THIRTY-THREE
Nastasya
“ N astasya.”
I jolt out of the trance I’d found myself in at the kitchen counter, juice in hand, staring out the long window at the glistening grass beyond. The house is a prison. The papered walls nothing more than gentrified steel bars.
“You have a visitor!” My father’s impatience is undeniable in his brusque cadence before the muted tones of his talking drift through the halls.
Fucker came home yesterday, as Ivan promised, not long after I spoke with Dmitry. Bastard also ignored me as though I were a ghost when we passed in the halls, secluding himself in his home office as he’s prone to do of late.
Something is going on, and that stubborn asshole won’t tell me what. Never mind the fact it’s likely related to my near-death experience. Or the murders Benito and I committed.
I tip the last of the drink down the drain and smile at our chef, Harry, embarrassed by the soft understanding in his returning gaze. Everybody here knows what an asshole my father is. Everybody here can see how little I want to remain under his control. And yet, everyone here knows as well as I do that it’s not as simple as merely walking out the door and getting myself a cute little apartment in the city.
Tried that. Gave up when the soldiers my father ordered to watch me became too much of an issue for the neighbors. Nobody likes strange, tattooed men lurking in the shadows at two in the morning. Even less when the brutes stop them so the boyevik can go through their shopping bags to check for Lord knows what.
My family name, my legacy, follows me like a black fucking cloud. My special cloud. Just for me. Raining shit down on me wherever I go, no matter how sunny the day for everyone else.
Fuck me.
I twist my hair, laying it over my right shoulder as I head for the foyer. My heart swells at the realization my visitor is likely Benito; who else would piss off my father to that extent?
Well—I guess she could, too.
Brigida stands poised in our gloomy halls, focusing on a dusty painting to her right. Her hands rest elegantly clasped before her curvaceous form, wrapped in a fashionable pantsuit with a small designer bag across her body.
“I apologize for the surprise visit,” she says, moving toward me. “But I wasn’t certain I’d get past the gate if I gave notice of my intentions.” She glances pointedly at my father’s office, one door ajar enough for him to eavesdrop.
I turn my head toward his direction and raise my voice as I say, “I’m honored to have you here.”
“I thought we could head out together and do a little shopping,” she says. “As soon-to-be mother and daughter-in-law.”
“Shopping?” I glance down at my jeans, torn at the knee, and knit sweater.
“You’re fine as you are.” Brigida jerks her head toward the front doors. “Take as long as you need—I’ll wait outside in the car. You won’t require anything other than yourself and whatever you normally carry on your person.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, turning so damn smoothly that I wonder if her fucking feet even touch the floor when she walks. A burst of cool air seeps through the foyer when she steps out into the overcast day, the slip of a black town car visible on the driveway.
I turn to head upstairs for my things and jar to a stop when my fucking face almost hits Ivan in the chest.
“You know I come too,” he drawls in his broken English.
“As much as I’d rather you didn’t.” I sigh. “Not in the same car, though.”
He chuckles. “Could be a little tight, do you not think?”
I lift an eyebrow at his stupidly broad shoulders and smirk. Fucker. I don’t want to like him. He’s not allowed to be goddamn funny. “I’ll be back down in a couple of minutes. You’ll be fine to wait for me here.”
To my surprise, he accepts my statement, crossing his arms over his thick chest and widening his stance. My gaze drifts past Papa’s office as I head for the staircase, my heart clenched in a fist. I wait for him to erupt from the doors and protest my decision to leave the house.
Yet, I’m met with silence as I take the first step, hand to the banister to steady my janky nerves. Fuck this shit. It was two days ago, for Christ’s sake. I shouldn’t be this worked up about some stranger’s death still. Goddamnit—I don’t give a shit about the fucking man I shot; why the hell do I care about some woman I didn’t know?
Perhaps because it feels all too familiar. Caroline. I draw a shaky breath as I crest the landing and turn for my room. Get it together, Nastasya. Brigida is outside. She’s my concern now.
Death is as common in this life as taxes and fucking breathing. I can’t stay messed up over losing the ones I love, let alone some fucking stranger I knew all of five minutes.
People live and die—it’s just the way things are.
It’s also just the way things are that in this life, we’re sometimes the ones who create that death.
I slip into comfy sneakers, grabbing my phone as I regain my balance after my heel catches on the back of my second shoe. I scroll through to his thread and tap out a quick message to Benito.
Should I be concerned that your mother is here?
I shunt keys and lip balm into a small bag while I wait for his reply. A cursory sweep of one hand through my hair, and I turn away from the mirror, satisfied I won’t muddy Brigida’s reputation too severely being seen at her side.
My phone vibrates next to my bag.
Is she? Did she say what she wants?
I can almost hear the confusion in his voice—at least in the voice I remember.
She wants to take me shopping.
A beat passes before he sends a brief and somewhat unsatisfying response.
Have fun and let her buy whatever she wants for you. It makes her happy. And knowing you’re taken care of makes me happy.
It still doesn’t alleviate my worries. Why today? Why so spur of the moment?
I snatch up my things and descend to the foyer, collecting Ivan on my way out the door. The lack of intervention from my father piques my interest. It’s as though he’s afraid to face Brigida. Avoiding her on purpose. I leave to find a light rain misting the cars waiting in the driveway, dark clouds on the horizon promising a heavier downpour before the afternoon is through. Ivan slips into the chauffeured car behind, leaving me to open my door unassisted and drop in beside Brigida in the lead vehicle.
“It’s a shame it couldn’t be a better day,” she remarks, attention following my hands as I buckle myself in. “But I’m sure we’ll make the most of it.”
The car edges away, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. As we near the road, my gaze catches the gate, specifically the section that has broken away from the main frame. Shame washes over me. Our disarray is out in the open for anyone to see—our slow deterioration of heart and mind.
No wonder the Kuznetsov name needs saving.
“Where are we headed?” My fingers curl over the strap of my bag, resting on my lap.
“A row of boutique shops in one of the villages,” Brigida says softly, her focus out her window. “We’ll spend some money to keep up appearances, but that’s not why I wanted you with me today.”
My stomach knots. I hate unpredictable situations. She said shopping. I can handle that. But not knowing her true intention leaves my skin hot and my head working overtime to analyze everything I’ve said and done so far. Fucking anxiety. Do I sit next to an ally or an enemy?
“Why did you, then? Want me here that is,” I ask in a small voice.
Brigida rolls her head to face me, a slow smile gracing her lips. “Benito may have hurt you in the past, Nastasya, but rest assured, my son is devoted solely and truly to you now.”
“I know.” The reminder of his betrayal with Lana re-opens freshly healing wounds. “How do you feel about that?”
“Benito’s worried about bringing you into the family,” she continues, disregarding my question. “He hasn’t said anything, but I’m his mother: I know my son’s moods.” Well, isn’t she special? Brigida’s gaze drops the length of me. “You need to understand some things before becoming part of his life. Our life. The mafioso life.”
“Is your life so different from mine?” We may call our mafia by another name, but at the heart of it, how different can our organized crime family be from theirs? Really?
Brigida smiles, yet it’s placating. Condescending. “It’s obvious you know much less than you should, so yes, it is different.” Her focus returns to the scenery that speeds past the window. “Your father left you out of the business. Your naivety is a liability. Your ignorance is a flaw.”
“Flatter me all at once, why don’t you?”
“I want to teach you the art of manipulation via psychological means.”
“You want to teach me how to play mind games?”
“How to get what you need without admitting what you want,” she clarifies. “A woman’s role is still undervalued in the criminal world, Nastasya.” She sighs. “Many strong female figures have proven time and again why we shouldn’t be dismissed, and yet, men still underestimate our power. Our ability.” She sighs. “Our influence.”
“What if the woman doesn’t want that power?” I muse. “What if the woman simply wants to live life on her terms.”
“Then you learn how to play the game anyway.” She frowns. “Nastasya, you can’t sit on the sideline. You can’t pick and choose what parts of the business you’ll entertain. Whether you want it to or not, this life will continue to come for you because you were born into it. You’re already tangled in the sticky web. Don’t be the fly. Don’t let them paralyze and consume you.” She rolls her hips to face me. “Be the fucking spider.”
Be the fucking spider. Is that what she is? A deadly black widow, charming and wooing her enemies before she consumes them whole? I side-eye Brigida as she leans forward to give instructions to the driver. At first glance, she appears docile. Trained. A well-bred woman of her so-called mafioso life. But perhaps it’s merely her mask. Much the same as I have mine, Brigida has no doubt crafted a carefully curated version of herself that she knows will please and mollify her enemies.
And her allies.
The stories of her swift and brutal vengeance against those who endanger her family are rich and many, yet I never put much stock into them. As she says, a woman must learn how to manipulate the life to remain within it, and I naturally assumed the tall tales were nothing more than armor—a shield to keep her adversaries distanced. Wary. To create caution when in her presence and to keep her safe.
If anyone can show me how to manipulate others’ perceptions of me, I guess it would be her—the so-called blood rose of the De Santis dynasty.
“If we do this for Benito’s benefit, can I trust you to be completely honest? To show me how you do it?” I raise my chin.
She reclines against her leather seat, head snapping to face me as her brow dives. “Show you how to do what?”
“Create a deadly facade. Make people believe the lie.” I gesture the length of her. At her perfectly pressed clothes and delicately positioned legs. “The lie you created to endure the life.”
Her rich red lips curl at the corners, and she gazes softly out the window, a chuckle barely perceptible. “Oh, sweet girl.” The pity in her gaze when she faces me prickles at the fine hairs on the back of my neck. “There is no lie.”
What I see is what I get. She truly is that unforgiving. Damn it. And she’s set to be my fucking mother-in-law. My stomach knots as I stare helplessly at the oblivious people walking along the sidewalk outside the car window. I ride with a ruthless murderer, and the world just carries on as usual. Her continual gaze bores heated holes in my flushed skin.
“I’m not the monster your father would have you believe.” She fidgets with her clothing in my periphery. “We all do unmentionable things for love and duty.”
Like, shoot a fucking man in the goddamn face. My non-existent breakfast threatens to rise past my throat at the hypocrisy. I swallow the acid back down and lick my surprisingly dry lips. “It was never my father,” I mutter.
She leans a little closer to hear me better. “Pardon?”
“I said it was never my father.” I twist my neck and meet her dark, penetrating gaze. “My mother was the one who warned me about you.”
Brigida’s gaze drops, lips rolling as she leans away again. “What did she say?”
That you’re ruthless with a switchblade. That you smile in the face of death. “That I should be careful not to cross you.” That you killed your sister.
And that she loved you anyway.
She nods, head hung. A smug smile graces her full lips. “Your mother was a wise woman, Nastasya.” Her chin lifts, and she draws a deep breath before adding, “If you break my son’s heart or so much as cause a second of doubt to enter his fragile mind, I swear to our blessed Mary that the next place you lay your head will be in the fucking ground beside your mother’s.”
“He’s his own man, you know.” My heart pounds against the captivity of my ribcage. “He can take care of himself.”
Lips tight, she huffs. “Unless it involves you.” The pure malice in her eyes has me pressing against the door. “Rest assured, where my son is blinded by love, I am not. And when his soft heart forces him to fail, I’ll be the one there to finish the job.”
“My father has spent my whole life ruling me with threats and violence, Brigida.” I damn my shaking voice. “Do not presume you will hold the same power over me.”
“I don’t presume anything other than to know that while your father’s threats have been empty, mine very much hold the promise of fulfillment.”
“I look forward to the day when you try.”
She smiles, the air growing lighter as her body softens, and she returns to the perfectly poised woman who appeared on my doorstep unannounced. “You’ll do fine in this life, Nastasya. That, I’m also sure of.”
Yeah. Like I have so far.
“Are we fucking there yet, or what?”
Her lips kick up on one side. “Almost. After today, you’ll be a new woman, Nastasya. How that impacts this marriage is yet to be determined.”
“Why? Because we’re buying me some clothes?”
“Because I’m opening your eyes to the truth.” Her cockiness fades, gaze softer as she regards me poised beside her. “You need to know what happened ten years ago. And you need to understand why it’s so important that you do.”
“Ten years ago,” I state, fighting to keep the ire from my voice, “I lost the boy I loved because someone thought it fair to steal the words from his mouth.” She stiffens. “Are you about to tell me you know who did it? Because if you are, my first question is, why haven’t you done anything about that?”
Her eyes slice my way, challenging and full of unfulfilled revenge. “You think if I knew, I would have sat back and let the bastard breathe the same air this past decade? You truly don’t know a thing about me or our family if you think we’d let the butcher who mutilated my son get away with such a sin.”
“But you have.” I whisper the words, the small space between us shrinking even further. “You gave up,” I say. “When it became too hard to find who was responsible, you just… quit.”
“I did no such thing,” she hisses.
“Have you asked Benito if that’s how he feels?”
Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, lips twitching before she snaps her neck around and stares out the window. “It’s clear your father taught you nothing about resilience. Or acceptance. Otherwise, you wouldn’t question me on such matters.”
“All he’s been is resilient. And all you’ve done is accept that. I don’t see how either one is mutually exclusive or agreeable.” Wetting my lips, I add, “Do you not see what it’s done to him? To feel so cheated of the life he deserved? Insignificant enough that his mutilation was swept under the carpet and forgotten? Forgiven?”
“What would you have me do?” Brigida hollers.
The driver flinches; the car swerves toward the verge before he swiftly corrects our path.
“Would you have me cut out the tongues of every enemy until I found one that fit?” she continues. “Stitch the damn thing into his mouth to fix the damage done?” Her eyes blaze, the air between us heated. “Well?”
A fine sweat pricks across the back of my neck. “I’d have you keep at least one soldier investigating the circumstances until a culprit was found.”
“You think we haven’t?” She laughs, bitter and frankly disturbing. “You have no idea how many dead ends we encountered. How many nights my husband cried because he couldn’t do his son justice? You have no idea,” she growls, “the pain we all endured. The resilience that we all developed over the years. Yes, my beautiful boy bears the scars of his mutilation, solely and painfully, but we all grieve what happened that night.” She huffs, gaze raking the length of me. “He died that night. Do you know that? Did that cold, hard fact reach you up there on your high horse?”
I fight back the bile that rises and push away the fist around my lungs.
She smirks at the pain written clear across my face. “You didn’t know that, did you? That my son’s heart stopped. That my throat grew hoarse with how I screamed for Vinny to revive him while we waited for the ambulance. How I fucking prayed when the Lord brought him back to us.” Her eyes glisten, yet the enviable powerhouse keeps her emotions in check, refusing to let her heartache show in any other way than her words. “He died, Nastasya, and you dare question whether we take his brutality seriously?”
I stay silent. What can I say? That I’m suitably mollified? Subdued? Well and truly put in my place?
That I want to open the fucking door and throw myself from the car to avoid the suffocating feeling that I keep getting it wrong. That I continue to let down the ones I love through my ignorance.
“It’s clear we have much to discuss,” Brigida states carefully. “But, Benito will not be one of those things today.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and murmur, “What will we discuss then?”
She sighs. “A subject that will likely make you as bitter and vengeful as I’ve been all these years.”
“I thought you said we wouldn’t discuss Benito anymore?”
“We’re not.” She fidgets with her bag at her side. “We’re discussing your mother.”