Luca
I stomp into the living area and circle the whole space like a caged tiger. I come to stand at the window and stare at the cityscape, hands fisted.
The fucker who took the photos of her is dead.
She said as much. She also said there’s someone else, and not in the way I’d think.
The line Masha messaged her, stating they would end this once and for all when Milana is back in Russia, is the one thing that eats at me.
There is a vendetta here, one I’m not privy to.
Masha. She’s the one obligating Milana to return to Russia.
Masha who can’t work. Masha who went through something Milana won’t talk about.
I didn’t think it necessary before, but it’s time we dig way deeper into who this woman is and what her relationship with Milana entails.
For all I know, her ‘friend’ is extorting money from her to keep quiet about something, money I’ve happily been paying.
But what?
Who knows. I’ve never felt this powerless before.
Her dad is the reason she might have been so absent since arriving here, but with him in Long Island, there’s more to her obsessive need to go to Russia.
When he is dead, she will inherit her share of the Petrov fortune, and that won’t just be money.
It’ll be the whole business. The Petrov Bratva was already subject to a failed coup this year.
Someone desperately wants everything they have, and nobody is telling us anything.
Weapons. Her words are slowly sinking in, because when I’m with her, I clearly can’t think fucking straight. Is this what Petrov is involved in? Or does whoever is behind all this want to exploit his logistics network for weapons smuggling? Who the fuck knows.
Shit’s going to come to a head, and it isn’t going to be pretty.
There’s no trust between us, and what with The Mole and Mara on our doorstep, tomorrow is going to be a shit show.
I didn’t even tell her about these plans, but with the old Pakhan dying, Petrov might not even come this way. I’m so done.
“Luca.”
I turn at her quiet voice. She’s standing in the bedroom door, a wreck. I soften immediately, every anger and annoyance diluting as I take her in. My beautiful, stubborn, stoic wife has let go of her emotions in front of me. Who knows what it cost her in pride.
And this is just it. I can be a fucking asshole, torture her for all her secrets, for the information she clearly has but won’t share, but then I see her like this and I surge with this need to protect her, to make her pain go away, to stand between her and the rest of the world and all the hurt it hurled at her.
She doesn’t know this though, and I have no clue how to bridge the massive gap between us. It’s as if she wants to reach out to me, but every time we seem to gain some ground, there’s a mental reset for her that takes us back to the start.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers. “Please.”
I’m not going back into my bedroom with her. I won’t be that fucker.
“You want dinner?” It’s the only distraction I can think of now, given the circumstances.
“Sure. Thank you.”
She pads toward the kitchen, and I roll my shoulders, heaving out a quiet sigh. I bet she’d just poke at whatever I throw together, but I head to the kitchen and get some ingredients out of the fridge.
Milana settles at the kitchen island, and it’s quiet between us. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take.”
“It’s fine.” Death takes its time, until it’s suddenly on your doorstep. Now isn’t the time to probe further into all of Petrov’s affairs. “Ivan and Gabriella were supposed to come to Boston tomorrow.”
“They were?” Her eyes widen, but there’s no light in them.
“With what’s happening—”
“Ivan will still come. My dad won’t live through the night.”
I just nod.
But in the end, it’s almost midnight before Petrov calls. We’re slouched on the sofa in my bedroom, watching TV to pass the time, Milana clinging to her phone. When it finally buzzes, I lean back with a silent groan as I switch the TV off.
Her conversation with her brother is short and in Russian. When she rings off, she gives me a nod, and I close the gap between us to hug her. She leans into me, crying quietly, but her hand is fisting my shirt, and then her whole body seems to collapse against mine.
“It’s okay, Milana,” I murmur, relief flooding through me too. “It’s over.” Maybe we could finally move on now.
We sit in the dark and I hold her as she weeps, in wonder that someone could shed so many tears for their father.
Jesus, we basically popped the champagne when the Don died.
Eventually, she stops, but I don’t let her go.
She’s snuggled in so comfortably, cozy against me where I’m leaning back in the recliner, with the backrest lowered and the footrest raised.
Her hand relaxes on my chest, and after minutes of quiet breathing, I realize she’s fallen asleep. There’s no way to extricate myself now or get her to bed. I don’t want to. Instead, I reach for the blanket I gave her earlier and lift it to cover both of us.
My phone vibrates on the sofa’s armrest. I haven’t checked it since dinner and glance through the new messages from Matteo.
Fucking nightmare, but they took off. ETA for The Mole and Mara is 10am in Boston. You’re coming first thing?
Nothing is going as planned lately. I type with my thumb, my other hand resting on Milana’s back. There’s no chance I’m waking her up in the morning. Petrov can wait. She needs sleep more than anything.
We’ll come later. After you’ve dealt with The Mole. You’ve let Petrov know?
After all the strings Matteo pulled, he’ll be pissed if Petrov doesn’t head to Boston today, and Petrov won’t give the Don of Il Consiglio the real reason he has to delay. One thing I’ve learned lately is that these Russians are tough as nails, and their secrets stay secrets forever.
Matteo’s reply pops onto the screen.
Not yet. I’ll call him early tomorrow morning.
Cool. It’s not my problem to manage. I have enough on my plate, enough in my arms. I stop short of pressing my lips to the crown of Milana’s head where she’s cuddled against me.
Another message comes through.
Everything okay? Why’re you up? Getting it on there?
Jesus. If all my brothers could just fuck off already. They’re like Pavlov’s dog, drooling at the notion of me finally getting it on with my wife.
I type Fuck off but delete it. I can’t tell him about the old Pakhan’s passing. Rough night. I insert a few emojis to stress my point. This is so not me, and I smirk at the eggplant, water drops, one cheeky peach. Let him interpret it just as he pleases.
Before he has a chance to reply, I turn off my phone. I’m protecting my wife. I ignore the fact that, for the first time, I’ve lied to Matteo.
The next morning, I feel her stir. and wish we could stay like this. I’ve been awake a while, but didn’t want to wake her up. For once, she actually slept, the anxious waiting over.
“Luca?”
“Princess?”
“What time is it?” she murmurs as her hand slips from my chest.
I lowered the black-out blinds last night, so there’s no telling what time it is.
But now I should pull away, even if I don’t want to. I mean, we slept together for the first time. On a sofa, but together, her body against mine. I’ve never slept with a woman like this before. Somehow so casual, but so intimate. It’s novel, and I loved it.
She was calm, out stone-cold for the night.
Being with her like this is a kind of torment I didn’t know existed.
There’s no denying it—I want this woman on every level.
Initially, it was only physical, but somehow, it’s morphed into more.
I want her to open up to me, to trust me and share things with me.
Allow me to comfort her like she did last night.
We’re still in the same clothes, and as she sits up, I move too, shifting away from each other. The intimacy slips away.
I reach for the remote to open the blinds then pick up my phone. I have to wait as it boots up since I powered it off last night. She stretches next to me and stifles a yawn.
“Jesus. It’s like eleven in the morning,” I say with a smirk. “Time for coffee.”
“You mean I actually slept for a change?” she replies with a shy smile.
I can’t stop myself. I rub a hand down her back. “We slept for a change, princess.” Ever since she hurtled into my life, sleep has been elusive.
She plants her face in her hands and rests her elbows on her knees. A tremor runs through her, a physical manifestation of everything coming back to her as she wakes up. Her father’s death. Masha. This marriage mess.
A bunch of notifications hit my phone at the same time, and I retract my hand to give them a once-over. “Jesus. They’re here.”
“Who?” she asks, her voice muffled.
“Your brother and Gabi. They actually came.” I swipe up and down the conversation in the group chat with my brothers to catch up. “The Mole and Mara landed over an hour ago. They’re probably already with Matteo.”
“What does this mean?” she asks as she sits up again. “He’s really here? Next door?”
“Yep. It means you get to see your brother, for one.” I’m not relishing the next part. “We’ll see what information Dominic can get out of this Mara woman.” And then we’ll see what we can learn from Petrov about Masha and whatever the fuckup is in Russia.
I drop back in my seat to see what else I missed while sleeping in. It’s quiet as Milana reaches for her own phone and goes through her messages.
Two loud pops sound from somewhere, and I freeze. They’re soft, like the pull of a cork from a bottle of wine. Then a deluge of sharp bangs follow.
“Holy fuck.” I shoot out of my seat. “Holy fuckfuckfuck.”
“What was that?”
“Gunshots. No silencers.” Which means this wasn’t planned “Next door. Matteo’s place.”
For all that his apartment is soundproof, we share a wall, and some things are just too loud to disguise.
I bolt toward the front door, cursing that I’m not with my brothers.