“Nyet. She’s been different. Guarded.” I scratched my neck. “After she turned twenty-one.”
Zariah straddled the bench in front of me, our knees touching. “She met Lachlan a little before, remember? The December before, right?”
“Da. Still, consider my words. They got close when he one-upped me by giving her two mil.”
She chuckled. “He didn’t show your cheap behind up, Vassili. And he gave the money to Whispers of Hope, not your baby.”
“Look me in the eye; tell me she didn’t change afterward.”
Zariah scrubbed a hand through her pressed hair. “You don’t need a lawyer.” She bit her lip, her eyes welling with tears of worry. “I asked her if something happened …”
“When?”
A shoulder lifted. “About a month after Natasha’s Whispers of Hope Gala. She was flinching. She seemed?—”
“What did Cutie Pie say?”
“Nothing.”
I pulled the cellphone from my basketball shorts. “I’ll call her therapist.”
“That’s a violation?—”
“Not if I gather information and do what needs to be done, Zar.”
“What if nobody is at fault? No one for you to …” Zariah’s gaze flitted away from me. This was killing her.
My decision to return to the bratva. I’d never been all in until Simeon needed my help. Of course, that was after he tried to mass bomb an entire town in Italy. I hesitated for a bit, understanding it wasn’t ideal for Zariah, Natasha, and Vassilievich.
Then Simona, my brother’s firstborn, acted differently. Acted like Natasha was after her twenty-first birthday. But Simona had been much younger. A teen. She moved in with us. I’d joined the Resnov Bratva. Told myself I’d monitor my brother. Get him out of the situation he’d put us in!
“Can we enjoy V-Day?” Zariah’s nails traced the fabric of my sweats. “Make a weekend of it while you wait for a lead on Hospital Guy? Jump back on the we-ride-or-die-for-our-daughter movement on Monday? We’re alone, Vassili. Vassilievich is in his first year of college, doing God knows what.”
I tossed the towel aside, jaw tightened. “Guess Natasha’s location.” My Russian tone thickened with suspicion. “It’s Friday night. Men like Lachlan—” I spat the name. “Sportsmen screw everything with legs on the weekend.”
“She’s enjoying her Friday, okay?” Zariah shoved at my slick chest with a mock scowl. “Not this again, Vassili. Lachlan didn’t do some shock-and-awe gesture after her nonprofit gala.”
“Ah. He cheated?” My lip curled, teeth flashing. “Da. The Dodger cheated. Right after Cutie Pie’s birthday. He got his act together. Now, she’s a weakling.”
“Speculation!” Zariah jabbed a manicured finger into my chest, fire flashing in her dark eyes. “They. Are. Happy. Be happyfor them. Better yet? Make your wife happy. Please spare this Valentine’s from being worse than Rio de Janeiro.”
“What?” I folded my massive arms, sweat gleaming across rigid muscles. “You tell me you want to go on vacations together, then you badmouth Rio?”
She rolled her eyes. “That was a title UFC fight. I nursed you back to health. Didn’t see any sights. You had a concussion. Three broken ribs. Lips bigger than mine.”
“Twobroken ribs. And you act like I was in a body cast. You got to hop on. Best tour of your life!”
“Ewww…”She laughed, pushing me away.
I caught her wrists, kissed the inside of them, slow enough that she shivered. Her teasing protest melted into a sigh my mouth stole, claiming her mouth in a kiss and the gasp that went along with it.
“Two ribs,” I groaned against her neck, nipping and tasting her skin. “Not three. Don’t extend my list of injuries.”
My wife tried to pull away, the curve of her lips betraying her. “You’re impossible, Vassili.”
“And yet,” I growled, lips finding hers, “you’re still here.”
Her laugh broke into a breathy gasp when I kissed her harder, the kind that erased our disagreements, everything but us. She pressed against me, fingers slipping over the sweat on my back, drawing me closer as if the heat between us wasn’t already climbing.
