Chapter Sixteen
In which hating Liria would be much easier if she wasn't so damn beautiful.
Alexsey…
"How's your bride settling in?" Roman's lounging in my office at Heaven and Hell, one of our most successful nightclubs.
"Well, it doesn't look like you've been home much," he says, casting a critical eye at the sectional in the corner. There are two blankets and a pillow resting on an armrest.
"I can track all the clubs and restaurants from here," I say, squeezing my throbbing left wrist. Having the prosthetic on is uncomfortable, having it off is a constant, painful reminder of everything I've lost. "The accountants are doing their jobs, but I always check the final numbers."
"That doesn't mean you have to be working twenty-four hours a day," he reminds me.
"We have support staff. You can't convince me that this-" he gestures around us, "-is what you'd been dreaming of when you got back to work.
Don't you want to go beat the hell out of some of the assholes trying to bring shit party drugs into our fine establishments? "
"Yeah, because that's cutting into our good party drug sales," I agree.
"Don't forget that we have another raid on the Morales Cartel planned," he says, sitting up with a grin. Nothing makes Roman happier than fucking up a rival crime family. And no one deserves it more than the Morales Cartel.
"Your offer of unmitigated violence is extremely attractive, brother," I say. "What do we have planned for tonight?"
"For you?" Roman eyes me, "A good, long shower and a couple hours sleep on a mattress that won't fuck up your spine. That couch is not comfortable. Nikandr told me he almost threw his back out two years ago when he was having sex with one of the cocktail waitresses in here."
"For fuck's sake, I've been sleeping on the same couch? Forget getting the upholstery cleaned, I'm going to burn it and buy a new one."
"By the way, did you get your tux fitted for the wedding?
" he asks, propping his feet up on the desk.
"There was a rumor that Aunt Tania was going to make us all wear lavender Tom Ford tuxes from this season, but Mother nixed that plan.
" He chuckles as I shove his feet off my rare African Ironwood desk.
"If it's easier, I can have them bring the tux you keep at the St. Petersburg house over to the lodge. "
"I've got a week," I say, getting up and heading over to the bar in the corner. "I'll take care of it."
He's watching me closely, and it's uncomfortable. I want to tell my brother to get the fuck out of my office and let me work, but his wedding is important, I know.
"I've been lucky," he says. "Violet hasn't made me pick centerpieces or tablecloths, and there was some shit about doves that I was happy to avoid.
All I have to do - all you have to do - is show up.
The wedding party is flying out next Tuesday.
I reserved the Embraer Lineage jet so we can all travel together. "
Roman is still watching me.
I feel like an utter bastard. My brother is getting married to the love of his life - for the second time because he tricked her into signing the first marriage certificate the first time - and I know how important this is for them; it's a joyous occasion.
I don't feel anything, though, much less joy.
I'll fake it for his and Violet's sake. They deserve that much, at least.
The thought, though, of being trapped on a jet for ten hours with every conversation centered on the blissful merits of matrimony…
there's not enough vodka in all of Mother Russia to make that bearable.
My bride - a Krasniqi - will be sitting next to me, a silent reminder of the things I'll never have.
All thanks to her fucking family.
"Why don't you focus on the Morales ambush. I am in for that, and looking forward to some mindless, well-deserved violence," I say, forcing a smile.
"Got it," he says, rising reluctantly to his feet. I pretend to be focused on the numbers on my screen again.
"Alexsey?"
"Yes?" I groan. Iisus Khristos, let this end.
"Everyone wanted to keep Liria at arm's length when you married her.
It didn't take long for all the women to love her.
Mother tried to give her the Morozov diamond earrings as a belated wedding gift and she declined, saying it didn't feel appropriate.
She apologized profusely and begged Mother to not take it personally.
" Roman groans. "Violet gave me a play by play of the whole awkward moment.
She says that Liria looks sadder every time she sees her.
So, I am here and forced to repeat all of this to you. "
And what am I expected to do about it?
"She is creating a life here. Danyl reports she goes to a local music studio, she’s going to be a docent at one of the museums on Museum Mile. Violet and Ava hang out with her often. And she stays out of my way." I stare at Roman, daring him to say anything. "I've done my duty for the Bratva."
***
I do go home that night.
Not because Roman tried to manipulate me into it, but I am running out of clean suits at both my offices, and there's no way in hell I'm touching that sectional after hearing about Nikandr and the cocktail waitress.
It could be baptized with bleach and it wouldn't be enough. I'll get a new one delivered tomorrow.
Not that I'd admit it to him, the smug bastard.
The street is quiet tonight; it's in a rehabbed warehouse area that's been turned into ridiculously expensive condos and homes designed to look like they've kept their "rustic" charm.
The street lights are new; heavy, decorative iron ones that illuminate the brick sidewalk, and there are maple and sycamore trees planted up and down the street.
There are a couple of low lights in my living room shining through the leaves on the lemon and orange trees. Liria's bedroom window is dark. Good. That means I won't have to see her tonight.
Seeing Liria is difficult. I start filled with rage; it cycles through me like a cyclone.
But then, before it can build up into something devastating, my chest grows tight as I look at her, here in my loft.
My anger dies in the face of how quiet she is, watchful, how she has a way of disappearing when I'm home.
That's what I wanted, though.
Going inside, I see she's fallen asleep on one of the living room couches, illuminated in a pool of light cast by the reading lamp next to her.
She's holding a book with both arms, as if it's something precious, and there's a slight smile on her face.
While she may be a Krasniqi, goddamn, the woman is beautiful.
Her black hair flows down past her shoulders and curls over her breasts.
She's pale and unscarred in contrast to my tanned, calloused, tattooed self.
The plain silver band we used for that grim signing ceremony is still on her left finger.
I don't wear a wedding ring, of course. It would look fucking ridiculous on the prosthetic.
Why am I still standing here? I move into the kitchen and pull out one of the meals the chef prepared.
Liria does some cooking too, but I pointedly avoid it.
Who knows if she's going to get in a poisoning mood?
She never says anything about my choices, but I've noticed she still makes food for two.
Tonight, it's mushroom risotto and sautéed chicken.
As my pre-prepared meal heats up, I open the freezer for a bottle of vodka and smother a chuckle. Liria may eat well, with her sauteed chicken and her healthy salads, but the freezer is packed with pints of ice cream in every flavor, though she seems particularly fond of caramel almond.
I don't like eating at the eight-foot-long dining table. It feels either too lordly or too ridiculous, so I eat at the counter, trying to pay attention to the new ammunition cargo invoices on my iPad, but I can't make myself focus.
Taking my drink, I settle in a comfortable chair across from her, absently swirling my glass of vodka.
From here, I can see the pale smears on her fingertips, the French chalk she uses on the piano keys.
She smells like lavender, probably picked from the garden in the back.
There is a big bouquet on the windowsill, the vase tilted to catch the breeze when the windows are open.
There is something else that's uniquely her.
I don't know enough about women's perfume to know if it's her or an expensive brand, but the smell is delicious, and compelling.
I touched every part of her that night in Boston, her breasts with those lovely pink nipples, the smooth skin of her stomach, the long, creamy slope of her thighs.
When she came, her eyes would open wide, sparkling and silver, almost shocked as if she couldn't believe something could feel so good.
In fact, she said that during our round in the shower.
I'm not sure she knew what she was saying, but I remember squeezing her tighter against the tiled wall.
Rubbing my forehead, I look away and take a gulp of vodka.
I never lie to myself, even when it's uncomfortable.
That night with her was possibly the best sex I've ever had.
All the curves and creamy lines of her, fitting into the hard angles of me.
Her pussy was so tight that I thought for a moment that she must be a virgin.
When she came… my head drops back against the chair, my eyes close.
Her contractions milked my cock, her pussy rippling along me, forcing me to come with her.
We laughed all night. I remember still being inside her after our third time, I said something she found amusing and the feel of her breasts pressed against my chest as she laughed, her hard nipples rubbing against my pectorals as she wrapped her arms around my neck, bringing me down for a kiss.
I'd spent too much time thinking about that night afterward, fully intending to take a trip to Boston to find her.
Explain the whole Beauford thing. Introduce myself properly and seduce her all over again.
My traitorous cock thickens, getting hard, remembering vividly how she felt around me, thrusting inside her.
I push my dick down with the heel of my hand.
Down, boy. She's not for you.
I don't know what wakes her up, but she does with a gasp, sitting up abruptly on the couch and looking around anxiously. Her gaze settles on me and her breathing slows down, muscles loosening just slightly.
"Oh, sorry," she says, still clutching her book. "I must've dozed off. I'll head upstairs. Good night."
She hurries up the stairs like a Doberman is snapping at her heels. I walk over to the window, hands over my head, staring at her lavender bouquet. It would be too easy to think this could turn into a love match, the way my brothers' marriages did.
But, it won't.
No matter how beautiful and strong she is, she's a Krasniqi. And I am a one-handed bastard who’s only remaining skills are death and destruction. And drinking.
I finish my vodka, staring at my reflection in the window. I can see it, standing next to Roman as he watches his bride walk down the aisle. It's vivid and painfully detailed, the look of love on his face and the adoration on hers.
In a moment, I'm violently nauseated, racing for the bathroom and vomiting up dinner. Looking up in the mirror, I wince at my reflection, splashing cold water on my sweaty skin.
I am happy for them. But standing there next to my brother… I don't know if I can do it.
And I fucking hate myself for it.