I stare at the man dumbfounded. The driver pulls away from the curb and into the flow of traffic.
“You were married three years, and you never knew she was allergic to flowers and didn’t like chocolate?”
Hell, I am pretty sure Matthias knew my blood type, the kind of toothpaste I preferred, and what deodorant I used before he even got his hands on me.
“It was a…” Tomas hesitates. “…strained marriage in the beginning. We were both young and stubborn and neither of us wanted an arranged marriage. Up until that point she had never voiced a complaint or stood up for how I initially treated her, but with time, I learned to watch and listen. And she learned to obey.”
And there it is. The mafia code for women of made-men. Everything always seems to come back to the one word that demands so much. Obey.
“From what I understand from Matthias, you weren’t much for obedience yourself,” the man teases, his murky eyes lighting up.
I meet his gaze once again expecting to find anything other than the blatant amusement shining through them.
“I liked to keep him on his toes,” I admit with a shrug letting the tension in the vehicle roll away for the short ride. It isn’t long before the driver noses us into a parking spot conveniently located in front of the piroshki shop. “But if you ask me, he’s the one who kept me on my toes. That man ran so hot and cold I needed a thermometer everywhere I went just to detect the change in temperature.”
My mind rolls back to all those times. Seemingly caring one moment and inexplicably standoffish the next. Tomas doesn’t need to know that though. I let the reference hang in the air between us, refusing to elaborate any further. Not that the Boston Bratva leader cares. He gives me a short nod and a knowing smile before he slides gracefully out of the door his driver opens for him.
Taking a moment, I breathe in, letting the air fill my lungs, the fragrant scent of cloves surrounding me before I slowly release it. Vas waits patiently his brow etched with concern, gaze softened as I exit the vehicle.
Does he know what is coming and decided not to warn me? Would he do that? Would he let his father kick me out of their lives without so much as a sliver of protest? He doesn’t owe me any loyalty, but I hope we gained something akin to friendship since I married Matthias.
Only time will tell, I guess.
forty-one
I watch from beneath the cover of a coppice of pine and willow as they lower my empty casket into the cold ground. There is just enough room between the crowd of people to make out the face of my most trusted men. Their heads are lowered respectfully as Father Michaels presents my pre-planned eulogy.
It is short and concise, and the priest is known for epigrammatic ripostes that keep the crowd from falling in too deep a melancholy. I never wanted people to cry at my funeral. Fake or not. Death is something to be celebrated and not mourned.
My gaze wanders, searching through the faces as they sweep past me with an almost concerning amount of unawareness. They wouldn’t recognize me. Not with my disguise, but that doesn’t make it any better. How easy it would be for someone to penetrate the unassuming crowd and open fire.
Even with the cemetery highly guarded, my gut churns. That could also be the gunshot wound that is still healing. One week is barely enough time to recover after having major surgery, butI am insistent. Maxim shifts in his spot just behind my wife, his head tilting slightly to the right as he tugs on his earlobe nonchalantly.
Everything is clear.
Taking my place at the back of the receiving line, my black umbrella allows for just enough coverage to keep me from looking suspicious as the rain drops against it, the sound loud amongst the silent mourners. I keep my gaze from wandering too much and drawing suspicion. There are only a handful of people who know I am still alive and drawing attention to myself is something I don’t need in case I am recognized. That is a complication I don’t need.
The line trudges forward, and I take the time to simply look at her. My wife. The woman I took a bullet for.
Her jaw is clenched, emerald eyes hard as she clenches and unclenches her fists at her side. A sign she is expecting something bad.
Vas hasn’t informed her of what is coming next. Ava is no doubt under the impression she will be cast aside once the funeral ends. That isn’t the case. She has just inherited the largest, most powerful criminal organization on the west coast. Soon she will learn more about who I am. What I do.
That I am not merely just the leader of the Bratva. I am also the founder and CEO of a multi-billion-dollar security company.
We’ve discussed the company before, but in the short time we were married I never fully discuss with her just how far of a reach I have both legally and criminally. The world’s largest target is now painted on Ava’s back.
All because I needed to fake my death.
There is a threat out there worse than Christian, and it needs to be taken care of. Something I can only do if everyone believes me to be gone.
My wife is stunning in a pair of high waisted black trousers that cling to her shapely legs. She tucked a cream silk blouse into the waistline and covered herself with a brass buttoned Armani blazer. I am slightly miffed that Vas didn’t make her wear a thicker jacket. It isn’t fucking summer out here.
Ava shifts slightly from side to side uncomfortably, her heels sinking into the wet earth beneath her feet. She left her hair down, the luxurious red curls framing her porcelain features that are highlighted by a minimal amount of makeup.
She doesn’t paint herself up like most women her age, but she does try to appear stronger and more resilient than she feels. It is easy to spot in the way she holds her shoulders erect, spine stiff. Her emerald eyes are hard as she quietly greets the men and women who came to pay their respects to the newPakhan, no doubt believing the soft platitudes are meant for Vas.
Ava will soon come to realize what I left her.
