“Mitya, there is much to live for. Fyodor and Timur both found their true mates. This woman you met tonight . . .”
“I deliberately didn’t get her phone number. Or her last name. It is tempting to believe she could save me, save Dymka.” More than anything he wanted his leopard saved. Dymka meant “smoke,” as in fog or mist, and it was an apt name for his big cat. At times the leopard had been extraordinary, slipping into places in plain sight, yet never being seen.
“I would never want to bring a woman into my private hell. You and I both know Lazar is going to come for me. If he deliberately had Filipp’s two sons kill the woman his brother loved in front of him and then kill him because of a perceived betrayal, you can imagine what he has in store for me.”
Sevastyan was silent for so long Mitya wasn’t certain he would respond. When he turned his head to look at him, his cousin was staring out the window into the night.
“She was beautiful,” Sevastyan finally murmured. “Your woman. All of us felt her. She’s leopard for sure, Mitya. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
Mitya hadn’t given her origins that much thought. “She told me her grandmother was from Russia. She was named after her. Ania.”
Sevastyan’s head went up. “Seriously? Russian? Mitya, this could be a—” He broke off, frowning. “She looked familiar, and she was on the road leading to our estate. The Dover estate borders ours. I investigated the family before we bought the property. They have Russian connections and a daughter. My guess, she’s the daughter. I’ll do some checking when we get back to the house.”
“That would make sense, her being on this road. She loves the theater.”
“It has been many years since I’ve been to a theater,” Sevastyan confessed. “Perhaps we need to do a little more than sit around planning out how to stop criminals such as ourselves.” He flashed a small grin at his cousin.
“Once I’m finished with this fucking physical therapy some sadist has planned for me, I think it would be a good idea.” Perhaps going to a theater production would help make him interested in life again. Or maybe he could run into Ania there.
“Tell me how Gorya came to live through the slaughter that night,” Sevastyan insisted.
Mitya took a deep breath. “My father took me with him. He said he wanted me to see what betrayal looked like. He said he wanted me to see the consequences of betrayal as well. We heard the screams when we entered the house. Her screams.” He still woke up with the sound of his aunt’s cries reverberating through his mind.
Sevastyan shook his head. “You had to have been only three or four.”
“It was two days before my fifth birthday. My father told me I’d better not cry or make a single sound, or he would let his leopard tear mine apart. To this day, I keep thinking had I tried to call out, maybe Uncle Filipp would still be alive. Of course, her screams meant they had already weakened him in some way, but logic doesn’t seem to have much to do with the horror of a child’s memories.”
“Unfortunately, no, you’re right about that. I have a few of my own memories of childhood, and there is no logic in the way I think. Our fathers have a lot to answer for.”
Mitya had to agree. “I think all the violence they fed their leopards rotted them from the inside out, Sevastyan. I really do. I think that they began to believe they had the right to choose life or death for others. They came to crave hurting others. Hunting them. They were addicted to killing. What else did they have? Not the love of family. Once Lazar was willing to kill his own brother and Dima and Grisha were willing to kill their own father, there was no such thing as loyalty. Not to family and not to the bratya.”
Sevastyan nodded his head. The car made a series of turns, a maneuver Miron often made to see if they were being followed. Mitya never could understand why they would be followed back to the estate anyone could find out he owned. He never hid the fact that he was there. He used his own name. Mitya Amurov. If Lazar wanted to come for him, he wasn’t going to hide. And there was no doubt that Lazar would come.
“When we entered the room, Filipp lay beside his wife, his head turned toward her. It was easy to see they’d broken his back. He couldn’t move. He could only watch as they beat his woman to death. It was sickening the way they took such joy in it. The more they hit her, the more savage they became. I swear it was like watching a transformation from shifters to demonic murderers.”
Mitya’s stomach lurched at the memories pouring in. His heart pounded alarmingly, acting as a counterpoint to the jackhammer piercing his skull over and over. He wished he could forget, but his leopard couldn’t, and that meant neither could he. Every detail was etched into his brain for all time. For just one moment, it was no longer his aunt they were beating. He was lying there broken, looking into Ania’s violet eyes.
“When they were finished with her, after beating her to death, the boys took equal delight in doing the same to Uncle Filipp. Gorya started to cry. He was there. In a little crib. He also saw the entire thing. His brothers turned toward him. I think it was their intention all along to kill him. They despised that he was born of a mother who loved him when their mother had never loved them. From everything I once overheard Uncle Filipp telling Lazar, their mother despised their existence.”
“I suppose they helped their father kill her.” Sevastyan sounded weary.
Mitya glanced at him sharply. “Are you all right, Sevastyan?” He felt selfish, thinking only of himself and the way the painful memories hurt. He hadn’t considered that his cousin also had memories, none of which could be very good. “I should have thought about how telling you this would affect you.”
Sevastyan shook his head. “I need to know. More, Gorya needs to know. We all thought his father killed his mother and he was too young, so he was sent to Fyodor and Timur’s mother to be raised.”
Mitya shrugged. “That was the story Lazar decreed everyone tell. He didn’t want Rolan or Patva to know he had anything to do with Filipp’s death. Dima and Grisha agreed only because they wanted to take over the territory, and if they didn’t do as Lazar said, he threatened to expose them to the world as the killers of their own father. After that, he would allow his leopard loose on them. They didn’t want that. No one ever wanted to face Lazar’s leopard.”
Mitya had faced the vicious cat daily. When his father didn’t like something he did, toddler or not, boy or not, teen or not, he was subject to the wrath of the animal. He had the scars all over his body to prove it, as did his cat. Now his own leopard was a vicious monster. His father had succeeded in that. He was equally as good a fighter. He was fierce and bloodthirsty. Difficult to control. Wild. Feral, even. His father had seen to that. His father had made absolutely certain that Mitya would forever live in hell.
He shoved his fingers through his hair several times, betraying his agitation. “He claimed Uncle Filipp was killed in a fight to take on neighboring territory, and Dima and Grisha backed up the story. I was a little kid, and no one was going to listen to me, but just in case I thought to tell someone the truth, Lazar beat the shit out of me. By the time I was eight, I didn’t even feel him hitting me anymore. It became my normal.”
Sevastyan sighed. “I know my father worried Uncle Lazar beat you too much. I would hear him talk to his men, cautioning them that they could do too much damage to a child beating their sons the way you were beaten.”
“Lazar didn’t beat loyalty into me,” Mitya said. “He taught me how to hate. He taught my leopard how to hate. How to feel that terrible burning need for vengeance.” He looked down at his open hands and then closed his fingers into tight fists. “I want him to come after me, Sevastyan. This time, I’m not a little boy. This time, I’m prepared to die just to take him with me.”
Sevastyan sat up straighter as the vehicle pulled up to the tall gates with the beautiful scrollwork. The code was punched in and the gates swung open, allowing them to continue up
the long drive to Mitya’s estate. Behind them, after the two other cars with members of the security force—essentially the number of men Sevastyan insisted guard him when he went out—followed through, the gates closed.
“Mitya, you don’t throw your life away to kill Lazar.”
Mitya didn’t respond. He didn’t consider that it was throwing his life away. Lazar was evil, a terrible, malevolent presence on the earth. Anything he touched was tainted with a foul, vile energy. He had to go. The problem was—and it was the reason he had followed his cousins to the United States—he didn’t fear going up against his father. He knew his every move. Dymka knew his father’s leopard’s every move. He didn’t doubt that they could win in a fight. He had a problem with the morality of killing one’s own parent.
He didn’t want to say that aloud. Not to Fyodor and Timur, who had killed their father. He didn’t judge them. He knew Fyodor had saved both Timur and Gorya from certain death. He didn’t want to get into a moral discussion with Sevastyan either. He honestly didn’t know where he stood. He had left the country and had joined with Drake Donovan and the others in their plan to rid the world of the worst of the leopards choosing criminal activities in the States. It was the best he could do to make up for the life he’d led before he had gotten out of Russia. There was a price tag on his head. There always would be. There would be no forgiveness from the bratya, primarily the leopards running the territories.
“When one welcomes death, one has nothing to lose in a fight,” he explained to his cousin. “He always has the advantage. Lazar taught me that, and he’s right. I hate that he might be right about anything, but having nothing in this life gives me an advantage.”
“This woman . . .”
“I would never bring a woman into my personal hell. I know Lazar is coming. You know it as well. I would be divided. Need to protect her. Want to live for her.” She would be his Achilles’ heel. Maybe she already was. He would keep his distance to ensure she would never come to Lazar’s attention. “The things he would do to her to punish me—” He broke off, shaking his head. “No. I’ll never go there.” He said it firmly, meaning it.
2
SHE knew better. She absolutely knew better. She had discipline in all things, but somehow she couldn’t control herself. Ania Dover found herself standing in front of The Sweet Shoppe’s glass doors. Again. How many times had she come in the last few weeks hoping the Russian would be there? Clearly he hadn’t been quite as enamored of her as she had been of him.
The second good storm of the season was breaking, the rain driving down so that the air looked as if silvery sheets dropped from above in long waves. She could see the beauty in the storm since she was dry under the roof built over the sidewalk. She was also very warm in her long trench coat with its hood. She often joked to her father that she felt a little bit like Little Red Riding Hood, even if her coat was a deep blue, not red.
Ania stepped inside the welcoming shop. She loved the smells of cinnamon and spice. The shop always felt as if it had arms wide open, calling one home. She noticed every customer who came in seemed to know Evangeline and Ashe, the two women working side by side. They were smooth, in spite of the fact that Evangeline appeared to be pregnant. It was difficult to tell under the apron she wore; if there was a baby bump, it was a small one.
Both women looked up when the little bell over the door rang. Evangeline smiled at her. “Ania, so good to see you again,” she greeted.
Evangeline had learned her name within five minutes of the first visit she’d ever made to the shop and remembered her when she returned after her meeting with Mitya. “I’m addicted to your pumpkin spice cakes,” Ania admitted, pulling off her gloves.
She took a quick look around, although she already knew he wasn’t there. She felt different when she was close to him. Safe. Calm. Just different. In a good way. She would have known if he was in the shop without looking. It didn’t matter how many times she told herself he was a criminal and she didn’t want any part of that life, she still had come to the shop, driven by a compulsion she didn’t understand. She’d done a little research on him the moment she’d gotten home.
Her family home was so very close to his. Just a few miles farther up the same not-very-well-traveled road. She’d been a little worried when he’d stopped, but she’d known, as did all those living on that road, that someone had bought the property bordering their family home. Her father had bid on it, in the hopes of combining the two properties, but he hadn’t succeeded in acquiring it. Apparently, Mitya Amurov was the new neighbor.
She’d read all the news reports of how he had been shot, saving his cousin and his cousin’s wife, Evangeline. She was a wonderful woman, and no matter how Ania tried to equate her with criminals, it just didn’t seem possible. Evangeline was too real. She felt genuine and warm. The way she greeted her customers by name, asked after their families with that same real interest, she just couldn’t be anything but innocent.
“Your usual?” Ashe, the barista, asked, turning to smile at her.
Ania nodded. There was Ashe, as sweet as Evangeline, but she moved as if she could handle herself. She saw the world differently than Evangeline. The owner of the bakery, Evangeline clearly looked at everyone as a potential friend. She was interested in them and cared about their lives. Ashe was a bit warier. She was friendly enough, but watchful. She’d noticed Ania’s slight Russian accent. The accent was there on just a few words, but she’d noticed and was a bit leery at first, where Evangeline was simply open to friendship.
“Would love it, thanks, Ashe,” she said. “The renovations are going to be awesome.” The wall between the bakery and the shop next door had come down. It was blocked off during the hours the bakery was open so that customers couldn’t go into the construction area, but clearly they planned on making the space larger, and they needed it. Customers packed in looking for Evangeline’s baked goods and Ashe’s coffee. The two women had a gold mine here.
Deliberately, Ania had chosen to come after the rush rather than during it. Aside from hoping she might run into Mitya again, she liked both women. They didn’t know who she was and they didn’t want anything from her. They treated her as if she might actually become a friend, and she was hungry for that. Over the last few weeks they’d accepted her more and more into their circle.
Evangeline beamed at her. “I think it’s so exciting to see something you dream about come to life. I’ve always wanted a larger space. Sometimes the customers have standing room only. No one complains, but still, I want everyone to be comfortable.”
There it was. Evangeline’s true nature coming out. She really did care about her customers. Ania took a look around the shop while she paid for her latte and the pumpkin spice cake. Already she was eyeing the lemon-raspberry tart as well. She was going to get that to take home to her father. He loved baked goods, and she was usually too tired to get into the kitchen by the time she got home.
There were few people in the shop. Only a couple of men she would peg as bodyguards. They were spread out, at opposite ends of the room, but they couldn’t hide what they were, not even when they were idly looking at their phones. She took her latte and the fancy little plate with her cake and sat at one of the tables away from the window.
She wanted to savor every bite. If she was going to be adding all the extra calories by coming in so often, she definitely wasn’t going to hurry eating. The latte was perfection and she glanced up, smiling to tell Ashe thank you, only to catch the woman watching her. Ashe immediately flashed a smile and came out from around the counter.
“Do you mind if I sit with you on my break? It’s okay to say no. You never look at your phone while you’re here, so I thought I might not be disturbing you.”
“Of course.” Ania waved her toward a chair. “I make it a practice to enjoy every bite, and I don’t want to be looking at work while I do.”
“Do you work close
by?” She seated herself in the chair to Ania’s right.
Ania nodded. “I have offices in the Bannaconni building. It’s just down the block from here. I don’t know why it took me so long to discover you. Once I was told about you, I began hearing the name of the bakery over and over. You have a good reputation.”
“That’s good to know. Who recommended us?” Ashe leaned closer, her chin on the heel of her hand, her eyes telling Ania she was interested.
Still, Ania wasn’t certain if it was a casual question or not. She shrugged. “I got a flat tire on my way home from a date. The date, by the way, was a disaster. And the tire thing worried me. I don’t, as a rule, ever get a flat tire because I check them. It’s a thing I do. In any case, it was raining, and a gentleman stopped to help me. I was in a white skirt and jacket, a favorite outfit, and he drove up like a knight in shining armor. He was the one who mentioned your shop.”
Ashe frowned. “What was wrong with your tire?”
Ania took another sip of the hot latte. The rain continued outside, making her grateful for the warmth of the bakery and the drink she wrapped her hands around. “It was punctured.” That much was the truth. It had been punctured. Ania wasn’t so certain it was accidental.
“I’m new to San Antonio,” Ashe admitted. “Have you lived here long?”
Ania nodded. “All my life. Three generations now. My grandparents, my parents and now me. I think they wanted a son, but alas, I’m an only.” She laughed softly because there was no way her parents would have traded her for a son, and she was very secure in that knowledge.
Ashe’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Three generations, that’s awesome. I never had the chance to know my grandparents. What’s that like?”
“They were wonderful. Very loving. I have to admit, I was spoiled growing up. Our family is all about cars. Anything to do with cars. My grandfather had me working on cars when I was barely in preschool. I handed him all the tools and he’d have me name them. Name the various cars and all parts of the engines. My father was all about teaching me how to drive. I think that started at age three. I couldn’t reach the gas pedal, but I was expected to know how to drive a stick and an automatic by five.”
Leopard's Wrath Page 3