Chapter 12 - Anatoli
Was I actually glad about the reprieve when I had been dreaming about having Masha in my grasp for so long? The fact that I hadn’t touched the sparking clamp to her smooth, velvety skin even once made me lash out at the man who stood at the top of the stairs.
“What’s so important?” I snapped.
“Your Uncle Miron,” he said, holding out a muted cellphone. “He swore it was urgent, and he does sound upset.”
I nodded, taking the phone, and headed toward my private office. He followed me a few steps, looking anxious, which seemed out of character, though I didn’t know this particular guard very well.
“What? Did he say something to you?”
“No, it’s just that I—” he stammered. “When I answered, he was raving about speaking to you immediately. I accidentally said you were with your wife.”
I didn’t swear. I didn’t even hit him. I only nodded and slammed myself into my office.
“Uncle Miron,” I said, determined to ignore the guard’s unwitting slip of the tongue. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.
Miron was the lesser of the two evils when it came to my father’s brothers.
He was the third of six children, with my father being the eldest and the heir to our vast holdings.
He wasn’t much easier to deal with and was just as antsy about what was going to happen now that Konstantin was dead, but I trusted him a bit more than Leonid, though that wasn’t saying much.
“The Collective is leaning on us hard, Anatoli,” he said. “You must come back and help us deal with them.”
Ah, good, the Collective again. As if I wasn’t sick to death of hearing about them.
“I thought you were in talks with one of their leaders to join forces,” I said.
Actually, perhaps I should have been grateful to them since they must have been bothersome enough that Miron hadn’t noticed my guard’s slip of the tongue regarding my new bride.
“You just said the most important part,” Miron sighed.
“One of their leaders. There are too many cooks in that kitchen, Anatoli. Just as there are in our family now. It’s going to end in a battle between me and Leonid, who thinks he’s finally in charge after all these years.
The man is pushing seventy,” he said, the sound of his footsteps tapping against tile coming through the phone as he paced.
“And I’m not much younger. Even your Aunt Nadia thinks she’s suddenly entitled to throw her hat into the ring. Your Aunt Nadia, Anatoli.”
His disgust was clear, and with good reason.
My Aunt Nadia, the youngest of my father’s siblings, spent her life shopping and collecting husbands.
The first two had died after going against her whims, and the two after that were lucky to get away with divorces that only drained their bank accounts and not spilled their blood.
“Nadia?” I laughed. “How will she find the time between fashion shows?”
“She’ll poison us all eventually if she thinks she has a chance at everything. And she’s raging that Leonid is considering letting that slip of a girl, Ava, have it all so she can crawl back to the safety of her family.”
“Ah, right, Ava. Konstantin’s widow,” I said, half amused, half irritated that my family had descended to such depths.
It was one thing to be brought low by an enemy, but they were doing it without any outside forces.
“I never did get the wedding invitation, so I was shocked to learn he was married at all.”
There was a long grumbling sound before Miron answered. “Speaking of lost wedding invitations.”
Shit. I walked right into that myself. “So, is joining with the Collective completely off the table?” I asked, the words tumbling out in a rush to distract him.
He wasn’t distracted. “It’s shameful enough you didn’t stay and fight for what should have been yours,” he said, making me bristle with anger. “But to take a bride without any of us meeting her?”
“Konstantin was the oldest. I never had any claim—you know what, no. I won’t go into that again. And as for any brides I choose to take, it’s none of your concern.”
“I hope she’s made of sterner stuff than your brother’s choice. And less avaricious, too.”
There was no getting around it, no disputing what he already knew. “She’s a Fokin,” I said, shocked at the pride in my voice.
I half opened my mouth to tell the complete circumstances, but clamped it shut again. Miron was congratulating me, going on and on about what an important ally the Fokins were.
“To think you were trying to take them down not so long ago,” he said, almost dreamily. Yes, the Fokins were very big fish, and I’d caught one. “I never would have said this twenty years ago, but aligning is better than fighting. And look how it went when you tried to fight them?”
I didn’t bother asking how in hell he knew so much, because it went without saying that my family had been keeping tabs on me from the moment I walked away all those years ago after my father’s unexpected death.
There was no denying the Fokins had caused me a setback, but I was well on my way to righting that wrong.
‘You really must return,” he said when I stayed silent for too long. “And bring your bride. After everything, we’re still family, Anatoli. And family must come first. A reunion and a celebration of your marriage will be just the thing to bring us all together again.”
“I don’t think so, Uncle Miron,” I said, pushing aside the twinge I felt at the hopeful tone of his voice. After all the treachery, he still believed that the Ovinko name meant more than just a powerful organization. To him, Bratva really did mean brotherhood above all else.
“Nonsense. We must show a united front, now more than ever. Too many of your brother’s men think they can go their own way now that he’s gone. I don’t want to have to fight them if they decide to join forces against us, and I really don’t want them heading to the Collective.”
It wasn’t a good time to go anywhere, but I didn’t like the idea of my own holdings in Russia being weakened or threatened by the implosion of my family.
Before I could answer one way or another, one of the guards came in, looking more anxious than the poor bastard who’d spilled the news about my marriage.
“The prisoner is gone,” he blurted, clearing his throat. “I mean, your wife has left the house.”
My mood went from bad to worse. Ending the call with Miron without so much as a goodbye, I grabbed a gun and waved for the guard to stay behind, not bothering to ask how this could have happened. It was Masha, after all.
Of course, she wouldn’t get off the property. My mood improved as I looked over the tracks she’d left behind the poolhouse before heading out to hunt my wife. This could be fun.
The wall surrounding a small area of the house wasn’t overly tall, and Masha could easily scale it, but that wasn’t the only thing guarding the perimeter.
If, for some reason, she made it much further, it was unlikely she’d pick the right direction back to the main road, which was over eight miles away.
Other than that, it was nothing but a vast, lonely desert.
The artist who had this place built had been serious about solitude.
She was in a hurry and hadn’t bothered hiding her trail, which I picked up easily.
She couldn’t have more than a fifteen-minute head start, and I called out to her in a mocking tone, picking up my pace.
I didn’t have time to chase her, but despite the foul mood the unfinished call with Uncle Miron had left me in, I started to feel a grin take over my face as I climbed over the adobe wall.
“Masha,” I shouted again. “Save yourself and come home. There’s nothing out there for you but a slow death, cooking under the sun.”
I came to a rocky outcropping and paused, listening for the slightest trace of footsteps, the merest echo of her breathing. “I feel I should warn you about something else,” I called.
Before I could tell her about the fence that was a mere thirty yards away, camouflaged and barely visible to anyone who didn’t know about it, a bullet whizzed past me.
“Damn it, Masha. Enough is enough.”
“Not until I say it is.”
She jumped out from behind a rock, a gun held out in front of her. I rolled my eyes, taking a step toward her. She didn’t hesitate, firing again. And this time she didn’t miss. As I was whirled around by the force of the bullet winging me, she took off, straight for the fence.
The fence I tried to warn her about. Clutching my arm as blood poured through my torn sleeve, I saw her take a flying leap at it, ready to climb it and put me behind her once and for all.
As soon as her hands wrapped around the links, I heard the crackle and zap, and took off running for her as she flew backwards to land on the ground with a harsh thud.
She was out cold when I reached her side, and I faltered under a brief burst of fear when she didn’t respond to my light slap on her cheek.
“Masha,” I said, the fear growing as I shook her shoulder. This wasn’t from concern. I just didn’t want my plaything taken from me so soon and so ignominiously. I shook her again, my voice rising as I kept calling her name.
Her eyes opened, blinking at me as her brows furrowed. All that voltage must have hurt like a son of a bitch.
“Looks like you ended up getting shocked today after all,” I said.
Breathing out, she gathered her strength to take a swing at me. I ducked it, laughing, then groaned as the sudden movement reminded me I’d been shot. Blood still seeped from beneath my hand, and I scowled at the smirk on her face as she noticed it.
“Looks like you got shot,” she said.
Ignoring the pain in my arm and her smug attitude, which was sure to be short-lived, I picked up my runaway wife and hauled her back to the house. What I’d do with her when we got there was anyone’s guess.