Chapter 8 - Stefania
I can’t sleep.
His words are running through my mind. Over and over again.
That look in his eyes. It was so raw, so real, so intense.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face flooded with that deep, painful emotion.
Such intense anger. When Marlen told me what my brothers did, it was the first time I’ve ever seen such raw emotion in him.
I feel for him, but at the same time, I can’t bring myself to accept that my family would do something like he said they did. It’s too cruel.
It doesn’t make sense.
But Marlen was so certain. So hurt by it. His conviction in seeking revenge makes me question everything. He wouldn’t do this if he weren’t sure.
Right?
I toss again, roll onto my side, then sit up to punch the pillow into a different shape because everything is so uncomfortable. Last night the bed was perfect. It was soft, cozy, and warm. Tonight it’s lumpy, and the pillow is too hard or too soft—I’m not sure which.
Groaning, I roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow and letting out a short, sharp scream.
I wish I could call my brothers and ask them what happened. What if Marlen was telling the truth, though? It changes everything I know about my family. About the Abashins, too. It just changes everything I know about everything.
Am I so naive that I didn’t see what was happening right in front of me?
We are Bratva after all. This is a cruel and harsh world we live in. People do crazy things to survive, and my family isn’t just surviving—they are thriving.
In order to get that much power, that high a ranking… people would have to do some questionable things… right? So, is it really that hard to believe they would do what Marlen said they did?
They wouldn’t. They’re good people.
I toss again, rolling onto my side and pulling my legs up against my chest. Surely, they wouldn’t do that to Talia’s brother. Talia is family to us. Even though we don’t get on with Bardil, it doesn’t mean that we would purposefully do damage to her family.
Ugh, this is so frustrating. I can’t think straight. I can’t clear the confusion.
Should I try talking to Marlen again?
No. He was so… he was too angry. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t think it’s possible to reason with him about this anyway. He’s got his story, and he’s sticking to it by the looks of things.
Why did he have to tell me like that? Even if my family is bad… couldn’t he have told me in a better way?
Hours tick by, and I don’t hear Marlen coming up the stairs to go to bed. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s past three in the morning. That’s strange. He usually goes to bed by eleven because he gets up early for the gym and then goes to work.
A thread of worry pulls inside me. Is he ok? He was so upset, maybe… Maybe I should just go check on him.
Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe through the dark mansion to his bedroom.
His bed is still neatly made. I give up on the tiptoeing and head downstairs to the living room, thinking maybe he fell asleep on the sofa.
The living room is empty. The dining room still has our dinner dishes spread over it. Marlen is nowhere to be found.
Knowing I won’t be able to sleep if I go back to bed now, I flick on some lights and start cleaning up the dinner leftovers and stacking the plates to wash. I work slowly, using monotonous tasks to try to clear my thoughts again.
Where is Marlen?
I don’t care. Good riddance that he’s gone.
You don’t mean that.
Yes, I do. I want to go home. I want this whole thing to be over.
I clean all the dishes, dry them, and pack them away.
The leftovers are packed in glass containers in the fridge, and the kitchen is clean again.
Just as I’m about to flick the light off and go back to bed, I spot a piece of paper with my name on it near the bowl he keeps his keys and wallet in.
My heart flips. Nervous. He left you a note.
Hurrying over to it, I unfold the paper and stare down at his neat cursive letters. Long strokes in pitch black ink.
Stefania,
I’ve gone to assist my brother with an errand.
Marlen.
As simple as that.
Well, it wasn’t what I was expecting. But at least he had the decency to let me know he was leaving. Not that there is enough information to say where, when, how long, blah blah blah. What do I care?
With a huff, I scrunch the paper up and toss it in the bin, then head upstairs to try and sleep.
***
It’s late morning when I wake up. Sleeping till ten still didn’t even give me all the sleep I needed.
I’ve had maybe four hours, and I’m exhausted.
Pushing my bedroom door open, I pause in the passage outside my room, looking toward his.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I walk toward his door, which is still open.
Peeking inside, I see the bed still made. My heart constricts with worry. He never came home last night. Did something happen? What kind of errand was it?
Generally speaking, errands run in the middle of the night are not good errands.
Is he ok?
Biting at my lip, I back away from his room and head down to the kitchen to make coffee.
There isn’t anything I can do about it if he is in trouble.
He’s not my real husband. He’s not even really my friend.
I don’t know what to call him. How to classify his role in my life. The truth of it is that he’s my captor.
I couldn’t help him even if I wanted to. I can’t even help myself if I get into trouble. I guess I would call a guard if I needed something. But they aren’t going to freely give out information about where Marlen is. That’s for sure. He’s a grown man with plenty of people to call if he needs to.
I make coffee with slow, tired movements. My eyes feel heavy, swollen, and dry.
I add an extra spoonful of sugar to my coffee, hoping it will give me some much-needed energy.
Carrying the steaming mug of dark, rich, aromatic coffee outside into the morning sunlight, I sit on the patio and stare at the garden.
This place is beautiful. It’s peaceful and I like sitting here.
I could happily live in a place like this.
The only room in this entire house that isn’t welcoming is the creepy, minimalist office.
It’s more brutalist than minimalist. Empty.
Devoid of any sort of character whatsoever.
The rest of his home isn’t like that at all. Thank goodness.
The day moves on, and I wander around, too tired to do much, but restless because I’m worried about why he isn’t home yet.
But it’s got nothing to do with me. I mean, he could be out on a date or something.
But the tension I feel is similar to how I felt when my brothers went out on a late-night mission of some sort and came home exhausted—or worse… hurt.
At some point in the afternoon, I fall asleep on the sofa with a series playing in the background.
I wake up with the pillow imprinted on my cheek because I slept so soundly.
I feel groggy and drugged for a good fifteen minutes after the nap, but once that’s cleared away, I feel ten times better. Rested.
But still worried.
At five, I dish up two plates of leftovers from last night’s pasta. I leave one in the fridge for Marlen and carry the other to the living room to eat in front of the TV.
At six, I clean up.
At seven, I’m wondering if I should maybe go outside and try to convince one of the guards to tell me if he knows anything.
At quarter past seven, Marlen arrives home.
My first reaction is relief. Then anger that he made me so restless all day.
I don’t get up to greet him, instead staying on the sofa and watching the series. I have no idea what’s going on in it, but it’s playing anyway.
Marlen walks in and mutters, “Hello.”
I turn toward him to say hi, but when I see him, my heart sinks.
“You look terrible!” I say, jumping up and rushing to him. My heart is immediately flooded with empathy.
“I haven’t eaten or slept, and I…” He staggers a little, swaying.
I quickly wrap my arms around him to steady him. My hand presses against his side, and it feels damp and sticky. When I lift my fingers and look down at them, they are red with his blood.
“You’re hurt!” I blurt out.
“It’s not bad, it’s just… I think a bullet grazed me. I’m going to bed. I need sleep.”
“No, not a chance. I’m looking at this first, then you’ll eat something, and then you can go to bed.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but he’s too tired to argue, so he lets me lead him to the guest bathroom downstairs. “Take off your shirt, and tell me where your first aid kit is,” I demand.
Marlen huffs in annoyance, and as he unbuttons his shirt, he gestures with his chin toward the bathroom cabinet. “There’s a first aid kit in every bathroom in this house.”
“Handy,” I mutter. “I guess it means you get hurt often.”
When I turn back toward him, carrying the black zip-up case, he is shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bath.
I bite down hard on my own teeth. The muscles across his chest and stomach and perfectly chiseled.
He is the ultimate sight of masculinity.
My eyes roam over him, and my body spikes with feverish desire, which, no matter how hard I try, I can’t smother.
I kneel in front of him and continue to bite down, so I don’t say something stupid.
He watches me with those gorgeous hazel-green eyes.
He was right. The wound isn’t bad. The bullet skimmed past him and cut into his flesh, but it isn’t deep, just long and bleeding a lot.
I work carefully, cleaning the area, disinfecting, taping bandages over the wound to pull it closed and stop the bleeding.
“How did you end up almost getting shot?” I ask, looking for anything to distract myself from his perfect body and rugged, tired sexiness.
I have my hand all over his skin, and every time I touch him, it seems that electricity jumps between us.
“Almost shot? I did get shot,” he argues.
“This… this isn’t getting shot. You got grazed. It doesn’t count,” I sass. My attitude is only an attempt to hide the growing lust.
He smirks, one corner of his mouth curling up. “I see. I didn’t know there were rules to define whether or not a bullet breaking your skin counts as being shot or not,” he muses.
“There are,” I say bluntly.
“Would this count?” he asks, leaning back and pulling the band of his pants lower to show me a thick, round scar right next to his Adonis muscles. My eyes trace over the scar, but then over him instead. The curve that leads a trail lower into his pants to…
I groan inwardly, an involuntary moan that sounds desperate. Horrified, I press my lips together and snap my eyes back onto the wound I’m tending.
“Did the bullet go straight through?” I ask, my voice tight with control.
“No, it didn’t. My brother dug it out of my hip bone with a pair of pliers,” he says, sounding proud.
I wince, imagining the pain.
I’m busy sticking down the last pieces of sterile bandages when he says, “I stepped infant of my brother.”
Looking up at him, I knit my brows and ask, “What do you mean?”
He sighs. “They shot at Simon. The guys we delivered to. It was going well, but then one of the brothers mistook him for someone else and got all worked up. He pointed the gun at him, and when I saw him squeeze the trigger, I stepped in front of him.”
My heart clenches tight, realizing just how much love this man has for his family. His protective nature goes above and beyond the norm. He was willing to give his life for his brother. He’s a good man, Stef. Only a good man would do something so selfless.
“Is Simon ok?” I ask quietly.
“Yes, the guy’s brothers freaked out at him and took him down, apologizing to us profusely. They promised us they would deal with him properly, but begged us to spare him.”
“And did you?”
“Of course, I think he was high. He needs rehab or something. I trust his older brother; we’ve worked with him for years.”
“That’s kind of… to forgive like that,” I whisper.
Marlen falls quiet, and in the passing moments, my body burns for him. Not just for his body but for his protectiveness. The love he has in his heart. His goodness. I want to feel all of it.
The more I think about it, the more I let myself feel the desire—the angrier I get with myself.
Frustration begins to build, and as I stand up, finished tending to him, I snap, “So you can forgive that guy, but not my family. That doesn’t seem fair.
He almost killed you, and you just shrug it off?
” Marlen stands too, but I’m so close to him that he ends up pressed right against me with my back against the bathroom basin.
“It’s not the same thing, Stefania. It’s a different situation. People can be purposeful and vindictive, and people can make mistakes. Those are two different things,” he growls.
I glare up at him, my face inches from his.
“People make mistakes. Exactly my point. People… people can…”
My eyes trace over his lips, his perfect jaw, up to those gorgeous hazel-green eyes, and suddenly I have no idea what I am saying.
Marlen growls again and steps closer to me. He puts his hand on the countertop behind me and pins me in place. I don’t know what he’s doing, and I don’t seem to care because all I can think about are his lips.
Standing on my tiptoes, I wrap my arm around his neck and pull him lower, onto my mouth.
Our lips lock together.
The kiss is electrifying.
It’s a catastrophic release of tension.
My body lights like wildfire as I press harder against his mouth. Every inch of me is humming with need.