Nero: Shattered Wings (Russian Mob Chronicles #6)

1. Miranda

1

MIRANDA

W hen I look in the mirror, I grimace when I see how the crisscross pattern of my teddy clings to my body.

The changing-room mirrors at the boutique store I popped into last month must be those flattering, you’ll-never-look-fat-in-our-store mirrors, because this ensemble looks nothing like the one I tried on weeks ago.

I’m meant to be spicing up my marriage, not giving Roy more reasons to whine.

This hot little number is supposed to complement my curves. It’s made them offensive.

Roy will complain that there’s too much skin showing. He’s such an ass he’ll probably say I look like a pork roll held together by a mesh cooking bag.

As much as this kills me to admit, his hurtful comments aren’t far from the truth. My tummy has more cellulite than a man seeking a trophy wife would find acceptable.

Furthermore, due to a hectic pre-Christmas work schedule, my thighs are chunky enough that they clap when I walk.

While getting ready, I scared my Jack Russell terrier, Tempy, more than the luminous clouds darkening my hometown’s sky hours earlier than usual did. She’s a chicken when it comes to storms. Her tummy has been a bundle of nerves all evening.

Mine hasn’t been much better. Although I’ve been married for fourteen years, my stomach still gets butterflies whenever I dress up for a special occasion.

They’re not good flutters.

I can’t recall the last time Roy and I had sex. I think it was Easter the previous year…

Actually, scrap that. His aunt had an emergency not long after we exchanged sugar-laden gifts. I ate his share of our treats and mine.

My stomach hurt for days, and the scale was just as damning the following week, but it was the most satisfied I’ve ever been.

My plump lips arch at one side when I twirl, taking in the entire package.

Not bad, Miranda. Not bad at all.

I have plenty of junk in the trunk to deviate even the most disinterested man’s eyes from my stomach, and a trip to the salon this afternoon did wonders for my hair.

My face isn’t half bad, either.

As my grandma always said, a couple of pounds on the scale will plump out any pesky wrinkles.

I appear closer to mid-twenties than mid-thirties and look put together. Possibly hot.

I doubt my husband will agree, though. He hasn’t issued a single compliment since we exchanged vows.

Ugh! Why do I put myself through the torment?

Roy is a dick. I should have left him years ago. It is just hard to remember a life without him in it. He swept me off my feet when I was young and dumb and when he could cover his flaws with a rigidly sharp jaw and a handsome face that concealed all his lies.

I married him too fast. We hadn’t even dated for six months.

It was fun at the start, but now that the shine has long worn off, I’m on the cusp of depression.

That’s what my outfit is about. It’s our anniversary, and as much as I wish I were in sweats, eating ice cream out of the tub and watching my favorite shows, I need to do something to re-spark our connection.

Roy promised our rut would only be temporary, so I must give him the chance to make true on his promise.

It is the most I can do since he’s not kept a single one in the past fourteen years.

I flop onto my bed, sending sprigs of curly brown hair bouncing against the sheets I wrangled into submission only thirty minutes ago. I’ve changed the sheets, cooked a feast fit for a king, and rid my body of almost every hair it owns.

It’s fortunate this week has been good, or I may have had a Britney Spears 2007 moment.

During the first bounce of the mattress springs, the doorbell rings. For a moment, I’m confused. Why would Roy need to knock? Then I remember how he lost his keys three months ago.

He was attending a business meeting almost an hour from here. He refused to call an Uber, so I had to drive over two hours to pick him up since I was at work.

Then I had to listen to him whine for another four hours while I finished my shift with the catering company I fought to get off the ground weeks shy of my twenty-first birthday.

We were short a staff member. Roy could have helped, but that seems to be beyond his capabilities. I’m unsure if he knows the definition of hard work. He’s never touched a dustpan or dishcloth in his life.

All the chores are on my shoulders—including the “man” jobs like mowing, weeding, and edging.

“Just a minute,” I shout when the doorbell buzzes again.

I race through the foyer of my modest yet cozy home, dodging Tempy and her excited twirls.

The floorplan of my home is a retro ’70s layout but with the modern features you’d seek from a loft in New York. I love my home.

It and my catering business have been my only saving grace for the past decade.

After snagging a coat from a rack by the door, my intuition warning me that answering my caller’s knocks in a mesh-and-rope teddy will only end one way—badly—I plaster a fake smile onto my face and pull open the door.

“Happy anniversary…”

My high-pitched celebratory tone croaks at the end, startled by the person at the door. It isn’t Roy or Mrs. Gessler who often comes over for a cup of sugar and three hours of nonstop gossip.

It is a man with one leg longer than the other, a wonky smile, and slicked-back hair.

“Mrs. Martin?”

“Yes. Hello.” I sound confused. Justly so. My name isn’t on the deed of this house. Roy said not a single broker would take a risk on me since I was without stable employment.

He made it seem that my business has been in the red longer than its inaugural year and that his income outranks mine twenty to one.

For future reference, that isn’t close to the truth.

My company is keeping on the gas, electricity, and every other silly gimmick Roy is adamant he can’t live without. It has also paid the mortgage every month for the past six years.

“Are you seeking Roy?”

He seems like the type who’d work with Roy. His smile is cocky, but his composure screams that there’s a stick shoved up his ass. It is as obvious as the alarm bells that rang in my head precisely fourteen years ago today.

When my caller’s eyes remain steadfast on my chest, I tug my coat in tighter, mindful from the cool winds whipping through the door that my outfit offers little coverage.

“He should be back at any moment.” Against the better judgment of my head, I open the door all the way and gesture for him to enter. “You can wait in the foyer.”

He shakes his head, sending blond locks spilling down his face. “That’s fine. I’m not here for Roy.” He coughs before finally lifting his head. “I’m here for you.”

“Me?” I touch my chest, returning his focus to my puckered nipples barely concealed by a thin coat. It is chilly today. But I’m suddenly fretful it has nothing to do with the cool change the weather forecaster projected for the rest of the month.

My caller doesn’t look up while saying, “I’m here to serve you these.”

He thrusts an official-looking envelope my way. His grunt of disappointment when it covers my breasts ruffles the curls I left down to frame my heart-shaped face.

After another lingering stare, he sighs dramatically and then turns on his heel and leaves.

He barely makes it halfway down the footpath that will never require salting before he twists back around. A million words run through his head; however, he only speaks six. “Once you’re sorted, look me up.” I’m about to tell him I have no clue who he is, much less how to contact him, when he nudges his head to the envelope. “All my details are in there.”

With a wink, he slips into the back of an idling town car and vanishes down the tree-lined street.

I stare in the direction he left for several seconds before lowering my eyes to the puffed-out envelope. The seal states it is from a law firm. It isn’t the same firm Roy works for, but it is in the same zip code and specializes in the same field of expertise—divorce litigation.

As a cussword bounces off the walls of my home, I tear open the envelope and rip out the contents inside. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what document I’ve been served. It is a petition for divorce, which was signed by Roy only an hour ago.

“You son of a bitch,” I mutter when I read through the extensively noted document. He’s not just seeking half of the assets we accumulated in our marriage. He wants the lot—including Tempy.

Tempy growls and barks, matching my sentiment to a T, as I continue perusing the document.

The attached proposed property settlement agitates my last nerve.

“Since Spouse One has recorded no payments toward the dwelling cited in 1.11.A of the proposed settlement, Spouse Two gives three weeks’ notice for the relocation of Spouse One.”

It’s three weeks until Christmas. Where exactly is he expecting me to go? All the hotels are booked out, and Roy ensured I cut all ties with my family within the first year of our marriage.

“Just a minute,” I murmur for the second time this evening when Tempy barks again.

I appreciate her efforts to subdue my panic, but I don’t think well when bombarded with multiple issues. I’m the worst multitasker. It isn’t my fault. I learned from a master that effort is not a requirement for anything .

Roy never flicked my clit while driving into me. He barely cupped my breasts that jerked around as much as his jackrabbit hip thrusts. Multi isn’t a part of any of his sexual conquests, and I’ve only ever been with him.

When Tempy barks again, the cause of her excitement is announced.

My cell phone is ringing.

I silenced it during my last event, not wanting the bride and groom angry about it blowing up every hour on the hour as it usually does when I attend functions known for love and promiscuity.

I live in Vegas. Lust and love go hand in hand, and the attention I got from single suitors in attendance once made Roy jealous as fuck.

His lack of contact today should have raised alarms long before I was served with divorce papers.

With my phone flashing a local area code, I snatch it up and slide my finger across the screen. I can’t let any jobs go astray if I want to contest Roy’s claim that I’ve not contributed a single dime to our home. I’ve paid the mortgage on time every month for years.

This home is more mine than his.

“Hello?”

A quick swallow commences a slow, unsure question. “Mrs. Martin?”

Her salutation smashes my back molars together. I hide my annoyance well. “Yes. How can I help you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you. I know it is your anniversary.” She sounds young, less mature than the years I wasted married to Roy. “But I’m having some issues with the credit card you supplied.”

“The card I supplied?”

Don’t judge the highness of my tone. I’m reeling with anger, which is hard to set aside for confusion.

Furthermore, I usually supply my bank details for the hotels I work with.

They don’t process my credit card since they pay me.

“Yes. Um.” Papers ruffle before she continues. “I processed the hold for your reservation this evening, but the extras added to the booking last minute aren’t going through. The florist said?—”

“Florist?” I’ve not been handed a single flower since the day I wed. Roy said they were a waste of money and that he’d rather buy me a rose bush to plant so his gift could live on like our love.

What a crock of shit.

“Yes.” She sounds even more nervous. “The petals on the bed are complimentary with the honeymoon suite, but if you want the arrangements you ordered from our florist, I will need to cite your card as I did during check-in.”

Since I am silent, swimming in an abyss of fury, she assumes I am angry at her.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience, but the order was a little over a thousand dollars. I could have tried to push through the sale if it was under that. But?—”

“It’s okay,” I assure her, my voice re-found and my wish for revenge surging. “You need to view my card in person, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Now she’s worried. “I could send someone to your room?—”

“No!” I shout a little too loudly, startling Tempy. “My husband is showering, and I don’t want you to…”

I’ve got nothing. Roy has the very definition of a dad bod, just minus the kids required for the title. My arms wobbled when I waved him goodbye this morning, but their flaps were barely noticeable when his turkey gobbler got stuck in a wind funnel.

Remembrance of the way he breezed out of our home this morning catapults my anger.

Did he know then that he was serving me divorce papers this evening?

When my head screams a resounding yes, I veer down the slippery slope of revenge instead of taking the high road.

“I’ll be right down. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed. We barely made it into the suite before we started tearing our clothes off each other.”

Her gag is audible. It is all the proof I need that she hasn’t mixed up my husband’s reservation with another man. “Wonderful. I’ll see you soon.”

I farewell her before opening my recently called list and copying and pasting her number into the Safari app. It shows the details of a hotel built in the last twelve months.

It is fancy but not as expensive as its counterparts since it is miles from the strip, which is odd since its advertisement continually states it is “discreet for all guests.”

As my eyes bounce between the hotel’s no-pet policy and Tempy, I try to think of a solution. Tempy loves our home as much as I do, but I don’t trust Roy enough not to wonder if this is a ploy for him to dognap my beloved baby.

I’d hand over everything I own without a single gripe if he granted me full custody of Tempy.

Roy knows this, so I can’t leave myself vulnerable to attack.

A smirk tilts my top lip when a brilliant idea smacks into me. “Do you want to go see Nanny?”

Mrs. Gessler loves Tempy. She spoils her rotten with homemade dog biscuits and often buys her bones bigger than her tiny frame. She’s offered to babysit Tempy numerous times in the past six years, so I’m sure she’d love to babysit Tempy for an hour or two this evening.

When Tempy barks before spinning in a circle, I collect her leash from the coat rack, stuff my feet into the only heels in the coat room, and then race through the frosted glass door of my home like the bottom half of my outfit isn’t impersonating dental floss.