Chapter 40
forty
A blazing inferno burns deep inside of me.
Not a well of tears or a wall of sadness. My tears are dried and now all that is left is a deep, jagged pit of hostility and rage. My eyes burn as I watch them lower the casket into the ground. Just a few plots away from where Vas planted a headstone for Libby.
Her casket is empty. Void of any physical presence. Her ashes still rest in the urn Vas commissioned for her waiting to be spread out to sea. Except that the seas of Seattle are stormy and honoring her wishes is near impossible.
Rain pours down from an overcast sky in a torrential downpour.
A sea of black umbrellas is spread across the cemetery.
The deluge does not keep the men and women under Matthias’s command from paying their respects to the former Pakhan of Seattle.
News of his death spread like wildfire and not just to his allies.
Rival gangs who’ve been pushed out to the furthest reaches of the city are chomping at the bit to reclaim their former territories.
And they are not alone.
One week.
That is how long the planning takes to safely put Matthias’s funeral together, and in that time, Vas managed to keep surveillance on Christian who is spotted numerous times meeting with the leaders of some of the most notorious gangs in the region.
Money exchanged hands and it won’t be long before they make a push into the city.
A bloody one.
Drawing in a deep breath, I hold it for a moment before releasing it. I watch the warm air cascade from my lips into the cold air creating a tendril of smoky condensation, basking in the brief peace.
Grief is a fickle thing.
After my mother was murdered, the psychiatrist Elias forced me to sit down with informed me that there are five simple stages to the grieving process. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and last of all, acceptance.
I snort. Simple my ass.
What she neglected to advertise about those stages could fill a library.
In hindsight, however, she was on Elias’s payroll, and she talked more about accepting my new circumstances rather than teaching me the proper coping mechanisms for the slew of nightmares that threatened to drown me at the time.
No wonder I turned to drinking the moment I was free.
In the week since my husband’s death, I cycled through every stage and back again, repeating a few of my favorites like anger and depression. I screamed, cried, and came to terms with his demise time and time again since his death.
And it means nothing.
Locked away in my room at Liam’s, I settle myself to cycling between anger and depression. Anger at how Matthias shielded me from being shot. Anger at Kenzi for firing the bullet. At Vas for not being with Matthias in the ambulance.
At myself for loving him so damn much, even in the end when all he did was break my heart.
When the harsh, dangerous emotion finally subsided, it was replaced with the sickening crack of depression and with it, a wall of guilt.
Those two emotions are fucking chummy.
Guilt burrowed deep inside of me as the anger lessened its hold on my heart.
I feel guilty for the fury I feel at Matthias’s sacrifice.
A sacrifice that showed me he cared for me in some capacity.
Then there is the guilt for blaming Vas for not dying alongside the man I love.
He doesn’t deserve that anger or resentment.
There is nothing he could have done, and if he tried there would have been two lives lost that day instead of one.
That would have been unacceptable.
There is something darker lurking beneath the surface of those simple stages of grief.
It runs deeper than the anger and the guilt and the crippling depression.
It is something more sinister. A feeling they decide to gloss over in the ‘guide to overcoming your trauma’ pamphlet the doctor so subtly handed me when I was eleven.
It is ever present and lingers at the forefront of my mind. I thirst for it every waking hour. Dream of it when the call of unconsciousness pulls me under. It is a parasite digging its way beneath my skin, creating a well of darkness that stretches across my soul.
Revenge.
That should have been a stage every psychologist adds to their ridiculous therapy.
I’ve never thirsted for it before. Not even when Libby was murdered. Then again, I never needed to worry about revenge with Matthias. He was the sword of justice I needed. Now I need to become my own weapon.
My rage courses hot enough that it could burn the whole city to the fucking ground. And that is exactly what I am going to do.
Just as soon as this fucking funeral is over.
“Tomas wants to meet you,” Vas whispers. He stands at my right hand dutifully holding a large black umbrella over the two of us. “Pay his respects.”
Pay his respects.
I can’t help the derisive snort that rattles through my mind.
Those are the same soft platitudes I received all day from his people.
Mumbled condolences and quiet murmurs of we stand behind you and we’ll go wherever you lead filter through nearly the entire crowd as they pass us on their way to my late husband’s grave.
Vas bows his head respectively as each person strolls up to pledge their allegiance to him, the new Pakhan, but their eyes are fixed on me.
Judging me. Pitying me. I am done with it.
There is no doubt in my mind that my ties with Vas and his brethren will soon be severed.
The string of fate cut short. I am not part of the Ivankov Bratva, I am simply one wife among many.
Another piece of collateral damage.
But that doesn’t matter.
My thirst for vengeance won’t stop even if they no longer give me their backing. Not when my father and brothers gladly step up to the plate. They have already promised the manpower in helping to dispatch Christian—just as soon as their own mess is cleaned up.
Leave it to my brothers to find trouble.
Our family is good at that, apparently.
In the week leading up to the gala the twins manage to secure themselves a captive after she witnessed them take out Jimmy Burlosconi, the man who tried to knife me on the dance floor of their club, Clover.
The man is a two-bit thug who thought he’d kill me and walk away with a couple million in his pocket.
His mistake.
Now he is lying with the fishes—or something like that. I am not exactly sure where the bodies go, and I don’t care to.
The problem that hangs over their heads is that the witness is a reporter and the daughter of a very powerful senator.
Bailey Crowe is a force to be reckoned with but is probably a bit dick drunk.
For someone who has been kidnapped, she does not seem to be in a hurry to leave, and from the sounds coming from their room at the end of the hall—she is sure as hell enjoying herself.
That is a mental image I could have lived without.
Whatever the three of them get up to in their spare time must have hypnotized her because less than twenty-four hours after she is kidnapped by them, she avidly agreed to be Kiernan’s personal ‘pet’ in order to gain unfettered access to the flesh auction taking place beneath the gala we attend.
Technically, she agreed because it gave her the opportunity to find her missing friend and mentor, who we think might have been sold at auction herself. It was also a chance for me to find out what happened to Maleah. So maybe dick drunk is pushing it.
The newest setback? Bailey is now missing.
Okay, so missing is a bit of a stretch. Bailey was sold.
An unfortunate byproduct of Kiernan and Seamus fucking up the operation by not identifying all the key players first. If they would have looked deeper into who runs the auction Bailey wouldn’t have been sold to the very person she spent countless hours searching for.
Her friend.
A betrayal of the cruelest kind and a plan that we believe was put into action long before Bailey ran into my brothers.
Nearly a week has passed since Bailey was taken and the twins come up short.
Guilt gnaws at my bones as I think about the poor girl in some brothel somewhere and I’ve done nothing to help them find her.
Instead, I’ve secluded myself in my room, letting the guilt and depression weigh me down.
It feels like a betrayal now that the cobwebs of grief thin.
Time and time again my family has proved to me that they are sticking by my side and here I am hellbent on avenging a dead man when there is every possibility Bailey is alive.
That is going to change.
As the funeral closes and the attendees file out of the quiet graveyard, Vas and I remain behind.
For someone who wants to speak with me, Tomas sure is taking his sweet ass time.
Then again, he doesn’t get out to the west coast all that often, and it is clear as day from the way they bow their heads and shake his hand that Matthias’s people respect him.
Fuck, this guy is the Russian version of Barack Obama with his smooth swagger and amiable smile.
“Hello, Ava.” Well, shit. His voice is something akin to liquid gold.
It is deep, his accent slightly thicker than Matthias’s, with a rich undertone that makes me wonder if the female population of Boston surrenders their wet panties to him as he walks down the street. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I take his offered hand, giving it a firm shake. Amusement glitters in his eyes as he pulls it away. “Likewise,” I tell him. “Thank you for making the trip.” I might as well keep to the niceties before he throws me to the curb like yesterday’s trash.
“Matthias was like a son to me.” Tomas’s jaw clenches, the muscles of his throat tighten and he shakes with barely contained fury as he gazes over Matthias’s grave.
“There is nowhere I would rather be, but I am unfortunately short on time. I have my own problems to contend with back in Boston and I must be getting back. So, why don’t we go grab a quick lunch, hm? ”
This is not what I am expecting.