Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Anya
"He's alright,” I say in a low voice, twirling my hair around my finger. It reminds me of when I was younger, hiding in my mom's closet, twirling the phone cord around my finger. Back when phones had cords.
"What happened?" Ophelia asks. "This is crazy. It's like all of a sudden, you're living in a romance novel."
"I don't know. It was like we were ambushed or something. I don’t really know what happens in these families," I tell her, shaking my head. "All this time, I thought Eli was mafia adjacent. I didn't think he was fully involved. But it seems like there’s a lot I still don't understand."
I glance at the sleeping form of my husband. He refused pain meds, of course, because he had to brave it out on his own. I think the real reason is because he has a hostage to talk to.
The man who once seemed so emotionally distant stirs in his sleep. When he wakes, he looks at me, reaches for my hand, and gives it a squeeze.
“What time is it?”
I glance at the time and cover the mouthpiece of my phone. “Six.”
Of course. Semyon is like clockwork. Gunshot wound? A… what do they call it… hostage somewhere waiting for his questions? Doesn’t matter. Dinner with his family is at six.
Ever since Semyon was injured, Rafail has insisted that we stay in their large family home. Stefan, of course, is overjoyed because Zoya is here. And we haven’t missed a single dinner since.
"Semyon?" I say quietly. "You want to go down for dinner? You don’t have to.”
He sits up and swings his legs off the bed. “Of course I do.”
"Rafail told you to stay here and rest."
"I'm fine. It’s a fucking paper cut, Anya.”
I roll my eyes. Of course he’d say that.
“We have a lot to discuss, and much of it directly affects your safety,” he says, insistent. “We’re heading downstairs.”
I go back to the phone. “I have to go.”
“Call me soon, babe. I love you and miss you so much. And when are you opening the bakery back up?”
“Soon,” I promise, but it’s beginning to sound like a broken record. “Love you.”
I hang up the phone. Semyon frowns at me, and I’m not sure why.
“Alright, if you feel up for it…"
"I wouldn't go if I wasn’t," he says stoutly.
I brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead and adjust his glasses. His steady gaze warms me, his voice a low growl. “Just because I need a little recovery time doesn’t mean I’ve lost my stamina, woman.”
"You better not," I say softly, teasing. I straddle his lap and slide my hands over the breadth of his hard chest. It’s not this part of him that’s injured. I lean in and kiss him, but only briefly. He hates to be late. I hate to be told what to do.
I press my palm against his hard erection as his hands lace around the back of my neck, a warning. I trace the line of his cock, my pussy wet and needy. I slide back and bend, touching my mouth to the head of his cock. “You sure we don’t have time?” I ask in a mewl. “I want you, Semyon.”
I can’t help but giggle at his guttural curse as he fists my hair and yanks my head up.
“Keep doing that, and I’ll come in my fucking pants.” He shakes his head and adjusts his cock. “Hard to concentrate with blue balls. Jesus.”
But instead of pushing me off his lap, he fingers my hardened nipple through the thin fabric of my top. I moan and lean in closer. With a tug, he pulls my top down and palms my breast, his thumb tracing a line over my nipple. My clit throbs.
“There,” he says with a satisfied smirk before his teeth graze my collarbone. “Now we’re even.” He slams his palm across my ass. Lucky me, it was his nondominant arm that was injured. “Now get your ass downstairs. If you make us any later, I’ll take it out on your ass after dinner.”
I cock my head to the side as if contemplating this.
“Anya.” But I’m standing, walking over to the door beside him.
“The sooner I can get to our hostage, the sooner I may have answers about Eli.”
I swallow. My mouth is suddenly dry. “I know.”
At the dinner table, Stefan has much to say. He’s eager to tell us about the cookies he made with Zoya, how well he did in school, the new book he's reading, the new level he reached on his game, and the dog he and Zoya want to get.
Rafail growls at the mention of a dog, but Zoya just giggles.
At one point, Stefan is so excited that he reaches across the table and knocks over a glass of milk. Rafail’s stern gaze falls on him, and Stefan blanches, but Semyon calmly rights the glass.
"Pay attention, Stefan. It’s alright; accidents happen, but fewer do if you’re careful.”
Stefan doesn’t seem fazed. I’d have been mortified at his age. I think this kind of environment will be good for him. Zoya ushers him out to change his soaked shirt. “Let’s go get those cream puffs we made earlier.”
"I used to bake with my sister," Stefan says petulantly, glancing at me. "When are we going back to the bakery?"
"Soon," I tell him. "Semyon and I are making some renovations. We’ll be there soon."
Stefan leaves, and Zoya follows hot on his heels.
"We need to talk about what happened," Rafail says quietly. Polina’s eyes flick to mine. Semyon says she feels responsible for what happened because it was at her family estate. She’s not, of course.
“We have a decision to make,” Matvei says, his voice dark and his gaze pinning me in place. “Are we sure everyone here can handle the truth?”
I press my lips into a thin line. He means me. "I think all parties present understand exactly what they need to," I say with a soft smile.
Semyon nods in agreement.
"We scoured the footage," Matvei continues. "The person present in the video we got about Eli’s capture is the one Semyon spotted in the attack, but also the one who got away. It seems he doesn’t like to be anonymous. We’ll know more when we interrogate our hostage.”
“Why are you waiting?” All eyes snap to me.
“The weaker he is, starved and thirsty, the easier it will be to get answers,” Semyon answers quietly.
My stomach lurches.
"Who have we identified?” Rafail asks, his eyes sharp and focused on Matvei.
"They call him The Undertaker," Matvei says. "The son of Keenan McCarthy."
"Son of a bitch," Rafail whispers. "He’s a deadly shot. Infamous.”
I get the distinct feeling there are a lot of things they’re not saying out loud—things that may or may not involve me.
My face feels hot, and something roils in my belly. I think of Eli.
The Undertaker?
"Why would he just show up and pull that shit?" Rodion mutters, shaking his head.
"The Irish want us to know they’re present but not prepared for full-on war," Matvei says. "Not yet, anyway."
"Of course they aren’t," Semyon replies. "We have more allies here than they do."
Rodion drums his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "Which brings me to something I’ve been thinking about. In America, I had drinks with one of the cleaners for the West Coast cartel. He mentioned meeting with the don from the Boston Italian mafia and a few others."
Rafail nods slowly. “Vadka was just telling me about this. The Brotherhood."
"The Brotherhood?" I ask.
"It’s a group of the six most powerful underworld leaders in America," Matvei says. "It’s unofficial, but when they join forces, they become unstoppable."
"Do you have something like that?" I ask.
"Not yet," Rafail replies, his voice thick with meaning. “But it’s time.”
Interesting.
"How do you begin something like that?" I ask, curious. It’s mind-boggling to think of all of those powerful people in one group.
"First, we get your brother," Matvei says. "Then, we question him."
Semyon’s hand tightens on my knee. Question him.
What does that involve? Torture?
My head is spinning. I blink, trying to clear my brain, but it isn’t very effective. Semyon’s too intent on the conversation with his family to notice. His grip on my knee tightens.
"Are you okay?" he asks. I shake my head.
"I'm fine," I lie.
The thought of Eli being in the grip of somebody called The Undertaker? Excuse me if I need a minute.
"We're gonna take care of this, Anya. You have my word," Semyon says. But when I look at him, his face is unnaturally pale. He's still recovering from a gunshot wound, I tell myself, but…
What have I gotten myself into?
I reach for a glass of water and, to my horror, my hand shakes, and I knock it over, just like my little brother did.
"So sorry!" I stammer, flustered. I jump up from the table, and the chair clatters to the floor. I’m dizzy. The room spins.
What's the matter with me? I feel like I’m going to be sick.
As the conversation intensifies, my head throbs. It feels strange. The world tilts at the edges of my vision, but I push it aside. I can’t fall apart. Not now. There’s too much—
"Anya."
Semyon’s on his feet, reaching for me. It’s so strange because it seems like the floor is rising to meet the ceiling. How is this… I’m spinning, falling… then everything goes black.
"No evidence of poison," someone says above me in a grim voice.
"She has a fever. If it goes on much longer, we're going to have to take her to the hospital."
"No, she won’t be safe there.” I recognize Semyon’s voice.
“You’ll have to do your best to keep her well-hydrated and rested. It looks like a virus, but it could get out of hand quickly."
I try to open my eyes, but they’re so heavy. Too heavy. I close them again.
I watch as my mother pounds her small fist on the kitchen table, pleading with Semyon, begging.
My father’s lifeless eyes stare ahead, the stale stench of whiskey on his breath.
Eli appears next—bound to a chair, bloody and broken.
But when I look closer, it's not him anymore but Semyon.
Blood gushes from the wound in his shoulder, splattering the floor. I try to scream, but no sound comes.
Then I see Stefan playing outside. He’s building a castle with the blocks Yana bought him. Behind him, a large, tattooed figure raises a gun. I try to run to him, but my legs are too slow. I can’t reach him.
I gasp. Waking. Semyon is sitting in a chair, and his head has lolled to the side. I take in a quick breath.
He’s asleep.
"Semyon?"