Chapter 40 – Luka
M y phone rang, waking me from deep sleep. We hadn’t left my room since coming back from Club M?, having a naked dinner on the sofa and listening to the vinyl records until Vivian couldn’t stop yawning.
“Hello,” I answered, shifting in bed.
“You’re late.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “Hi to you too, a stór.”
Vivian’s breathing changed, but she didn’t move, probably wanted me to think she was asleep.
The brogue thickened with the rise in my nocturnal tryst’s temper. “Your dinner is hot, and the table’s set. But if you can’t bother to come visit me—”
“I’m on my way,” I promised and pushed out of bed. “We had an attack today. There’s unrest on the streets.”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry, laddie. We can reschedule. I know how it tis with yer type.”
My jeans tugged over my hips only to gape at the empty hangers in my closet. There wasn’t a clean button up. Not the linen, loose fitting ones I wore. I groaned, realizing it would have to be one of those dress shirts that belonged with a monkey suit. Something fitted and cloying.
“Handsome, clever, and rich?” I responded with a laugh.
“Cocky and destined for an early grave,” the voice on the phone responded hotly.
“Cross yerself, babushka, or else tis bad luck.” I mimicked her Irish accent.
From the long exhale whistling through the phone, I just knew she was primed to box my ears. “Bring the lass.”
The line went dead.
“Yes, ma’am,” I breathed.
I wanted them to meet, but in the tangle of events, I’d neglected to tell Vivian about my secret rendezvous.
Bouncing back onto the bed, I drew her close. “I know you’re not sleeping.”
“Who is she, Luka?” Vivian demanded, pushing against me. “They said you didn’t have a girlfriend, and I believed them. But heaven help me, if you’re keeping a mistress, I’ll cut your balls off with a rusty pair of scissors.”
Hot blood ran south at her words. The threat was a big, fucking turn-on.
“Viscous little thing, aren’t you,” I purred, pulling her earlobe between my teeth.
“Luka!” Vivian’s fist snaked through the air.
I twisted and took the punch in my chest. “Did you just touch me?”
“We established punching doesn’t count,” she said through clenched teeth. “Who was on the phone?!”
“Someone special to me. I want you to meet her.”
There was a pause. “Who, Luka?”
The bite wasn’t as strong this time. “My babushka.”
Vivian stilled. I knew she knew what the word meant. That was what Zoey was learning to call Chiara. Her second language would be Russian, and only after that would she begin to learn Italian.
“Your…grandmother?” Vivian breathed.
“Mhmm….” I sucked on the sensitive skin under her ear. “It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyhow. There’s only you, darlin.”
***
The thousand and one questions kept us occupied on the drive across town. After parking in a remote location, I cut the engine and led Vivian through the dark.
I stressed the need for silence as we scurried through neighborhoods, darted down alleys, and ran across night-covered streets. The Irish mob that ran this part of town was not friendly with the Vlasov Bratva.
Dimitri might be a more merciful pakhan than his father, but I would be punished if it was discovered I came to this part of town. Technically, I was risking war every time I saw Bridgit O’Conner.
Surprisingly, Vivian hadn’t protested. There was a spark of delight in her eyes that glittered under the streetlamps. Seeing it twisted the organ in my chest.
This girl was trouble—she was perfect.
A half hour of travel by foot later, we arrived at Mrs. O’Conner’s sliding back door.
“Weel, ye made it.” Relief shone on her face as she waddled around the L-shaped counter. She was moving better after a summer of walking. It was a regret of mine that we hadn’t been able to exercise together. But she’d agreed with me that if she didn’t use her legs they would stop working. Sadly, winter was coming, and walking the ice-covered streets wouldn’t be practical. Not that she knew it, but there would be a treadmill delivered once the first frost settled. She could scold me until she was blue in the face, but it was happening.
“Hi, ma’am, it’s wonderful to meet you.” Vivian stuck out her hand. She’d met my biological family without so much as batting an eye.
But there was color darkening her cheeks right now.
“Warsh your hands, lad while I git acquainted with yer bride,” Mrs. O’Conner instructed. “It’s a delight, Vivian.”
My bride’s shoulders dropped in relief.
Vivian accepted the large glass of ice-cold milk and sat at the worn kitchen table. “Your earrings…. They’re gorgeous.”
Mrs. O’Conner brushed her touch lovingly on them, while giving me a smirk. “A gift from my handsome grandson from his most recent trip.”
The ancient coins I’d stolen looked damn good dangling from her ears. Much better than sitting on a dusty museum shelf waiting for a collector.
“You aren’t his actual grandma, then?” Vivian asked.
I hustled to wash up, not bothering to point out that Vivian wasn’t asked to wash her hands.
“No, bless you, lass, he and his cousins blew into my life ‘ere back in December.” And that began the story of our hiding from the Irish mob, holding this kind soul hostage, and almost losing Kazimir to Irish bullets.
By that point in the story, I filled in details as Mrs. O’Conner scooped good stew into bowls. Vivian tore her bread and dunked it. The moan of delight was real, but I wasn’t jealous. The stew was actually that good.