with gusto. Anything to numb me until there’s nothing left in my brain. Especially not the memories.
Lisandru and Lana exchange a glance I know all too well. The effect of the cocaine I snorted is slowly wearing off and even the nice buzz I had going on morphs into a headache already.
“Do you guys want to get fries?” I ask as I stretch my arms overhead. “I think Momo is still outside. He makes the best onion rings, too.”
I snap my leather jacket from the couch and struggle to slide my arms into the sleeves as I wave goodbye to Betty, the bartender and mother hen of the place.
“He won’t be coming back,” I hear Lana tell Betty.
I snort.
Of course, I will be coming back to The Happy Frog.
It’s one of the only places not controlled by the Moretti-Bartoli Empire.
Here, people don’t know my name. I may not ever want to touch another man but I like to keep my options open.
I like the attention. It numbs the pain with that shame I enjoy so much.
No one even approaches me at our clubs, on the ridiculous notion that I’m married.
Ah! I would need a husband to be married.
And my husband is thousands of miles away, playing butcher for the worst of mankind, and sending back my little spies in pieces like it’s a B-movie.
Pathetic. If he thinks I care about the lives of these men and my conscience will weigh heavy, he’s sorely mistaken.
My conscience disappeared the day he was taken.
Well, I cared about the first few lives lost because of him. Because of his brother. Now though? I just pay mercenaries a ridiculous amount of money and tell them upfront the chances of them dying is ninety-nine percent. Most don’t take my offers anymore. Bummer.
I haven’t sent anyone to Moscow in months. Not because I care who lives or dies. I’d send anyone to their death just to get him back.
The thing is: my husband clearly doesn’t want to be rescued. Igor Petrov has chosen his fate, and it isn’t me.
Now, I drown. I don’t give a shit what I snort and drink to forget the love of my life. Self-destruction is better than grief. Less raw. More fun. More… manageable. I can control self-destruction. Grief on the other hand? I shiver, pushing down that nasty emotion with all my might.
I’m ready to eat my weight in French fries to absorb all those shots I did.
Before I can make my way to the food truck on the pier of Sant-Armellu, Lana and Lisandru take hold of my arms, one on each side of me, and march me to Lisandru’s town car.
I’d protest but it takes energy and I find that I have none.
The drive to my apartment downtown is short, the streets with colourful facades all muted in the evening light—or is it early morning light?
— and blurring as we pass by. When we enter my place after the four flights of stairs that never fail to sober me up, I walk straight to the golden vintage cart.
With a sigh, I pour myself a healthy dose of whisky and swallow it in one gulp. I try not to mix, I’m not suicidal.
“You really should find something better to do with your time,” I tell my family as I discard my clothes and walk butt-naked to my bedroom.
“For Christ’s sake,” Lisandru mutters and I snicker, happy to annoy my big brother as much as I can.
Makes my life seem less miserable if others are miserable with me.
I think I’m doing a grand job of making their lives difficult.
Maybe at some point, they’ll take the hint and leave me the fuck alone to deal with my demons the way I see fit.
I get under the covers and light a joint, but they’re relentless and follow after me.
“Don’t make me take radical measures, Jules,” Lana threatens.
I focus on her beautiful face I know just as well as my own.
She’s lithe and athletic, with dark straight hair framing a severe face with the most stunning green eyes.
Moretti eyes. She’s my sister in everything but blood.
Her cheeks are slightly emaciated and the underside of her eyes has taken on a dark grey hue that reminds me all too well of her time with her first husband.
Something akin to guilt stirs in my gut and I take a hit of the joint, hoping to numb that other pesky emotion.
Emotions suck, man.
“And what would that be?” I challenge. Before she can answer, I continue. “After all, this is all your fault.”
The smile I give her is sinister, and the words are cruel. Breeding ground for self-hatred. But I’ll take it over the agony of being without him.
Igor was taken in exchange for Lana. A ploy from his brother Misha to have him back in the Moscow Bratva. She was bait. And the fool exchanged his life for my best friend’s.
I thought I’d forgiven her. But as I say the words, I realise the wound remains open. And I love picking at the scab.
It’s not her fault that my idiotic husband followed his purpose as her bodyguard.
It’s not her fault that Igor hasn’t tried to escape his brother or contact us.
Contact me. What happened in Amsterdam isn’t her fault either.
Nope. Choices have been made by everyone around us and we have to live with the consequences.
I can’t seem to stop myself from making her pay, anyway. And she lets me. Maybe that’s what makes me feel the most wretched of all. I’m cruel and vengeful, and she takes my hate and my hubris like she deserves it.
Her lip trembles and she turns on her heels, disappearing down the corridor.
Lisandru stands at the threshold of my bedroom, his jaw set.
We don’t look much alike. He’s our father’s son, with his dark hair and honey brown eyes.
I take after my mother. All sandy blond strands and baby blue eyes; the picture-perfect model to tame the image of our family.
But he and I share that predatory quality that came with the Bartoli name.
When he speaks, his words aren’t in vain.
“You’re my brother, and she asked me to let it go, so I did.
But heed my warning, Julian.” No one uses my full name in our family.
It sends a shiver of foreboding through me that I stave off with a drag of the joint.
Or at least try to. “This is the last time you speak to her that way. You want to waste away and kill yourself slowly, be my guest. But you talk to Lana like any of this is her fault one more time, I’ll make sure you never see anyone ever again. ”
It’s not a death threat, but it’s just as effective. My brother knows where to hit. I’ve had my family around. Despite me being an asshole, they stayed.
I nod, and he leaves me to my depressive thoughts.
I’ve lost the love of my life. And I’ll lose my family, too.
Lana has an entire empire to run, the island belongs to her and Lisandru.
Her sister Marie moved to England years ago after her twin’s death.
And my parents? They’re just closing their eyes, putting their heads in the sand.
They don’t know how to be around me anymore.
Fuck, when was the last time I saw my mum?
I know myself. I’ll keep pushing—I don’t know what else to do—and they’ll be tired of me, cut me off, disappear from my life.
It’s just a matter of time. I’m just accelerating the process.
It’s one of the very few things I still have control over.
I cannot control how much love I receive, but I certainly control how much disdain.
I fall asleep with one last thought.
I deserve it.