Chapter 1 #2
Making my way to the vanity table, I pluck one delicate flower and kiss the petals.
For a flower with no thorns, it feels like I am the biggest thorn in his life.
I upended both our lives with my decision—I wanted one kiss from him, thinking that would make him see me as a woman and not a girl anymore.
I got so much more—all desired, but not the way it should have happened.
A soft knock pulls me out of my memory, and I dab quickly at the tears gathering in my eyes, threatening to spill with my longing.
“You were fabulous, my dear,” Ramona says, her eyes sparkling with unmistakable awe as she walks inside. She’s my agent slash manager, who organizes the weekly concerts and makes sure everything is taken care of. I only have to play.
The brighter she smiles, the more I know she’ll try again to convince me to give concerts outside of Reno.
One. Two—
“Not even if the greatest masters practiced for another decade could they reach your native talent. In all my life, I haven’t seen someone play as you and you…”
I tune her out. Ramona has been with me for the last two years, but still thinks she will persuade me to leave Reno and embark on a new journey. I can’t leave Mika. My sanity is frail. I need the misery to stay alive. That’s what connects me to the love of my life. The man I will never call mine.
I wave her off, my gaze returning to the bouquet. “I’m not interested.”
She sighs. “Just think about it. I believe it would do you good. I have offers from the greatest philharmonics in the world, including New York.”
It’s strange witnessing the hope in others. Mine got snubbed out years ago, crushed under fate’s feet. But hers shines so bright.
I offer a nod of acknowledgement just to be done already.
If my sister-in-law finds out about this opportunity, she will only encourage me. While Calla doesn’t know my story, she senses there is more behind the facade of the broken mafia princess, reinforcing my belief that women are more astute, more connected to their instincts.
Calla Ferrara, formerly known as Luciana Rossi and the most feared assassin in the underworld, is the woman my brother wanted and took for himself, even if it cost him his life, his empire, his legacy. And now they’re on their honeymoon.
Life goes on. It seems to have stopped only for me. If it weren’t for the clock mercilessly ticking, I would have thought I froze in time and can’t escape the grave, keeping me immobile, intact, like some relic—perfectly preserved, but irrelevant to the current timeline.
The last embers of hope flicker to their end. As if God himself flexed his hand and blew it out to make me see there’s no hope but to become a martyr at the altar of an unrequited love.
Mikail Morozov feels a lot for me, but not romantic love. The only thing I’ve always craved. The only thing he won’t gift me.
Ramona approaches me, and every muscle in my body freezes. She comes to an abrupt stop, noticing my discomfort. While I know her, I refuse to get too comfortable.
“I’m sorry.” She offers me a sympathetic look, taking a step back.
The broken pianist, that’s what she sees.
I shrug. “It’s not your fault.”
My distrust of people runs so deep, it’s embedded in my DNA. No one can, and no one will, hurt me again. Nor use me to hurt the people I love.
While she has nothing to do with the life I was born into, I can’t risk it.
Ramona walks out, leaving me alone, and I expel a long breath laced with my inability to escape this ingrained setting, imprisoning me.
While I’ve gathered more courage since Calla entered my life, tapped into a bolder, fearless side of me, I am still wary. Thinking about my sister-in-law and best friend, I pluck my phone from my small purse resting on the armchair, sending her a text.
Miss you.
She immediately replies.
Miss you too. Next time, we’ll go on a girl’s trip.
Sure we can pull that off?
You doubt me? When don’t I make the things I want happen?
Her self-assured reply paints a smile on my face.
Never.
See. So, has my brother gotten any new gray hairs since we left?
Calla! He has none, and it wouldn’t be my fault.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, but we both know the truth.
The truth must remain buried. No one can know.
Sighing, I reply.
Go enjoy your honeymoon and stop seeing things.
Sure, I’m the one seeing things. I hope you drive him crazy.
He’s your brother.
So protective of him…I wonder why?
There’s no point in denying it, so I type instead.
It will never happen. It’s just wishful thinking.
Blame it on your brother, who made me realize dreams come true. But you must do everything it takes to make them happen.
I don’t know what about her made me seek her out. Calla could have killed my brother, and she tried, but luckily for all of us, she failed. What impressed me was her larger-than-life confidence. That woman was bound, shot, but stared as if I were the one in shackles. Which was true.
I could have lost my brother. Instead, I gained a best friend, a sister.
I always imagined and dreamed that I would be the one to unite our families through a marriage—mine and Mikail’s, but it was theirs.
While dreamers dream, others seize their moment and act. I couldn’t be happier for the people I love though.
I am not jealous of Calla for doing what I couldn’t. I’m proud.
I am not hurt that my brother made her his queen. I’m elated.
I am not Calla, and Mikail is not my brother. I am not brave enough, and he would never betray his principles.
A wave of fury rises from the deepest corners of my heart and crashes over me. Throwing the phone on the armchair, I grab the vase and smash the flowers against the wall. The glass shatters, splintering into hundreds of miniature crystals that reflect my spirit breaking into pieces.
My chest heaves with my heavy breathing, the muffled sounds I make silent like my pain. The commotion must have alerted the bodyguards because Kiril knocks. I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
He pushes against the bulky door, rattling the hinges until they crack to save the trapped, helpless princess.
How I hate that image, but I can’t change it.
I want to be confident and strong. A woman.
“I’m fine. I just want to be alone,” I snap, but my voice shakes.
“I’m sorry, but I have to assess the situation,” Kirill says gently as he tries to get inside.
My feet are rooted in place, paralyzed with despair, while my tone sounds placating. “I just need a few moments. I’ll open it myself.”
I drop to my knees, wishing to fall into the abyss of nothingness—drifting without a purpose.
I hiss the moment the crystals cut into my palms and knees, the blood painting them as if they’re rubies—captivating me. The sight reminds me I am still alive. Reminding me it’s not enough to die.
We made a deal. And I have to keep it.
But even the reminder lost its appeal. Alone and destitute, I am exhausted from screaming in my head.
The door bursts open, slamming into the wall with a loud bang that chases me out of my trance. I don’t have to look up to see who is standing there.
It’s in the sharp intake of air, I know Mika’s pissed.
He takes his job of keeping me protected deadly serious, not caring that he obliterates my heart every time with his presence.
I can’t do this anymore.
I am tired of even wishing to be dead.
I am exhausted from loving him.
It has only brought me more misery.
But my resolve crumbles once again. All this man has to do is crouch before me and tip my chin up with his fingers and say, “If you hurt, I’ll make it hurt a thousand times worse.”
Without a second thought, he slices his palm open with a piece of glass. The cut instantly oozes, painting his palm deep scarlet. Drip. Drip. Each drop prompts the never-ending torture as his blood mixes with mine in a puddle of red. The thought of losing him maddens me.
What he doesn’t say, but it’s just as clear, is if I die, he’ll kill himself.
There are moments like these when I think he lives for me, like I am his sole reason.
I bring his palm to my mouth, wanting to soothe the pain I caused him, but he closes his hand into a fist, the arm falling next to his side—limp just like my capacity to ease him. Always the tormentor, never allowing me to be the healer for once.
He cups my cheek with the other. “What happened?” His tone is stern, yet there’s a softness to it.
I gulp, hypnotized by his gentle strokes that could lull me into telling him anything.
“I tripped,” I whisper.
His stony gaze bores into my heart, piercing my soul.
Looking around with the hawk eyes of a detective at a crime scene, he arches a brow—a clear indicator that he doesn’t believe me.
A muscle in his jaw ticks. He will lose his patience any second now.
He needs to find the culprit and make him pay for hurting me.
It’s him, but if I confess, I will lose him.
I’d rather be in pain for the rest of my days than go through life without him.
I need to open my mouth and give him a reason, but I can’t. I know it’s wrong, but I punish him with my silence.
His jaw clenches hard enough that it might break his molars. “Don’t bother. We both fucking know it’s me. I’m the reason. I should stop coming and upsetting you.”
Sighing deeply, he lifts me from the ground with ease.
This man dabbles with death, doesn’t even flinch at the sight of gore. I think he likes violence a bit too much, yet he pales when he sees my scraped knees and palms. My silk dress is ripped and bloodied where the glass cut.
A forlorn look stretches across his face, making me instantly react.
“Do that. We both know you will crawl back,” I blurt out to bring him back and far away from those days.
These bouts of confidence are regular with him, but I reserve searching for a fight with him for moments like this, thinking that if I push him enough, one day he will react differently.
“Crawl back,” he groans low. “Interesting choice of words.”
He carries me to the sofa, where he places me down gently. I can’t help rolling my eyes. If he could, he’d wrap me in layers of silk and cotton. Not even air could touch me long enough to cause any harm.
Even on his knees, he looks like a sculpture of physical male perfection—primal, rough, formidable.
Imposing with his broad shoulders, muscles rippling beneath his suit jacket.
A chiseled face that makes his sinful lips more kissable, those silver eyes more lethal.
The perfect arch of his brow is more vicious.
I could contemplate this man forever, and I would never tire of the sight.
His dirty brown hair and his spicy scent infused with leather notes make me want to hold on to the thick strands and bathe in his luxurious scent. He intoxicates me.
He removes his jacket, and in his black shirt, the contours of his delectable chest are revealed. How I’d like to trace my hands over each inch, kiss my way into his heart, and demand forgiveness for my tainted blood that cost him so much.
His jaw sharpens at my open gawking. Tension spreads its threads around us like ivy and is just as confining. With each second, it gets harder to breathe.
He made himself the monster in our story. The villain who tarnished the princess. He doesn’t care about my side of the story. That he saved said princess. And I have nothing to forgive him for. It’s always the other way around.
“You’re not the villain. You never were,” I sigh, almost choking on the heavy air filled with yearning.
A muscle in his jaw tics as if it could pop my desire. “Don’t.”
“Will we ever talk about that?” I whisper, fidgeting with my hands in my lap.
I don’t even know why I insist. He’s a cliff, unmoving, impossible to break. Physically and emotionally.
He rushes to rummage through the small cabinet in the bathroom, returning with some disinfectant and pads. He cleans my wounds diligently, making sure no shards are left in my skin.
His heady scent fills my lungs.
His overwhelming presence inundates my being.
He owns me—every heartbeat, every breath, every thought.
And I own his misery.
That’s how it is.
That’s how it will always be.
“There’s nothing to talk about, zhizn moya,” he says, his tone soft as he tends to my wounds.
I tilt my head, seeking his eyes. “What does it mean?”
I’ve learned Russian for him. To catch him in the lies he constantly feeds me.
He gulps, redirecting his gaze to my palms. “Little flower.”
Liar. He called me his life.
Determination fills my long exhale. “I think it’s time for this flower to grow.”
His brows furrow as if ruminating about what that could mean. I slip out, hoping one day I can outrun my feelings for him.