The Lies Between Lovers (The Beast of Moscow Book 2)

by Bethany-Kris

  Never mind a man she didn’t love.

  Vaslav tucked a stray strand of hair behind Vera’s ear before his fingertips stroked along her cheek. “Fair enough ... but would you marry a dying one?”

  He didn’t give her the opportunity to consider what he asked before he pushed away and headed for her front door. Vera, still trying to catch her breath and get up to speed with the way the conversation had shifted so suddenly, didn’t move when he gripped the edge of the door and moved to stand on the threshold.

  With one look back, he told her, “She only needs watered a couple of times a week. I’ll be seeing you, Vera. Bet on that.”

  She didn’t look away when he closed the door. Her heart didn’t stop racing when it latched shut, either.

  What did he mean?

  Surely, he wasn’t serious.

  By the time the shock wore off and Vera darted for the door—determined to demand an explanation for his parting words—she wrenched it open at the same time the tires of the Rolls-Royce screeched when Vaslav pulled away from the curb. She was left standing on the threshold, the autumn breeze chilling her on the spot, while her mind still spun.

  He was like a hurricane. She was that same old tattered flag being battered in his winds.

  “Vera?” she heard called.

  Realizing she was no longer alone because her neighbor had come to stand at his fence line again, she tried to shake off the chaos warring in her mind and heart. Hair mussed; lips still tender ... could he tell?

  God, she hoped her neighbor hadn’t seen them.

  “Are you okay?” Mr. Anatoly asked.

  She kept staring where the white Rolls had once been, and decided to be honest because who else was she going to tell?

  “I don’t know, Mr. Anatoly. I don’t know anything at all.”

  The old neighbor let out a chuffed laugh, muttering under his breath as he turned away from the fence, “Yeah, men like that one tend to do that to you.”

  9.

  Vera didn’t need yet another week off work—the one consistent thing in her life that got her out of bed every day and moving was teaching the kids at The Swan House. What was only supposed to be a couple of weeks for the construction to fix whatever damage was left behind by the broken water pipe had been extended longer than she liked. It also wasn’t something she could help.

  So, when Feliks left a message on her cell Sunday night to say the studio still wouldn’t be ready to open on Monday like was planned, Vera was left with the prospect of yet another week stuck in her villa alone. That wasn’t exactly something she was ready to deal with. She didn’t think her mental health could handle it, honestly.

  Despite spending a good portion of her life alone—at least from sixteen years old on when she left her parents and moved to Russia—she hadn’t realized how lonely it really could be until all she heard every day was the sound of her own footsteps on the floors of her villa.

  Leaving was the easy part, really. She barely even thought the decision to scour flights to Italy through before she had done it, and a round-trip ticket was bought and ready to use Monday afternoon.

  All it took after that was a quick chat with Mr. Anatoly to hand over her house keys so that her plants would be taken care of for the week, and a call to a company to get a drive to the airport. She didn’t even look back over her shoulder when the car pulled away from her villa.

  It was only once she sat down at her window seat on the plane that Vera took the time to consider how spur of the moment her choice to surprise Hannah in Italy actually was, and whether or not she should be doing it at all. Oh, Hannah would be ecstatic no doubt. God knew Vera could use some more time with her friend, too. That didn’t change or help the unease settling deep in her gut as she stared out the porthole window.

  Not that she could get up and leave now.

  She wasn’t even sure why she was so restless.

  Except for who you’re leaving behind, maybe.

  Vera wasn’t a liar, so she wouldn’t say that Vaslav didn’t cross her mind as she planned a trip to Italy without any real consideration for him. The thing was, she didn’t owe him anything, and certainly not an explanation for her absence when he might not even notice it at all. Hell, he’d never even called her home phone before.

  So, what’s really wrong?

  Again, she ignored her inner thoughts.

  It was easier than admitting the truth—it didn’t matter how little contact she had with Vas in between the times they were together because he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would care about those sorts of details. Not when he had made his intentions perfectly clear whether she wanted to hear them or not.

  Maybe that’s what she was doing ...

  Running.

  In a way.

  Maybe she just needed to get away from what was happening to see if she could make sense of it. She wasn’t sure that she could necessarily call it running, however, when she had no intention of staying away forever.

  “Oof,” came the mutter.

  Accompanied by a figure dropping into the seat beside hers without any grace. The young man, with hair as dark as coal and eyes the color of the sky, leaned out into the aisle to gawk at the flight attendant strolling to the front of the plane with a swish to her hips and the click of heels at every step. The hood of his black hoodie was half pulled up, resting on the rear crown of his head and framing the side of his face, and he didn’t seem concerned with the rucksack sitting on his booted feet that was partially open and threatening to spill its contents all over the plane’s floor.

  She thought, for the briefest of seconds, that he looked familiar. Maybe it was something about his boyish features that triggered the recognition because there wasn’t anything particularly special about him that made her think she had seen him somewhere before.

  “That’s gonna make this a real nice flight,” the guy said.

  Could she call him a guy?

  He barely looked like a kid.

  In fact, he didn’t even have a five o’clock shadow to speak of growing facial hair when he turned to grin at her in the next seat. Vera offered the boy a smile back, but only because his was a little infectious. She didn’t think he meant any harm by staring at the pretty flight attendant.

  She swore he couldn’t be more than sixteen, even if he appeared to be taller than her with his long legs clad in dark wash denim. Drumming his fingers to the arm rests, he seemingly bobbed his head and shoulders to some unknown music that she couldn’t hear.

  “Are you even old enough to fly by yourself?” she asked him before she could stop herself.

  He was stranger. It wasn’t like he owed her anything, but if he was going to be in the seat next to hers for the next four hours, well ... they might as well talk.

  The kid showed all his straight, white teeth when he smiled wide. “I don’t know, but that’s what my passport says.”

  I don’t know?

  What kind of answer was that?

  Vera figured ... the kind a kid might make.

  Or a very immature young man.

  “Huh.”

  “Ah, don’t worry,” her companion for the flight said as he settled back into his seat, even pulling the rucksack up to his lap. “I won’t bother her.”

  Then, he grinned her way again.

  “Or you,” he added.

  That made Vera’s own smile soften. “I’m not really worried about that. First time flying?”

  The guy made a semi-dismissive sound, replying, “Not really.”

  “First time flying alone?”

  That had him nodding, but he was now more interested in digging through his rucksack in search of something than continuing their conversation. She didn’t really mind.

  Vera laughed a little, wondering if maybe that was the real cause for his nervous energy that seemed to keep his knees bouncing on the spot while he surveyed the rest of the passengers on the plane. Or, the handful that had been allowed to board. There were still qu
ite a few empty seats, and they had another fifteen minutes of boarding before the flight attendants would begin their safety talk as the plane taxied.

  She still hadn’t even called Hannah yet to tell her she was coming. Frankly, she assumed her friend wouldn’t really care about the phone call because she’d be far too excited to see Vera there to do or think about much else. Besides, the surprise visit would give the two a chance to talk ... about everything.

  Something they hadn’t been able to do in Paris.

  “I’m Kiril, by the way,” the guy beside her said. “Kiril ... Smith.”

  She looked to find he’d stuck his hand out, ready for a shake if she wanted. It hadn’t escaped her notice how he paused before offering the surname like he was trying to remember it, never mind that the name was very clearly not Russian despite his thick accent when he spoke to her in English.

  How strange ...

  Still, she took his hand, and shook it, saying, “I’m Vera.”

  “Ochen’ priyatno—pleased to meet you.”

  As the final passengers boarded the plane, found their seats, and began settling in while the flight attendants took their respective positions, and the captain of the flight came over the intercom, Vera buckled up.

  Still trying to make conversation, she asked the young man, “Do you have family in Italy?”

  “Net.” He gave another blinding smile. “Just a job to do.”

  “Well, it’s a beautiful place. Take some time to enjoy it, if you can.”

  He only shrugged at that.

  She would have continued the conversation if not for the beeping of her phone. She’d tucked it under her leg on the seat, planning to listen to a favorite podcast for the flight, but apparently forgot to turn the device on airplane mode. Turning the screen on, she found the reason for the beeping.

  A call she opted to ignore.

  Papa flashed on the screen, quickly erasing when she ignored the call and then switched the device over to airplane mode.

  Honestly, she wasn’t ready for that, either.

  Not to talk, or explain.

  No doubt, that’s exactly what Demyan would want to do. Her father must have spoken to Alexi by now. He had to know that her path crossed with a dangerous man, one he wouldn’t approve of, and he would undoubtedly want to know why. Or he planned to warn her, in the best-case scenario.

  Whatever the reason, she didn’t want to hear it.

  Her father lived all the way across the world from her, essentially. And that’s how their lives had played out since she moved to Russia. She allowed him the control he needed from a safe distance for as long as she could before it became suffocating. Of course, she understood that because her father was a powerful man in a precarious position that he needed to keep his family safe; a responsibility he took upon himself to ease his own conscience.

  That changed nothing for her.

  At what point was she allowed to be her own woman?

  When could she grow up?

  Vera made that choice for both of them.

  Even with this.

  “Got any gum?” Kiril asked.

  She passed her companion a glance. “Maybe.”

  He arched a brow. “Give me some, and I won’t talk the whole time.”

  Well, she might not mind him talking.

  Vera still went digging for the gum.

  10.

  “I noticed Marrow was sleeping on the front steps this morning.”

  Vaslav didn’t bother to glance up over the sights on the long barrel, semi-automatic rifle for Igor to see the dark circles under his eyes that would explain exactly why the dog had spent the evening near his master. What would it matter? The hard squint of his right eye was not just because he was trying to line up the sights on the gun to his target at the very edge of the back property.

  “That wind is going to do me in, comrade,” Vaslav muttered, more to himself than his new companion.

  Igor replied all the same. “It’s coming in gusts from the east. I think you could time it, no?”

  Vaslav grunted back non-committedly, but Igor wasn’t wrong. He’d already noticed the seven or so seconds between each billow of wind crawling from one fence line to the other and causing the wall of tall trees at the back to sway gently from the mid-point of the trunks upward.

  Once Igor’s steps had come to a complete stop somewhere behind Vaslav’s prone form on the damp grass, he stilled and waited for the next gust of wind to come rolling along the rear hill. He needed the silence, even if the high-pitch, constant screech in his right ear had been plaguing him since his migraine waned in the wee hours of the morning.

  The wind might not be helping with that issue, but goddammit, he needed something to do. Anything else but sitting alone in his fucking house, obsessively overthinking everything and anyone that he could because there was simply nothing else good to do. Feeding his paranoia never led Vaslav down good paths.

  Oh, bloody ones.

  Certainly.

  “There it goes,” Igor murmured when the wind started to wane.

  “Mmhmm.”

  Vaslav offered no other commentary as he was already flattened on the ground, gaze on his sights, and had wrapped his finger around the rifle’s metal trigger. While he had the rifle on a V-shaped kickstand, he’d also rested the butt against his shoulder for good measure because he liked the kick.

  Gun metal came with pain. No matter what end of the gun a man was facing.

  Practically a hair trigger, he barely needed to even put pressure on the trigger before the first shot exploded from the gun. The distinct smell of the bullet racing through the metal, leaving gunpowder dotting the air and his face, reached his senses as he heard Igor’s feet shift on the grass.

  “Nice shot, boss.”

  Vaslav took another shot, using the black mark in the middle of the gently flapping paper bullseye target as a reference. His next shot ripped the black hole even wider.

  Igor whistled low when Vaslav finally lifted his head higher than the gun. Nodding to himself, satisfied he’d set the gun right, he told Igor, “Now for the others.”

  “Really, all that stuff?”

  “Why not? What good is it to me?”

  Igor muttered a reply that Vaslav didn’t pay close enough attention to hear because he was too busy flattening himself to the ground as he readjusted the barrel of the gun to the right. At the end of the property, lined up on a row of old sawhorses that he’d pulled out of the dilapidated shed—where he kept the Rolls and other toys that he didn’t like leaving around for just anyone to see—sat a variety of items he intended to destroy one shot at a time.

  Gift after birthday gift from men all across Russia that liked to remind Vaslav of their connection to him. For good reason—the dozen or so oligarchs that sent a gift, usually with a note, to his home were the same men that afforded him, and his organization, protection, of sorts. Money could only go so far in his world, and while everyone had a price, power and control happened to be two things that sometimes could not be bought.

  In certain circumstances.

  However, it was a good method of encouragement. Hence, the gifts. Every oligarch in his pocket would give their left hand to remind the infamous mafiya boss that he had friends in very high places. His birthday just happened to be an occasion to do so in such a way that they could keep a safe distance.

  Wisely so.

  “I liked that watch,” Igor told him when Vaslav took a shot and blew the first item on the closest sawhorse to bits. The bottle had been wrapped in braided leather, but that offered no protection to the glass. He bet the cologne that sprayed into the air probably stunk to the high heavens.

  “How many times do people need to meet me in person before they realize I don’t wear scents?” he asked himself.

  Igor only sighed.

  Vaslav rolled his eyes back, telling his companion, “Go get the goddamn Rolex if you want it that badly, yes?” Then, he grinned over his shoulder at Igor, a
dding, “I won’t even shoot at the sawhorse it’s on while you run down there.”

  “I said I liked it, not that I wanted to die for it.”

  Chuckling low, Vaslav settled back with his gun and targets. He’d set up a good thirty gifts all in a line ranging from least favorite to probably the most expensive. None of them meant shit to him. Some of the gifts had come from within his organization—whatever brigadier felt comfortable sending their boss something to open with their name attached.

  Nothing he planned to keep.

  Vaslav blew through two sawhorses, hitting every target without missing, before he stopped to take a break when the wind picked up again. “I did keep the cash gifts, at least.”

  Igor laughed darkly. “Who wouldn’t?”

  With the screech still constant in his ears and a target not in his sights, Vaslav’s mood worsened fast. Rolling to his side so he had better access to his slacks pocket, he pawed for the item he knew should be there that would, at the very least, take the edge off.

  Not his pain, really.

  Just his mood.

  The pills in the bottle rattled as he tugged it free from his pocket, not even looking at the cap as he popped it off. Vaslav fished out two of the white bars and tossed them into his mouth, swallowing back the pills dry.

  Igor came to sit by his boss on the damp grass. He didn’t look at Vaslav when he said, “You know, the Vicodin doesn’t even work for your headaches, Vas.”

  “Do you think the neighbors have called to report me yet?” he asked instead of acknowledging the issue that Igor presented to him. His Vicodin habit was bad enough without adding someone else’s opinion to what he already knew.

  The withdrawal would be a bitch.

  “Well,” Igor drawled, “they do think you aren’t supposed to have guns on the property, so if they do call and make a report, can we really fault them for it?”

  “But it was the only gift I really liked.”

  That made Igor grin. The rifle, custom made with a hand-chiseled engravement of snakeskin along the butt, had been from him.

  “Did you see the teapot Mira found for me?” Vaslav asked as he rolled back to his belly, tossing the pill bottle to the grass beside him.