by A. C. Bextor
“And Faina?” he asks next. “How’s she doing?”
“Busy,” I respond. “She’s due to leave soon. She’ll be going back home to get married.”
“Never thought I’d be alive to see the day that woman took to a man.”
Ultimately, our father has made my sister’s decision for her. When I spoke to her last, she irately informed me that she was going to run away unless he permitted her to come here for a visit as often as she feels she needs.
She misses Klara and Veni. I understand that, and I supported her decision against Vory. He complied, if only to assuage the holy terror that is Faina.
Back to business, Abram says, “I’m going to dig deeper into whatever Cillian was up to before last night. If Killian weren’t considered an ally, I wouldn’t. But this whole thing stinks and it smells like Palleshi.”
“Call me when you have something to share.”
“Call me when you have an invite for Maag’s beef stroganoff,” he smarts.
Appreciating his ability to lead a dark conversation to light, I tell him, “I’ll have Klara call Luci. We’ll let them set something up.”
“Perfect,” he agrees. “Talk to you soon.”
“Soon.”
“This is my wife.” Killian gestures to the woman at his right. “Lina, this is Klara.”
I turn my undivided attention to the woman who’s lost her child and the man who loves her so much his pain for her acts as static between us all.
It appears Erlina Dawson, at one time, had been a classically beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman of elegant grace and high class. Age, or maybe time spent as the wife to a man as powerful as Vlad explained Killian to be, has worn her down.
The mere fact she buried her son not two hours ago serves as a snapshot into her life with the Irish king.
Rather than accepting my extended hand, Erlina reaches for my shoulders and pulls me in to her. Her lips lightly brush against my right cheek once before moving in to kiss the left. She’d done the same after being introduced to Vlad, even though the two had never formally met, either.
“Thank you,” she tells me quietly, then adds, “for coming today. I can’t imagine this is how you’d choose to spend your Sunday afternoon.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I express with deep sincerity while squeezing her hands in mine. “Vlad speaks highly of Killian. We’re so sorry for you both.”
Tears plague her eyes. She turns into her husband’s waiting arms, burrowing herself into his side. Killian curtly nods to Vlad before turning her away and leading them back out into the room of waiting people.
“Are you all right?” Vlad queries, moving the hair from my shoulder and running the backs of his fingers against my cheek.
No. I’m not all right.
The ride to the church had been quiet. Vlad had been left in worried thoughts in regards on how coming here would go. After the service concluded, we followed the procession of cars, mostly black SUVs with tinted windows, back to the Dawsons’ estate.
Lavish with forest green landscape, the Dawson home sits back from everything, far removed from any other home in the area. The circled driveway was full of running cars with women stepping out their doors to make their way inside.
As they passed into the house, all mourners were being greeted by the open arms of both Erlina and Killian.
“I’m as good as I can be,” I assure. “I’m sad for their family.”
“Cillian was loved,” Vlad comments. “And no amount of love can bring him back.”
“No,” I agree. “And his death will always live here,” I tell him, looking around the vast and heavily decorated family room.
The Irish family is proud of their heritage. Paintings of who must be Killian’s father, his father’s father, and those before him adorn the walls. Tapestries with unmarked Celtic symbols hang next to the pictures. Unlike Faina’s love of deep red and overstated black, Erlina has decorated their home in neutrals. The couch, chairs, and even the tables and lamps are colored in varying shades of white.
Vlad pulls me close, squeezing my body to his. He feels the sadness as I do. Cillian was so young. Such a waste of life taken in death too early.
“Who is that?” I lift my chin in the direction of a young man standing alone against the wall near the door.
He’s not surrounded by those offering him condolences. He’s also not wearing weapons as some of the others. From here I can’t make out the name tag stitched into his faded leather vest.
His dark, nearly black eyes framed with black lashes are scanning the room. It doesn’t appear he’s looking after the mourners as Killian’s men are, but for something else.
One of his booted feet is up, resting on the wall behind him. A silver chain hangs from his front pocket to his back. His tatted hands are clutched in front of him, expanding the muscles of his chest beneath the old black tee shirt he’s wearing. The faded jeans he has on have holes at each knee. His dark hair is a few inches too long, brushing the collar of his vest, and it doesn’t look as if he took the time to groom his face before arriving—or for the last five days.
I’ll admit he’s incredibly attractive, but in a roguish and combative kind of way.
“That would be Elevent,” Vlad informs.
“Elevent? Where’s that name from?”
Looking up at Vlad, I find his grin is mischievous.
“The name is not from anywhere. He’s a member of the Saint’s Justice motorcycle club.”
I’ve heard of this club. They’re known to many for being as ruthless and unlawful as the mobs who surround them. They, however, don’t care who knows their business. I’ve heard Vlad warning Veni many times to steer clear of these men. Thankfully, so far, Veni has listened.
“Why would a member of a biker gang be at Killian’s son’s funeral?”
“He’s most likely here to watch Ciro’s back in case the idiot steps out of line. Elevent used to belong to Ciro. ”
What?
“I don’t know the whole story,” Vlad prefaces. “Years ago, there was a boy I’d heard had come to live with the Palleshis. He’d been badly beaten at the time. Ciro’s wife, Sofie, insisted they take the boy off the streets, clean him up, and then she insisted Ciro watch out for him.”
“Sofie sounds a lot like Faina,” I presume.
Hiding his smile, he agrees, “Yes, I imagine so.”
Vlad kisses the crown of my head before he bends farther to whisper, “Stay here. Don’t move. Abram’s watching you from the door. I’ll say good-bye to Killian and we’ll go.”
The area around me is filled with women, some sobbing to themselves, some offering a sympathetic smile when my eyes catch theirs. Some appear still in shock as to what happened.
Killian’s men are easy to identify. Most are strapped with holstered knives and guns. They’re standing in corners, keenly aware of every move being made. A few acknowledge others with respect—a small wave of a finger, or extending guests a quick nod.
Certainly I’m a stranger, but I’ve been welcomed into this home nonetheless.
As I turn in search of Rueon, my eyes lock on a beautiful man who looks to be close to my age. Maybe a little older.
His dark suit is pressed; his black shoes are shiny. He’s tall with dark eyes and hair nearly black in color. His skin is tanned. When he catches my study of him, he smiles, revealing beautiful straight white teeth behind a pair of perfectly symmetrical lips.
Truly beautiful.
Giving him an awkward wave, I lower my eyes and take a breath. By the time I collect myself under his gaze, I look up to find he’s making his way to me.
“You must be Klara,” he begins, extending his hand. “You are as beautiful as Erlina said you were.”
Puzzled at his brazenly stated compliment, along with the elegant aura of his presence, I tilt my head.
“I’m Liam.”
“Liam?”
“Ciro’s nephew,” he frowns. “But I’m also
Killian and Erlina’s grandson. Erlina mentioned you’d come today with Vlad.”
Oh.
Years ago, I remember hearing about a boy, lost in the mix between families. A common heir born with a link to one side and the other. Vlad mentioned this to Abram. But I never imagined meeting him—the man who is no longer a boy at all.
“I wasn’t what you were expecting,” he assumes, smiling again, true and genuine.
“I thought you’d be shorter—” I falter. “I mean, younger.”
“I’m twenty-five. Vlad has a son not much younger than I am, no?”
The edge of his Italian accent is there, but faded.
“He does. But little Veni is only sixteen.”
“Little Veni.” He smirks. “He must hate being called that as much as I hate being called ‘young Liam.’”
“He’s sixteen. He hates everything,” I reply with a mock eye roll. With awkward silence falling between us, I extend, “I’m sorry about your Uncle Cillian.”
Looking around the room, Liam runs his hands through his hair. An expression of loss blankets his face, but neither for his uncle nor the reason we’re here.
“I didn’t know Cillian. If you’re with Vlad, then you know how this works. The fact that all of these families are here, in the same room, without guns blazing is a blessing I’ll thank God for many times.”
“It’s a funeral, Liam,” I point out. “A time for peace.”
Remorse marks his tone as he returns, “If there’s ever that.”
“There’s always hope that maybe someday there will be.”
With eyes much older than his years directed at me, he nods.
As I contemplate what kind of life this man has had to make him look that way, my gaze moves over his shoulder. There, I find Vlad standing in front of a woman with long dark hair. With her back to me, I can only see she’s wearing a short skirt, high heels, and that she’s leaning toward him with too much familiarity.
Vlad is scowling down at her. It also looks as if he’s voicing his distaste, leaving no uncertain terms.
“That’s Katrina,” Liam answers, turning in place to find what’s got my attention. “She’s my uncle’s—”
At the name, jealousy forms and I snap, “Katrina?”
“She’s my uncle’s—”
“I know who she is,” I clip, keeping my eyes on her. “I know what Katrina Marx is.”
I just didn’t know Katrina had moved in on another family in this city. From all I’ve heard about the Palleshis, it seems she’d fit better there, away from me. Away from Vlad.
“You do,” Liam concurs, offering another genuine smile. “Then you know she’s impossible to please.”
Not really. Unfortunately, I still remember the many ways Vlad used to please her.
Done with this.
“I should go,” I state, extending my hand.
Liam accepts, grasps it firmly, and replies, “Thank you for being here. For Killian and Erlina.”
“Liam, che diavolo stai facendo?” an angry voice calls from behind where he stands.
When Liam steps to the side and turns in place to find who’s speaking, the man coming at us is short in stature, round in frame, and evil in presence.
The old man scans my body, head to toe, stopping at all the intimate places only Vlad has ever been privy to. I feel each pass he makes, each grotesque touch of his gaze.
As though reading my mind, the vile man’s cheeks redden, a territorial grin crossing his lips. His yellow teeth coupled with the trail of sweat across his brow send a sliver of fear up my spine.
My heart rate increases at this man’s abrasive attempt to make me feel uncomfortable. Whoever he is, not only is he deplorably unattractive, but he’s also incredibly rude.
Liam clears his throat, pulling our attention from each other.
Before I have a chance to inform him as to whom I belong, Vlad’s arm wraps around my shoulders and not-so-gently pulls me two steps back and deep into his side.
Warning bells sound off in my head, mirroring a dark symphony before a death occurs.
“Ciro,” Vlad addresses, his voice deep, low, and hardly restrained. The two exchange heated gazes, while I shudder at the name.
This is Ciro? The head of the long-standing, ever-failing Palleshi Empire? The man who acts as the Zalesky family’s key named threat?
Vlad, ignoring Ciro’s disgusted expression, turns his focus to Liam.
“You must be Killian’s grandson,” Vlad surprisingly guesses correctly. “You have your Grandmother Dawson’s eyes.”
“When I was young, my mom used to say I looked like her,” Liam remarks, smiling at Vlad.
“Liam, come with me to find your Aunt Sofie,” Ciro asserts, leaving his eyes on mine.
When his gray tongue darts out, tasting his lips with vigor, I step closer into the safety of Vlad’s hold.
Vlad, seeing exactly what I did, pushes me behind him. I reach to grasp his arm for balance, but it’s too late. The dragon fire in his voice gives way to its fight to break free.
“This day isn’t ours,” Vlad seethes. “Not today or tomorrow. We’re standing in Killian’s home. He’s grieving.”
“Ah,” Ciro feigns recognition as if we’re not all standing in the mix of broken hearts and shattered spirits. “Well, I should say he is.” He tsks. “Grieving, of course.” Shaking his head, he looks down and mocks, “Such a tragedy.”
Oh my God. I hate him.
Before Vlad can respond, Abram appears from nowhere at my side, grabbing my arm, and pulling me out from behind Vlad. The anger between now three men is palpable.
“Take her to the car,” Vlad demands, not looking at Abram but still focused on Ciro, as if his enemy could strike me dead at any moment using only his venom.
“Klara,” Abram calls. “Let’s go. I’ll walk with you outside.”
As we leave the men in a standoff, Abram’s hand settles at my back. Each step I take, Abram equals, never veering from the direction of the front door.
“That’s Ciro Palleshi?” I turn to whisper once we’re out of earshot of the others.
Reaching for my coat, he replies, “The one and only. He’s testing Vlad. For all that’s good and holy, I can only pray my boss holds his composure. Today is not the day for bloodshed.”
My eyes widen. “Bloodshed? At a funeral?”
Now I really hate Ciro.
“Can we wait for Vlad?”
“No,” Abram clips. “I need you outside.”
“I want to wait.”
“Klara.” He sighs, tilts his head toward the ceiling, and says, “You’re missing the whole point of taking you from Vlad’s side.”
“What point?”
Bringing his head back down, Abram adjusts my coat. “You’re Vlad’s anchor.”
“His anchor?”
His expression remains flippant. “You’re the pin that holds the crazy man together.”
“That’s the only reason I’m here, isn’t it?” I ask, figuring out the plan Abram set into motion before we left the house.
Smirking, Abram advises, “That’s why I insisted you should come, yes. Vlad relies on you in more ways than you think.”
“He doesn’t know you tricked him.” I knowingly smirk.
“I do what I can to ensure my boss keeps a level head at the right time. Which is exactly why I insisted Faina stay home and only you come. Faina’s mouth would bring chaos.”
Now fully smiling, I shake my head and put my hands through the coat at my back.
Whispering in my ear, Abram insists, “We’ll keep this between us.”
Of course we will.
If Abram’s plan means Vlad walks himself out of Killian’s home in one piece and drives me home with all his faculties intact, I’ll keep whatever secrets Abram asks me to.
“Come on, Klara.” He sighs. “Let’s go.”
“What you’re planning is dangerous. You’re talking about kidnapping a woman, Ciro,” Pete freely ad
monishes. “An innocent woman who knows nothing.”
Ciro remains unaffected. His eyes hold those of his second-in-command as he watches his breathing grow more labored.
Pete’s scared of the Russian.
“Not only kidnapping,” Ciro taunts. “Murder, as well.”
“You’ve finally lost your mind,” Pete clips, standing straight and running his hands through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
An hour ago, Ciro was sitting in his favorite chair and staring at his lavish fireplace while mentally adding the final touches to a plan he’s had all along.
Finally, the time has come.
Finally, a revenge both strong and worthy enough to strike against the heart of Zalesky. Bold enough to cause that heart to stop beating.
Ordering the only living son left of Killian Dawson to be murdered was enough to create the diversion he’d hoped for.
Grabbing his drink from the glass table in front of him, Ciro holds it tightly while he explains, “You, yourself, have killed before, Pete. You’ve maimed for me countless times. Both innocent and also the guilty have died at your hand. Tell me why this is any different.”
Pete’s mouth opens, but he offers no argument.
Satisfied he’s hit home, Ciro sits back in his chair and grins.
“At the very least,” Katrina interjects with a smirk as she sits at Pete’s side, “if all goes well, we’ll rid the city of one, if not all three of them.”
“You’re opening us all up to his revenge,” Pete states, disregarding Katrina as he usually does. “This isn’t lunacy anymore, Ciro. It’s certain suicide. Think about what you’re doing. In all these years of the two of you going at it like school boys vying for playground territory, Vlad has never hurt a woman who belonged to this family.”
Anger floods Ciro’s disposition. While it’s true Vlad has never harmed one of his own directly, he has ruined his family in other ways. He shattered his business, killed his men, and caused Ciro to doubt his life’s purpose. If Ciro had a son of his own whom he loved as much as he loved what he does, he would compare the heartache to be the same.
“I have thought about this,” Ciro returns quickly. “And if Vlad is dead, there’s no more revenge to be had.”