Chapter 20
twenty
She is everywhere.
The scent of her jasmine perfume permeates every corner of the penthouse. Her clothes and belongings are strewn all over the bedroom we’ve barely shared since she came back.
It’s a trick. I know it. Ava isn’t a particularly tidy person compared to my utilitarian lifestyle, but she hardly ever leaves clothes on the floor or her shoes by the door to trip me.
I let her sleep there on her own because there is little chance that I won’t give in to my base instincts and fuck her.
She is my wife still, and I respect that bond, even if I am already having Ben draw up the divorce papers. After that, it will be over and done. She’ll be free to be whomever she wants. Free to live her life without restraint.
I hear her laughter from the living room most days as she saunters about the penthouse talking to Mia or my men.
She is loud.
Obviously so.
The fucking minx is tempting me since I refuse to speak to her after Vas suggested she stay. I raged at him for it, even though I show her nothing but calm disinterest. I don’t want her back here. She may be my wife, but she still betrayed me.
But for a good reason.
That’s what my mind keeps repeating like a broken record, but I’m not ready to admit that.
I don’t think I ever will be. My cock throbs as her laughter filters down the hall from my office, where she sits conversing with Vas over the plans we’ve made for the upcoming gala.
My mind keeps conjuring the unwanted image of her bent naked over my desk.
Ass red from my punishing hand.
Or my belt.
Fuck, maybe even both.
My head reels. My mind buzzes.
I shouldn’t want her still. Shouldn’t need her. My brain is on board with that. But hell, my body doesn’t get the message.
“Get out, Ava,” I growl as I stalk into my office, attempting in vain to will my rock-hard cock to soften. It doesn’t work. “I need to speak to Vas.”
The redheaded vixen glares at me, her emerald eyes darkening as she brushes past me, muttering “asshole” under her breath as she shoulder-checks me on the way out.
I let that go.
“You shouldn’t be so brusque to your wife.” Vas’s tone drips with disappointment, and it makes me feel guilty.
Somewhat.
“And you should mind your own business,” I warn him as I sit down in my chair. “Plus, she won’t be my wife much longer.”
My sovietnik groans.
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“Ben will have the papers here by the gala,” I tell him, grabbing a small bottle of whiskey from inside my desk. It’s a rare year, aged in an antique coffee barrel whose sides are charred to the point of perfection, drawing out the old oils of the coffee beans that were once transported inside.
Perfection.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
I shrug, not caring in the least what he thinks.
That’s what I tell myself anyway.
“So, what did you need to discuss with me so urgently?” Vas asks, rearranging himself in his chair.
I huff a small laugh.
“Nothing. I just didn’t want her in here with me.”
Vas groans but doesn’t make a move to leave.
“You really are an asshole, sir.” He draws out the sir like an insult.
“You shouldn’t have invited her to stay,” I snarl.
“I was trying to help your stubborn ass,” Vas insists angrily. “You have your head shoved so far up your ass—”
“Remember who you’re talking to, Vasily,” I warn him. “We may be brothers, but I am still your Pakhan.”
“Prosti, brat,” he apologizes contritely. “You’re right.”
We sit in silence as I pour each of us a small glass of my classically aged whiskey. Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes and savor the bitter, charred notes of the drink, letting the flavors roll and take over my senses.
Has it come to this? That my men go against me because of a woman?
My woman.
I know they’ve grown attached to her. Come to love her like brothers should. But I never thought my own sovietnik would chastise me.
I can’t let her relationship with them interfere with business. My business. Ava isn’t just my weak link.
She’s theirs as well.
“I found her outside the door last night.” Vas breaks the silence. He takes a sip of his whiskey and sighs.
“Again?” I ask, my forehead creasing in concern.
“Third night this week, and she’s only been here four,” Vas confirms. “Never seems to be at the same time, and just like the other two nights, she’s completely out of it. I think she’s sleepwalking.”
I shake my head. “Ava has no history of sleepwalking.”
“No.” Vas nods. “She doesn’t. But guilt and trauma change sleeping patterns. She still refuses to go into Libby’s room. Won’t even talk about it.”
“I don’t see you going into Libby’s room either,” I point out.
“I’ve been waiting for Ava.” Vas shrugs. “Libby was her sister. She deserves to be the first to go in. The first to see everything like it once was.”
I nod, taking another sip of whiskey. He’s right.
“I tried talking about it, but she refuses,” Vas continues, crestfallen. “She won’t discuss anything to do with Libby. Didn’t even want to see the urn we placed her ashes in or talk about spreading them like Libby wanted.”
There’s another point of contention between us.
His authorization to bombard the Romanos and Wards at the funeral site.
It isn’t something I would have authorized, and he knows that.
He takes the opportunity to bribe the funeral home director and has someone else’s body placed in the casket while he took Libby’s and had it cremated.
Libby Ward wanted to be cremated and spread on a cliff overlooking the ocean. True freedom—that’s what she once told Ava—is found on the wind, not in the ground. Vas was furious when he found out they were burying the woman he had come to care for next to her vile father.
I don’t approve of his method.
But I understand it.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“I’ll talk to her about it.”
Vas quirks a skeptical brow, raising his hands in peace when I growl at him. Just because I ignore Ava doesn’t mean I won’t speak to her when the moment calls for it. And Ava sleepwalking through the penthouse in the middle of the night calls for it.
I down the rest of my drink in one gulp and stand, going in search of my wife. I expect to find her in the kitchen with Mia—where she is most days—but when I walk in, she isn’t there.
Mia, my housekeeper, hums an old Russian tune as she putters around the large chef’s kitchen preparing dinner.
“Oh, Matthias.” She presses a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
I give her a small apologetic smile. “Prosti, Mia. I was looking for Ava.”
Mia wipes her hands on the towel slung over her shoulder and smiles up at me.
“She went down to the gun range to practice her marksmanship.”
I frown. “By herself?”
Mia balks at my tone. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think you’d mind. I was told she could come and go as she pleased.”
“No, you’re right, Mia.” I lift my hand to stop her. “She isn’t a prisoner. I’m just surprised she didn’t ask someone to go with her.”
Mia nods, still frowning, before turning back to her work.
I sigh and rake a hand through my hair.
Mia loves Ava like a daughter, and I’m not delusional enough to believe she isn’t cross about how this is unfolding. She’s just too professional to say it.
Unlike Vasily.
I make my way down to the range just above the parking garage, the space nearly soundproof. Ten lanes sit side by side. Pistols only—though we allow the occasional P90 or AR. No high-powered rifles or shotguns. Those belong at the compound.
Ava stands in one of the last stalls, ears protected by hot pink earmuffs, eyes shielded by matching safety goggles.
I chuckle quietly. Ava hates pink. Elias used to force her to wear it to make her more feminine.
One of the twins must have picked them up for her.
She probably doesn’t have the heart to tell them she hates it.
She doesn’t hear me approach. She’s too focused.
Each time before she fires, she draws the gun back to her chest, elbows tight, takes a deep breath, extends her arms, and fires.
Again.
And again.
Her stance is solid, but the frustration rolling off her has nothing to do with form—it’s her aim. I grin as I glance downrange at the paper target.
MATTHIAS is scrawled across the top in block letters, the eyes crossed out.
Damn. My woman is vicious.
No.
Not my woman.
Not for much longer.
Some shots land true, but most hit the edges of the paper. I know why. When I tap her shoulder, she turns sharply, setting the gun on the table with the barrel pointed downrange.
Good.
Plenty of my men still forget that.
We may be Bratva, but we aren’t stupid. Gun safety saves lives.
“You’re anticipating the recoil,” I tell her after she removes her earmuffs. “That’s why you’re missing.”
She huffs. “I know. It’s not as easy as it looks.”
I smile and wink. “I know.”
Ava snorts.
I grab spare earmuffs and glasses from the next stall. “Put these on. Get into position.”
She does without arguing.
That alone nearly undoes me.
I step behind her, close enough that her back brushes my chest. My hands settle on her waist, adjusting her stance.
“You’re releasing your breath when you fire,” I murmur. “Hold it as you pull the trigger. Let the recoil come back naturally.”
She nods, inhales, steadies herself.
I step back.
She fires.
No flinch.
Dead center mass.
“Good girl,” I say softly. “Again.”