by Amarie Avant
“Yeah, I see.” I clear my throat.
Malich looks between the two of us. Shrugging, I say, “I thought Sim had paternity information for me. I’m sorry, I—”
“You’re not ready?” Malich clasps my hands. “When you’re ready, you have a family to support you, Anastasiya. You have Simeon. Me. Your son, which is why I’d like to speak with you both.”
“How can I help you, Uncle?” the Tsar inquires.
“Simeon, Anastasiya, I would like to be there for your son. My family has decreased in size. Families are meant to grow and flourish. Let me be there for the two of you.”
“Awe, thank you, Uncle Malich.” I wrap my arms around his neck and hug him again. Simeon shakes his hand. If I had a solid understanding of what parents were, I’d say Malich was Simeon’s best model over the years. No matter how far away, Malich was the anchor Simeon could reach out to for wisdom and understanding.
“Maya sem'ya - maya sila i maya slabost’,” Malich relays the Russian proverb. The adage clicked in my brain once Simeon and I started fighting for each other, instead of against each other when angry. He was my weakness, still is.
My family is my strength, and my weakness . . . The proverb roams through my mind as my hands glide over my tummy, ready to nurture, protect, love. I may have followed Simeon’s path into the Resnov Bratva, but one day, I stopped being neutral about it. The brotherhood's importance to him had to become significant to me. Now, I’m at Simeon’s side where I should have been from the start. Because a woman cannot support her man standing miles away.
Epilogue
Nine Years Later
Simeon
“Who called you ‘zanudnyy?’” I growl, clasping my son’s chin in my hand. Wriggling my jaw, I let go of Little Luka. He’s not a wimp, and I cannot murder an eight-year-old mudak no matter how much the kid might deserve it. “Daddy’s sorry. Little Luka, what did I tell you about ignorant people?”
“Well, Mommy says that’s a bad word.”
Little Luka picks up a scone next to his teacup and takes a bite. We’re sitting inside the very establishment that my father denied me a chance to visit as a child. The Russian tearoom is carved in opulence, and my son deserves the best.
My abdomen vibrates as I chuckle. “Mommy’s mouth is . . . full of roses, moy syn. Anyway, real Russian men have father-son teatime. That’s what real Russian men do. You understand?”
Kirill sniggers under his breath. The complementary suit jacket he’s wearing is too tight under his armpits. I laugh tauntingly at him. “You know I told them not to give you your size, right? Next time you waltz in here, underdressed, I will,” I mouth the threat, hands over Little Luka’s eyes.
My cousin laughs again, rolling his eyes while lifting his arms like a chicken. The confines of the suit stop him from flapping. He then grabs the tiny teacup, no finesse.
“That’s the difference between us and him.” I rope an arm over Little Luka’s shoulder, slump down a little to his level, and gesture toward Kirill. “Ignorant people.”
“Mommy said—”
“Uneducated people, moy syn.”
Little Luka’s cheeks puff out in a huff. “Mommy also said not to ridicule someone to their face. Daddy’s sorry, Kirill.”
I shake my head, denying my child’s statement.
“Little Luka,” Kirill cuts in. “How did you handle being called a wimp? Or should I do the honors?”
My cousin darts out of the chair before I can react then pats Little Luka on the shoulder. “I love you, kid. See the two of you later. Sim, your requests are complete.”
“You mean, delegated?” I arch a brow. He shrugs, the answer on his face as he saunters toward the entrance, removing the suit jacket with effort.
“What did Kirill do, Dad?” Little Luka asks. His inquisitive blue eyes, just like my mother’s, peer up at me.
“That’s what a brat is for.”
“But Kirill’s not your brat.”
“Little Luka, you have four little sisters. Daddy and Mommy’s friends are your older brats. We are a brotherhood of sorts. Next time someone refers to you other than the name your father and mother gave you, remind them you’re a Resnov.” Or I kill that mudak for being disrespectful. I smile in thought.
“I did, Father. I told him I was a Resnov.” Little Luka huffs. “Then he told me his last name.”
“What was his last name?”
“Yahontov.”
I click my tongue. “Means nothing. Next time, you tell your friend—”
“Not my friend.”
I laugh a little, seeing so much of Anastasiya in Little Luka, even at a tender age. “Tell the little mudak to tell his father your surname, okay?”
“Ooh, I’m telling Mommy you cussed.”
I shrug. “Tell her. But you do me that one favor, understood?”
“Dah.”
I wink.
“So, what was Kirill doing for us?”
“Why do you have a thousand questions for me, Little Luka?” I laugh, rubbing his shoulder. I finish off my tea. “Listen, syn, don’t ever stop asking questions. Kirill handled family business. Now, let’s go wake up Mommy and your little sisters.”
At the palace proper, a stampede commences. Little Luka bounds to one side of the grand staircase, promising to tell Anastasiya I said, “mudak.” My daughters dash down the other side.
The girls span in ages seven, five, and two three-year-olds, who blessed us with a double dose of unconditional love.
“Hey, hey, Simone,” I call out to the oldest. “What did I tell you about your siblings?”
“Oh, Father,” she moans, slowing her pace so that she gets between the two little ones. Simone takes their hands as they grapple with each step.
I drop to my knees. My five-year-old jumps the last step, torpedoing into my arms. Then I fall back with her.
“Girl, what have you been eating?” I ask as we’re wiped out on the ground.
Alex beams down at me, her eyes a marriage of my pitch-colored ones and Anastasiya’s honey gaze. “Oh, Daddy! You’re strong. I know you are.”
Seconds later, the rest of my daughters topple on top of me. Pretending to struggle to a standing position, I grab one around the waist, another over my shoulder, and situate Alex in my other arm. Simone laughs up at me.
“These babies.” She rolls her eyes with a smile. “Daddy, you can carry Mommy too.”
“I’m not so sure that Simeon can carry all his girls at the same time,” Anastasiya calls down from the top of the banister.
“Dah, he can, Mommy,” my oldest daughter retorts.
“Simone, Daddy’s in trouble for saying bad words today,” Asya says. “Would you like to be in trouble too?”
“Nyet.” I reach down and place my daughters onto the ground. “Daddy’s not in trouble, Simone.”
“How is that so?” Asya glances up at me, eyebrow arched.
“Because I chose the perfect day to speak freely to moy syn.” I clasp her in my arms. “Little Luka has a family tree to construct for school. Meaning, Mommy has to share a little something about herself.”
My Tsarina wriggles from my clutches. I hold her tighter. “You promised.”
“Dah, Mommy, you promised,” Little Luka chimes in.
I stroke her cheek and whisper, “You can break a promise to me. Not your son. Not at his age.”
She nods.
I let her go, starting for the stairs. The letter the young hacker gave me over eight years ago, still lays discarded in my office. The mouthy kid is Central Intelligence now and an asset to the States and the Bratva.
I turn around. Anastasiya is running her hand over the twins’ faces, telling them Dedushka will be down in a second. I note the pensive hold she has on her smile. She’s not prepared to learn about her parents. I walk over, tip her back, and kiss her hard on the lips. A round of complaints, laughter, and mock disgust goes in one ear and out the other. “You are my Tsarina.” I whisper how she’s my
everything, over and over again. I’d declared the same words the day I almost murdered her. I love her just as hard, yet now I funnel that love the right way.
Her breath whispers across my skin, heart hammering against mine as I hold her close. I’ll never forget our wedding day and how beautiful my Anastasiya looked. She was a gift from heaven I never deserved. My cousin, Mikhail, told me so too, but not to my fucking face. If he had, he’d be dead now. He had sent me a card regarding my pending nuptials, making it clear he was in love with her and that I better treat her right. He didn’t attend the wedding, and we haven’t seen him since. As long as I never see him again, he will live, though I did appreciate his honesty.
I kiss down the curve of Asya’s neck, teasing and nipping her sensitive spots. “You can stand?”
“Yes, Sim. I can stand.” Laughter bubbles from Anastasiya’s soul as I let her go. Every time I hold her in my arms, it takes all of me to let her go. She takes a few dazed steps. With one last look, I hustle up the stairs, heart full, chest heavy in love.
ANASTASIYA
How many women can say they’ve known a man all their life, and he still leaves her breathless? Simeon’s lips were ardent. Each caress of his mouth along my skin stole at my oxygen until my lungs were void. He models love for our children. In the bedroom, he leaves me without a doubt that after birthing his offspring, I’m the epitome of his adoration.
I dote on the twins, hefting them into my arms. “Let’s go see where lunch is?”
My plucky five-year-old pouts at me.
“C’mon.” Simone takes Alex’s hand. “Mommy can’t hold us all.”
“But your dedushka can,” Malich calls out from down the hall.
Somewhere along the line, he went from Godfather to Grandpa. Our only hope at grandparents for our children was Sofiya. Simeon’s mother can write enough letters to fill the Black Sea, but it’s not enough. I’d forgive her for Simeon. I tell myself that, and I tell him that because I love him. He won’t forgive her because of our sweet Angel.
“Still jet lagged?” I ask Malich as my oldest girls cling to each side of him.
“Daddy and I tried to wake you up before tea, Dedushka,” Little Luka shares. “But we heard you snoring across the corridor.”
The old man giggles with him.
“Alright, young man.” Malich ruffles his hair, causing Little Luka to laugh. “You snort-laugh like my Mikhail did at your age, Simeon too. Dah, I heard your father snort-laugh a few times, when he wasn’t so angry.”
“Hey,” I cut in with a smile. It’s been ages since Malich mentioned his eldest son, who hasn’t returned to Russia. “Little Luka knows nothing of his father being angry.”
“Dah, I do.” Little Luka’s head bobbles, cerulean pupils sparkling. “Daddy said that word earlier. That very bad word.”
A few hours later, my palm plants on the smooth, marble slab. My thumb caresses my oldest child’s name. A flush of heat runs across my face, tears springing forth. Little Luka leans against my hip. His head burrows in my rib. “Don’t cry, Mommy. You said Angel makes you happy.”
I blink tears away as Simeon speaks to our son. “The strongest thing a man can do, moy syn, is cry. Anyone tells you otherwise, you come to me.”
“Daddy’s right.” My unsteady tone finds a morsel of strength as Simeon loops an arm through mine. “Alright, children. Mommy is sharing a little bit of herself she never has before, take it easy on me.”
I reach into Simeon’s blazer while looking into his eyes, feeding off his power. I clasp the envelope and pull it out. The edges are worn. It takes everything in me not to shred the paper as I had with the money as a statement to Chutin. A little less than a year into his sentence, Irek ran into the wall one day before his scheduled torment. He bashed his skull repeatedly. I had warned the doctor not to stop him from committing suicide, though I had orders for a byki to shoot Irek four years into his sentence.
Four years, Irek had me in a trance, from age nine to twelve. The bastard did not last to die by a single bullet.
I blink a few times, opening the letter.
“That can’t be right.” Simeon peers over my shoulders.
“What?” My eyebrows knead as I read the tiny blurb. Whoever wrote this, gathered information, input and output, nothing more.
Francisco Roman–Italian, 10% Dutch. Entrepreneur. Married. Children. Last known address. Alive.
Annika Wright–African American, with a static breakdown of various African ethnicities. Army Reserves. Last known whereabouts. Alive.
“Oh, I’m not Russian,” I mutter.
“Nyet, well that too.” Simeon grabs the paper. “You’re a Roman . . .”
I take it back from Simeon and ball the paper up. “Alright, children. The man and woman who created me were named Francisco and Annika.”
I know my son will have a thousand questions for me. Malich stops toppling with the little ones to ask. “Simeon, what’s—”
“She’s a Roman,” Simeon repeats.
“I said, we’re dropping it after I opened the envelope. I don’t care who—”
“What’s a Roman?” Little Luka asks.
“In this instance, a last name, like Resnov.”
“That’s quite true, syn,” Malich mumbles.
“You don’t care in the slightest?” Simeon stares at me.
“I said I’d open the paper. Whatever the contents, I’d read it.” I gulp.
“What’s a Rom—”
Simeon kneels to Little Luka’s level. “You know how Dad told you to mention your last name to that bully. In the world Mommy and Daddy were born in, a surname holds power. That’s a very powerful name, Little Luka.”
“Like Resnov?” our son inquires.
I kiss Little Luka’s forehead. “Malich, do you mind?”
Simeon levels a gaze at me. I meander from the Resnov mausoleum, across the marbled slab steps, hugging myself.
“Sim, the pain from my parents’ neglect stopped ruling my life after Simone was born, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Shit, I don’t believe you’re parroting my ‘okay’ means this discussion is final.”
“Why do you get to cuss?”
I chortle. “Hello, our children are over there. Apparently, Roman is a big deal. Francisco hasn’t searched for me. Look, it says he’s been married to the same woman and has children older and younger than me. He may or may not have ever known about me. So, who cares? Why raise my expectations? I’m not meeting either of them. Do I make myself understood?”
In an instant, Simeon has pulled me around a huge tree. He plants me against the bark, his hand squeezing softly at my throat, gaze leveled with mine. “I’m the man; you’re the wife.”
“I know,” I grit.
He nips my lip, then drops a kiss, blotting out the pain. “Good. You don’t have to meet the mudak. Choice is yours. Doesn’t make you any less of a Roman. So, now, I will tell you, my Tsarina, we do not associate with them. Unless you—”
“I will not.” I scoff. “Had it not been for Little Luka, I’d never know, Sim.”
“And you’re content with that, I get it.” He places his forehead against mine in thought. “I doubt we will ever have a problem with a Roman. My antics with Dominicci elevated their status to the ruling house in Italy. You think I’m a fucking beast, but those Romans all are.”
“Alright, as your Tsarina,” I glare up at my husband, “I appreciate the intel. As your wife, whom you’ve helped overcome abandonment issues, understand that I am happy. Don’t piss me off.”
“You’re happy?” He clasps my throat tighter, gaze zeroing on my lips.
“Sim . . .” I murmur.
“Anastasiya, when I get you home, I’m fucking that bad mouth of yours.”
I pant as he clutches my breasts, his mouth burrowing between them, biting across the curve of my melons.
Head falling back, I moan. “Oh, please. We’re going to make another baby; you keep talking to me
like that.”
“You keep blessing me with beautiful, healthy babies, Asya. I’ll keep loving you, lawlessly.”
Lawless love. I like that. It’s as enduring as unconditional. But my miniature shadow and my beloved brat’s namesake says, “Yuck!”
“Mommy and Daddy love each other, Little Luka.” I sigh, as Simeon lets me go.
My guard has shattered, Simeon’s too. He’s transformed since being the depraved beast I returned to. He’s so much more now, for our children, for me. Though Little Luka stares up at us, Simeon’s obsidian orbs eye me hungrily, while abounding in emotion. His love for us defies all laws.
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Thank you for reading Lawless II. I hope the ending wrapped up perfectly! Sim and Asya finally have the happiness they deserve. Anastasiya is definitely not interested in reaching out to her family—whatsoever. But be prepared for the spin-off, “PURE SIN,” which will include her father’s family, the Romans. That Italian Mafia Romance will launch in November.
For now, Mikhail Resnov is living his life . . . broken hearted.
Kirill is doing well too ;)
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Keep reading for a very short sample of “DIABLO Inside.” My main character, Dominic Alvarez, is so hot, he’s deadly!!!
About the Author
Amarie is the author of stories from dark to light, erotic to semi-sweet, heck, she will even attempt to tickle your funny bone on occasion.
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