Aces and Arrows (The Coven Chronicles #2)

Chapter 1

“FRESH OUT THE SLAMMER” BY TAYLOR SWIFT

If my fucking eyes roll back into my head any further, they’re going to crawl into my ass. The dumb fuck just had to have his funeral on my best friend’s birthday.

It wasn’t the best day for a party. It rained on my late uncle’s casket. He was lowered more into a pool of water than the ground.

My vision blurred behind my sunglasses, either from crying or this sickening rain. I knew which it was. If my family could pretend, then I could also.

Motionlessly, I followed their lead and waded into the waters of my sorrows, the same place I had after throwing the dirt over Uncle Dominik’s grave.

My daughter’s head lay on my shoulder. She was three, and I had no idea why the fuck I had to bring her to a funeral.

I could have made it to Erica’s birthday party and let Estelle see her godmother without tiring her out first. A cranky three-year-old with a billion questions about why I had to cut my hand over the cross was not my preference for today.

Estelle whined—not for the man who brought her stuffed animals, but for me to hurry up and get out of the rain.

I tugged the hood of her gold and pink rain jacket over the braids I put in her hair that morning for the party.

There was no sense in trying to save them. The humidity of the August rain always brought the worst out of my own hair, let alone my daughter’s. All the plans I had for Erica to see the outfit she picked out had gone out the window.

At least it would distract me from crying.

If I could find a way to protect Estelle’s dark auburn hair from the rain, then maybe I could slip out of here.

I didn’t want to be caught up in the hugs and false sweet words after the service.

I couldn’t stomach it. Standing here and pretending my uncle died a hero was not something I was good at.

My uncle died at the hands of a pig, just as his nephew had.

“Mommy? My little girl pressed her forehead into my neck. “I want to see Eric.”

“Soon,” I whispered.

My lips pressed into her jacket, directly over the side of her face.

Estelle dug her nose under my jaw and tried to spy at my mother. Her chin rubbed my shoulder as she inspected our side of the old cemetery. I was sure she was confused about why I would make her die of boredom after preparing her all morning for a fun day with her aunt.

I wasn’t going to take the time to explain to my three-year-old the meaning of death and why it happened often in this family.

I wanted to prepare her to live without me one day as a safety precaution.

Not the same way my father taught me to live on my own, but good enough that I knew she wouldn’t go searching for Duke at the first sign of trouble.

If I was shot execution-style by one of the men in the bratva, I still wouldn’t want her relying on a man to help her through the difficult parts of her future.

My uncles and cousins were stone faced. The men in this family usually were.

The family came before the mob, before true blood relatives.

Across them all, very few showed any emotion at seeing Big Q fall down the ladder.

Most of them stood there and acted as if they didn’t know Dominik Quintana that well, or the skills that awarded him the title Big Q.

How often did a hitman die? I’d asked myself that question every day since the news.

Dominik was skilled, too skilled. He knew the ins and outs of Indiana, Chicago, Miami, New York—more turfs than I knew.

Uncle Dominik was the one man who understood how insane he was, and that was the exact reason I loved him.

It was the reason I wished I could fight off tears as the priest untied the knot in his unity rope, freeing him from the land of the living.

I was positive he’d be much happier in hell. I bet our dark father greeted him with open arms for his sacrifices.

I failed in my attempts at not crying, as my mother, grandmother, and Dominik’s sister had. My sunglasses were the only armor I had left to protect me from the peering eyes of the family.

The mob hovered close. They wanted to know what would happen now. Who would become our beloved torpedo? Who would the pakhan depend on when we were in jeopardy? I knew everyone wanted Victor to step up.

My stomach twisted more and more the second I noticed Papa pointing in my direction as he whispered to men around us.

Estelle shouldn’t have come. It was a fucking funeral. With my luck, she’d be in my mother’s arms by next year, scowling down at my casket as relatives dripped their blood over the inverted crucifix.

At least if I died before she was old enough to understand, Estelle would have no clue how much of an unstable failure I really was.

She wouldn’t bat an eye at who would put her to bed at night after a few days of crying, right?

Kids were resilient. She would recover and live a better life without me if I couldn’t escape as Anastasia had.

A heavy hand molded along the curve of my shoulder as a reminder.

Escaping wasn’t an option. The family wanted my bloody name in their old leather book. My father had lost one daughter because of his choices, and I doubt he’d let himself lose another. Not to prove he loved me. No, that would be too generic.

He thrived off power. Pride. If he lost two daughters before initiation, people would question his ability to control the situation. And in his position, control was more than a kink that got him served half-assed divorce papers.

I tensed and shifted Estelle more centrally across my body. Her eyes brightened for a second, reaching out to touch my father’s arm. She was too innocent.

“Zaika,” Papa cooed and ran his hand over the back of Estelle’s head with a smile.

Little hare. That was what he called her. I remembered him calling me a Russian nickname that translated to little rabbit when I was young. Funny enough, it took me a few years to understand it also translated to pushover.

He might be an asshole, but at least he was kind to my child and most young children in the family, though I would never leave Estelle alone with him, not if I had the choice.

When she got older, things would change.

Papa was a man of opportunity. If it made the rich man richer, he was ready to dive in.

Yay.

I didn’t want Estelle to have the same childhood as me. There was a reason I went against my father’s wishes at the blood baptism and marked Estelle as Erica’s godchild in the eyes of our family. I wasn’t a full member yet, but my papa preferred I attended church with my unity in mind.

Choosing the niece of a cop made the church whispers worse, but I knew it was the right choice.

Erica’s family was my family, and they always treated me as such.

Bruno was a good cop in a mess of bad ones, a cop I knew would protect my child until his dying breath if it came down to it.

Bruno Kane might hate my guts, but he had a soft spot for children my bitchy church community didn’t.

Members of the mob worried about me after I broke tradition and had a child out of wedlock. Some wondered if Papa would force me to marry Duke, but I knew better than that. Duke was an idiot, and Papa wanted me to marry for the convenience of the family.

A fun little perk of being the daughter of a captain, granddaughter of the pakhan, and rising member of the family—I knew most and ignored more, especially the implication I was to marry a man I’d never met all for the unity of Papa’s business.

Papa’s eyes squinted slightly, a small wrinkled in the corners.

He pushed my sunglasses up over my face to sit awkwardly on my head.

His finger and thumb held my chin, examining the tears in my eyes with a soft nod before returning his attention to his granddaughter.

His hand trailed over my toddler’s head twice more before returning to his side.

“Evelyn.” He grabbed my mother’s attention, his accent not as thick as hers but heavy enough that he couldn’t deny where his parents were from. And people wondered why I sounded as if I walked out of a Russian pub when I got mad enough. “Take the child.”

I hugged Estelle closer to me. My mother could have been a deer caught in the headlights of a fast-approaching truck, her face frozen with uncertainty. I knew she wouldn’t do anything to hurt Estelle, but she wouldn’t protect her in front of the family either.

My grandfather, her father, stood feet from us, and according to him, we were to listen to the man of the house even in this silly separation.

“Evelyn.” Papa’s tone was harsh, a final warning.

I glided my eyes over his shoulder to see my grandfather watching me. Our gazes met as Mom stepped forward and took Estelle.

Mom pulled my attention from him by my jaw, gently caressing my face free of tears. She smiled reassuringly, though it didn’t mean much.

“Your father needs to speak with you, Quinnie.” She tapped the side of my face, pressing her lips to my forehead. “It’s time.”

My teeth could crack under the strength of my tight jaw. I resisted the urge to spit out a snarky comment when my parents exchanged a silent glance.

Papa forced me away from my uncle’s funeral by the hand on my shoulder.

“Papa . . .”

“Let’s go.” He rubbed the stubble across his face.

A few men I vaguely knew bowed their heads respectfully to us as we walked deeper into the cemetery. I noticed how nicely dressed they were, the pride they carried themselves with in those suits, covered in tattoos, barely noticeable around their long sleeves and nicely ironed collars.

I took each step through the murky, yellowing grass with an extra glance. The weight of my father’s hand on my shoulder guided me through the graveyard until we reached a large stone near old iron fencing.

Cemeteries weren’t my thing. Too many deaths, too many risks, not enough benefit.