Chapter Eight
In which we learn that the worst kind of wedding is… no wedding.
Liria…
Three weeks later…
There has to be a way out of this.
I've repeated that sentence to myself over and over for the last twenty-one days and nothing logical has followed it. I can't fake my own death, or change my identity. I can't drop out of sight, move to New Zealand and become a sheep rancher.
The bleak reality is that my father's long and baleful grasp is global. He didn't bother to warn me about not running because he knows there's nowhere that he can't find me.
And what happens to the agreement if I drop out? Do the people I know and care about get killed? What about Mom, or Roan?
"Are you ready, or do you need another turn around the room, moaning?"
Roan is straightening the picture frame on my bureau, wearing his ever-present expression of exhausted patience.
"I'm almost done," I say. "Are you all right? You don't look well."
He makes a little disapproving noise. It's amazing how many emotions my bodyguard can display with a single grunt.
Displeasure. Bleak resignation. Though my favorite is the complex grunt that indicates, "You're going to ignore my advice and do this anyway and we will both suffer because of it.
" That grunt starts low, draws out and ends on a slightly questioning finish.
"I look forward to delivering you, my sacred charge, into the hands of the kind of men I've spent the last ten years protecting you from," Roan intones. "I am certain this deeply unfortunate union will not be quite as horrible as we expect it to be."
"Thank you so much for that reassuring overview," I say crossly.
"You do have a gift for making the sunniest day turn pitch black.
" Picking up one of my bags, I try to manufacture a smile for him.
"I've been kept at a distance from the Fare for most of my life, thank god.
But I always had a feeling I'd never get away from it.
My father is too good at utilizing his assets. "
"In between watching over you and keeping myself from murdering Ruslan and the other dogs the Kyre sent over, I've been researching the Morozov Bratva." He slaps my hand away as I try to pick up a suitcase. "None of that. I'll call in a guard."
"What did you find?" I ask.
"They're fair with their own," he says, leading me out of the room. "What remains of the Krasniqi Fare will have new leadership, but that may not be a bad thing. You know that while I'm not optimistic by nature -"
I snort, trying to hold in an undignified cackle. "Please. Look up the word "dour" and it has your picture as the definition."
"- this has to be better than serving under your father," he says, ignoring my jab.
"Just about anything would be," I agree, gloomy again.
Most of my things have already been sent to New York.
I didn't pack everything I own, even though I was forced to give up my condo almost immediately.
I want to keep things here, things that matter most, like a quilt Mom and I sewed together.
Childhood pictures. The sheet music from the first few music pieces I wrote.
It may be a foolish hope that one day, I can come back here. Back home.
When we get to the private airfield my father is using, my steps toward the jet get slower and slower until Roan pointedly clears his throat.
"In the Indian wedding of Vidai, there is much wailing and lamentation as the bride leaves her childhood home.
Would you like me to howl and rend my clothes as a supportive gesture? "
"Thanks Roan," I pretend to glare at him because he knows I prefer irritation to nervousness. "How thoughtful of you."
He shrugs modestly. "I try."
Father is trying to make a big show so he sent his fanciest jet to fetch Mom and me. A big flashy Bombardier Global 5000, big enough to carry 50 of his thugs, with a huge bar and - for god's sake - a large crystal chandelier over the meeting table. "A chandelier," I mutter to my mother. "In a jet."
"Dritan always did enjoy all the bells and whistles," she murmurs back, looking at the gilt covered light fixtures and luxurious leather seating.
I don't look back at Boston as the plane heads out from the private airstrip. I don't look at the water sparkling in the bay, or the hills and all the old buildings I love so much. Doing that would mean I'm saying goodbye. I'm going to come back here. The Morozovs can't keep me forever.
Letting out a long sigh, I put my hands on my thighs and envision playing my piano, my fingers moving restlessly over the fabric of my skirt, trying to re-create the memory of those chipped ivory keys.
The skyline of Manhattan arrives all too soon.
I close my eyes, wondering for the hundredth time if this Morozov son will be a bastard.
Cruel? Indifferent? I'm really hoping for the third option.
No one gave me his name, much less a picture, so I have no idea what I'm walking into.
I tried looking them up several times, but the few stories I found were all about the family's generous charitable donations, the wives were prominent, but the Morozov men were conspicuously absent.
There wasn't even coverage of the gun battle at the restaurant in any of the police data I'd seen.
The black Bentley they've sent to fetch us is taking us downtown. We pull into the parking garage of a skyscraper.
"Interesting," Mom says with a frown.
"What? I ask.
"I don't remember all the social requirements of crime family interactions. But traditionally, the meeting of families takes place in someone's home or a restaurant, not their office building."
"So, they're creating a deliberate separation, making it clear this is a business deal," I say, staring at the numbers rising on the elevator display. "Weaponized humiliation, making sure I know my place."
Believe me, you bastards, I think viciously. It's no true love match on my side either.
"There's the demure, delicate flower we all admire," Roan murmurs to me. He's watching my reflection in the elevator's mirrored doors, and I'm so angry that I look unhinged. "Don't give them anything to work with. Your lack of response will really piss them off."
"How's this?" I whisper, stretching my lips into a painfully wide smile.
"If you're going for constipated, you've nailed it," he says.
"You're too good to me," I mumble.
"And don't I know it," he sighs dramatically. "Remember, don't give them anything to gloat over."
As expected, the elevator stops at the top floor.
The doors open onto a huge entryway. It's tasteful; walnut paneling, sleek suede furniture and if power had a scent, it would be reeking of it.
Down the hall to our right, there's a big set of elaborately carved double doors, open wide.
I can hear the low murmur of conversation and the occasional polite chuckle.
Mom slides her arm through mine. "Let's get this over with," she says, putting on an expression I've never seen before. Pleasant, a bit of a smile without seeming too enthusiastic, and a blank gaze, giving nothing away. Was this how she had to be when she was with Dritan?
A blonde with hair in a high ponytail and a tightly fitted suit meets us with a pleasant, bland expression that matches Mom's. She has to be in her fifties and she's supermodel gorgeous. "Welcome, Madame and Miss Krasniqi. I am Alina, the Pakhan's personal assistant. If you'll come with me?"
Roan and Mom's bodyguard Burim shadow us closely as we walk down the hall.
I squeeze Mom's hand as we step over the threshold into the conference room, keeping my chin up.
There's an older man with a majestic stance and terrifying demeanor who I assume is the Pakhan.
He's got a drink in his hand, speaking to a beautiful, black-haired woman and a very tall younger guy who looks a great deal like him.
Ten or so other men are scattered around the room.
They are all expensively dressed, holding glasses of vodka with stern, unsmiling faces.
Three I recognize as my father's Kryetars.
There are two women here, both look like they're in their 20s, and they turn, smiling at me with what looks like genuine friendliness.
My father is seated in the corner, holding court with some of his people, though the Morozovs don't seem to be paying much attention until he raises a hand.
"Liria, there you are," Father says in a carrying tone. "Come, greet your papa."
Papa? Oh my god, I groan silently. He's really going to pretend to play a loving father right now?
"Pershendetje, Baba, hello Papa," I say, choking a bit on the last word. "You are looking well."
His hands tighten down on my fingers and I suppress a flinch. He is helped to his feet by the guard I recognize, the one who slapped me. Ignoring my mother, he pulls me toward the Morozovs. "Maksim Morozov, Dmitri Morozov," Father says, "my daughter Liria Krasniqi."
Two sets of chilly blue eyes lock on mine and I feel like I just got coated in a layer of ice. I don't get the sense they're that thrilled about this arrangement either, but I manage a pleasant smile and nod to them both.
"A pleasure to meet you, Pakhan Maksim Morozov and Dmitri Morozov." I remember my manners, greeting them by their full names.
Maksim nods to his son. "Dmitri is now the Pakhan of the Morozov Bratva, Liria Krasniqi."
"Oh, forgive me," I say. "May I introduce my mother, Allegra Johnson… Krasniqi?" I hate using that name for her, she changed back to her maiden name when we left Albania to return to Boston after the divorce.
Mom nods gracefully. They do not offer to shake hands.
I can hear footsteps behind us, the man joining us has black hair and a slightly insolent grin.
"I'm Roman Morozov." He stands next to Dmitri. He's the first person here to reach out and shake my hand. "Liria Krasniqi, this is your fiancé, Alexsey Morozov."
I turn slightly to face the other man, my fiancé, and suck in such a sharp gasp that I cough it back out.
Alexsey Morozov? This can't be him.
Because this is my wonderful, perfect one night stand.
It's Beauford Wellington.
***
Fare - the "family" of an Albanian mob
Krye - the head of the Albanian mob
Kryetar - the deputies chosen to serve under him