“I don’t know if I’m ready for … this.” I wave a hand between us just in case he’s confused. “I need to think it through. We both need to think it through.”
Now I look at him. The words should’ve fully penetrated his brain. And it would be so helpful if I could quit thinking in terms of words like ‘penetrated.’ My cheeks burn, and they have to be the color of tomatoes or lobster shells, maybe bricks.
“Corrie, it’s okay.” His voice is almost as soft as the hand he runs down my arm. “You’re right. We should think about this.” And instead of elaborating on what he needs to think about, he kisses the top of my head and walks out of the kitchen. The door hinge screams a protest and he’s gone.
I look at the kitchen table. There’s no indication that two minutes ago, I was bare-assed where the butter dish used to sit. Nothing that says I moaned as I came while lying on the tabletop where my dad eats his morning Wheaties.
Mom keeps her cleaning supplies under the sink. I go there and pull out a bottle of cleanser and a rag she cut from an old T-shirt. Twenty minutes later, the table sparkles, the kitchen smells like pine, and I’m still just as confused about everything as I was when I started.
When I’m done cleaning, I go back to studying the Flash-Bomb spoof program. The break was good for me—in more ways than just the sex—and as soon as I open the program again, I see it. The numbers and letters rearrange themselves in my mind, and I know exactly where to find Peyton.
Then the doorbell rings.
My heart seizes. It’s Tomas coming back; I know it is. He’s always so certain, so confident. He lied; he doesn’t need to “think about this.” And his confidence? That’s what I need. I need his certainty to help me find my own way forward. If he comes in, says he loves me, says he’ll stay… then I can rely on that. I just need to hear him say it.
I run to the door and throw it open. It feels like one of those movie moments where the soundtrack surges and it all comes together perfectly. I’m ready to forgive him, ready to accept him, ready to embrace him, ready to love him.
But it’s not Tomas who’s standing outside. It’s Evgeni.
“Evgeni?” I say, confused. “What’s wrong?” He says nothing. He looks horrifically pale. His eyes are gazing vacantly into the distance.
But the suit he’s wearing is so dark that I don’t notice it’s completely soaked through with blood until the man hiding behind Evgeni’s bulk pushes him forwards. Evgeni—or rather, Evgeni’s body—crashes to the ground.
I scream and leap backwards, barely avoiding being hit.
Then an Italian man with a gun grins viciously, steps forward, and presses the barrel of his weapon against my forehead.
22
Tomas
In ten years as a member of the Bratva, I’ve managed to get along without speaking a word of Russian. But now I’m in a meeting with ten Bratva brigadiers, and I can only understand about half of what’s being shouted back and forth across the table.
These are the men who’ve lost the most and are angriest about it. Half want results. They want action. They want blood.
But the older men, friends of my father who were beside him since he became don, want to make a deal with the new Italian-Kuznetsov alliance.
In the back of the room, there are others standing around who have made their desire for war known. Kostya Popov is at my right hand, where Aleksey should be. “Tomas, the only way this ends is if we end it. Decisively.” He’s quadruple my age but he can shoot the wings off a mosquito at eighty paces. As with many men in the room, he’s far more dangerous than he appears.
“So, you want war.” The air is charged with energy and anger, smelling like whiskey and sweat. The safe house is too small for all these bodies, but to put this many Bratva leaders in one place has to be done on the down-low without any chance of ambush. Right now, this is the only safe place. This tiny shack along the Mystic River that has guarded one-way access.
“Can we afford a war? Our supplies and accounts are equally depleted.” Pavel stands and punches his fists into the wooden tabletop. The entire room falls silent. Pavel had my father’s ear as a trusted advisor. “You’re the don now, Tomas. Your father raised a good, smart man.”
I want to correct him: Mom raised me. My father trained me. Big difference.
But I also respect Pavel, so I keep it to myself.
He continues, “But you made a mistake that cost us all.”
I can’t deny that. This Katerina issue is big enough, with a ripple effect I’m going to feel for a while.
“We can’t afford a war with the Italians, much less with Kuznetsov. You have to work this out. Make it right with Leonid and his daughter.”
Leonid didn’t waste a minute before going out and aligning himself with Totti. And if I learned anything during my “courtship” and negotiations, it’s that Leonid isn’t a man who’s going to listen to reason. I shamed him, his daughter, his family. That won’t go unpunished, no matter what deals I make or how I try to make this up to him. If I can’t make it better without going to war, then my only choice is a full-on assault. But I owe it to my men to listen to their counsel.
Radoslov, Sergei, Nikita, Viktor, Vlad, Lenin, Luka, Maxim … they’re all ready to argue for what they think is going to save everything they’ve risked their lives to build, legal and not.
They each take a turn and each one has an idea for why we should act the way they want, but none has a plan that doesn’t involve me apologizing to Katerina, surrendering my life to her and her father’s mercy, and in doing so, hurting Corinne again.
When everyone has spoken, I stand and wait for silence. Only one thing matters and whether they like it or not, it’s my decision.
“Gentlemen, every dime we have individually and through our joint business ventures, we have because of Bogan Dubrovsky. My father.” I nod. “He was murdered by Roberto Totti and Leonid Kuznetsov as certainly as if they pulled the trigger themselves.” It doesn’t excuse Alek, and he’s going to answer for what he’s done, but he was protecting his family. “These men killed my father in cold blood and they must pay for what they’ve done. For Bogan Dubrovsky.” I raise my glass and drink.
I’ve never been an inspirational speaker, but even Pavel nods.
“But,” I continue, “we need time to think. I want options. Kostya, Sergei, Viktor, and Luka. I need tactical plans from each of you. You have two hours. I want to act on this tonight.” What I’m saying is a reasonable way to approach the thorny dilemmas we’re dealing with, but I’m also buying myself my own time to think.
The men nod and disperse. I stay behind with Pavel, who’s staring at me with fatherly eyes and a tight set to his mouth. It’s not rocket science to know what he’s thinking. I could fix this whole thing with an apology and a wedding ceremony.
“I won’t marry Katerina,” I tell hm.
“I know but I owe it to your father to ask anyways.” He pours another drink from the decanter in the middle of the table. Before he speaks again, he runs his finger around the rim of his glass. He’s stalling. I don’t know why. The hard sell—think of the men, be a leader they can look up to, etc.—should come easily for as much as he heard my father say it during the Kuznetsov negotiations.