Chapter Twenty-Eight
In which the Morozov Brothers play a round of, “Who wants to kill Liria this week?”
Alexsey…
"You know, it would've been much easier if you had just disabled him instead of killing him," Roman says disapprovingly.
"Yeah, and if Violet was the one dodging a fucking stiletto," I duck his swing from the right. "I'm sure you would've been great about just lowering the temperature of the whole stabbing and having a chat?"
Roman thinks about it. "No, I would've shot him until he was nothing but steaming chunks of meat. You're completely correct."
"That's beautiful." Dmitri bounces lightly on the balls of his feet before aiming a punch at Roman’s shoulder. "You could helm a Bratva greeting card division for Hallmark."
"Roman's such a romantic," I laugh. "Something like,
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I cut this guy's dick off,
and put it in a box for you."
"I might be crying right now," Dmitri wipes away an imaginary tear.
"It's great that we could have this bonding moment.
" He telegraphs his next move with a glance to my right.
I dodge his punch and sweep my leg, knocking him off his feet.
He flips up from the mat, growling, and goes after Roman who's laughing, though his laughter is abruptly cut off when our older brother nails him in the solar plexus.
"So, the question is, is this one of the Albanian factions, thinking they can sow division if they kill Liria?
" Roman says. He dodges my first punch, my right hand is still not as accurate as it should be, but my left elbow is doing the Lord's work, driving down on his shoulder.
With a yelp, he spins away. We are "working out" at Dmitri's lavish gym in his penthouse.
These are "brotherly" business meetings, which is just a thinly veiled excuse to beat the shit out of each other when we're feeling cranky. I kept away from the first few rounds they invited me to after I recovered. If they had tried to pull their punches, it would have killed me.
Roman charges me and flips me over his back and I land with a grunt. This continues for another ten minutes until Dmitri accidentally pops Roman in the nose, sending a stream of blood down his chin.
"Are you all right?" I ask, pulling a towel off the folded stack for him.
"Eh," he grunts, wiping the blood away and pinching the bridge of his nose. "He didn't even break it. Our brother's getting all sensitive and tender."
"Have you told her the attacker was Albanian?" Roman asks, ignoring the taunting. His chest is heaving, pulling up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face.
"Not yet," I say, drawing my legs up and resting my elbows on my knees. "I'm not sure why I haven't told her, other than that hunted look in her eyes has disappeared recently and I hate to see it flare up again."
"Do you need any loaners for security?" Dimitri asks.
"No." I stand up with a groan, offering my hand to Roman, who accepts it. He doesn't look much better than I do. "The MacTavish group in Boston sent over security to guard her mother, so I could recall four of my men back here."
"Any sign of that rat fuck Dritan?" Roman says. He hasn't lost his fury about how that ambush turned out, because he's a guilt-ridden asshole. Roman thinks he should've been the one who was wounded, not me. He’s getting worse than his wife when it comes to taking the blame for everything.
"Surprisingly, no," I say. "I don't think he's left the states."
"Why do you think that?" Dmitri hands me a water bottle, and one to Roman.
"Activity around his estate in Albania has been very sparse.
They're dismantling their gun inventory and the cocaine labs, the way we've instructed.
They let the four of our men and the Obshchak in with no resistance to do the audit.
I can't picture them doing that with the animated corpse of Krasniqi hovering around.
" I shift, keeping my weight off my sore knee, courtesy of a kick from Dmitri.
"I know the man's dying, we all do. No doctor's report can fake what's going on with him.
But I have a hard time believing he's letting go of his empire this easily. "
"We continue to approach this with the same caution we do with Mother's egg salad," Dmitri says. "It looks fine on the surface but…"
"You're criticizing Mother's cooking!" Roman teases. "I'm gonna tell Dad."
"You always were the little tattletale when we were kids, asshole," Dmitri says. "So far, the transfer of assets has gone exactly the way we'd planned. However, those men that Liria identified as closer to her father are still on the loose. I already sent out a catch and don't kill order."
"I have to get back to the loft," I say, checking the text on my phone with a grin. Roman and Dmitri eye each other meaningfully and then stare at me. I look up from my phone, distracted. "Do you know how fucking creepy you look when you two give me that fond, brotherly smile?"
"Yeah, we know," Roman says, keeping his smile. "But you look so happy now."
"Things have been better than I expected," I allow grudgingly. "But we can't trust anything until this whole shit show is over."
"Ava and Violet love Liria," Dmitri says. "Mother, too. She invited her to volunteer at the clinic. Did you know your wife also plays cello and violin? She played for some of the patients yesterday."
No. I did not know that about my wife. I suspect there are a lot of things I have chosen to not learn. But maybe today will be the first step forward for both of us.
***
"Why did I come home early?" Liria is arguing with Roan, who makes calming noises without explaining anything as he ushers her through the door.
I'm looking out one of our windows with the best view of the Manhattan skyline outside, the refraction of light, how it would angle across the buildings if I painted it.
.. I shut that down before anger takes me over again.
"Hello wife," I say, bending to give her a kiss. "How was your day?"
Her face lit up. "We stopped by Ava's and played with Lev, that baby is freaking adorable, isn't he? I mean, he's got these little chubby thighs that –" Her eyes drift over my shoulder and widen. "That's a piano," she says, mouth open.
"Yes," I say, trying to hide my grin. Her eyes fill with tears as she walks slowly and then breaks into a run, skidding to a halt in front of the grand piano set by the bank of windows with the best light in the loft.
Huge floor to ceiling windows that will allow her to see the world outside as she plays.
One hand flies up to her mouth and the other reverently touches the keys. "Where did you find my piano?" She's just a couple of tears away from full-out sobbing.
"We traced it to an auction house in Philadelphia," I say. "They were planning to auction it off last weekend. I made a better offer."
She sits down on the piano bench with a bit of a thump, like her knees gave out.
Her hands race over the keys, like they're rippling through water as she plays a melody so rich that it swirls through me.
Slowly pulling her fingers back, she looks up at me.
"This is the most beautiful thing that you could ever do for me," she says hoarsely.
"I don't know how to thank you. I don't know how to make it up to you. "
I put my drink down, sitting next to her on the bench. My shoulders are wide enough that they knock into hers, but she doesn't seem to mind. "Play something for me. Something clean, joyful."
Liria kisses me fiercely. I feel her cheeks wet against mine, and her lush mouth, before she pulls away and puts her fingers back on the keys.
As an artist, I've always been fascinated by hands.
My wife's are beautiful; long, elegant fingers, graceful.
She begins the song again, and I close my eyes, feeling the movement and pace of it, how the melody spirals and swoops until she slows to a finish.
"That can't be it," I protest as she puts her hands in her lap.
"I was working on it when Father took my piano away," she says. "I haven't really been able to work on it here in New York."
"Because you weren't inspired," I finish the thought for her. She nods a little sadly.
"It will be different here, now that I have my piano," she says. "Will you be okay with the noise, though? This loft's ceiling is so high, the sound carries, it will bounce off everything, and-"
I lift her chin with two fingers, searching her eyes.
They glitter when she's crying, but also, when she's happy.
I've only seen that a couple of times, and it hits me like the light on the cityscape.
"If it makes you happy," I say, my voice husky, "I will buy you a dozen pianos and we'll put one in every room.
" My wife laughs, running her fingers lightly over the keys again.
"Just this one," she says reverently. "This is all I need."
Her arms are around my neck and my mouth is pressed against her plush lips with a groan I barely hold in.
Since that night that I created her as a living canvas, my need for my wife is constant.
Leaning her back against the piano, I hear the discordant strike of three keys and she freezes, her mouth a breath away from mine.
"Let me close the lid," she whispers, blushing, and I laugh, stepping back with my hands around her waist as she carefully lowers it, covering the keys. "Oh! Okay, we're doing this," Liria gasps as I lift her onto the piano, her ass sliding over the glossy black surface.
"Is this going to damage the piano?" I ask, yanking her tank top down along with the cups of her bra, leaving her pert nipples exposed. Wrapping my lips around one, I suck it into my mouth, grinning a bit when her long legs come up and wrap around my waist.
"N- no," she says, sliding her fingers through my hair. "I mean, I don't have any personal experience but -"
I pull away, staring at her sternly. "You're a gifted concert pianist and you've never been taken on your instrument?"