Year of the Scorpio: Part Two

by Stacy Gail

  I couldn’t speak, and not just because of all the smoke and heat I’d sucked in. My attention had drifted to the house my father had built, and something vital broke inside me to see it consumed with fire.

  But more than that, I couldn’t imagine how anyone could survive that inferno.

  Polo, please, please, I can’t lose you again…

  A shot rang out. The four men stilled, looking back at the house for a long moment before they went back to what they were doing, unfazed and not freaking out like I was. That final shot came as no surprise, of course. As a terrible, hollow bleakness threatened to swallow me whole, I realized that part of me had actually been waiting for it.

  I knew what it was.

  Of course I knew.

  Acid-hot wetness brimmed in my eyes while a knot lodged painfully in my throat. From the moment Knives earned the wrath of Scorpio, he had been living on borrowed time. How he’d chosen to end his life hurt me, in so many ways I’d never be able to count them all, but I could endure it.

  What I wouldn’t be able to endure would be the loss of Polo. I couldn’t go through that again. I just couldn’t.

  And then suddenly he was there, his face smeared with sweat and soot, and the relief of seeing him alive was so immense I could almost overlook the fire consuming my childhood home behind him. Without a word, I pushed off the grass and launched myself into his arms, not even hearing Pavel greet Vas, Bruno and Matteo by demanding an update on whatever remained of Knives’s army.

  It didn’t matter what remained of Knives’s army. Not to me. The loss of my home, the loss of a brother who had become a maniacal, deadly enemy, the loss of everything that had been my world while growing up… all of that was awful and it hurt like hell. But I knew what true grief was. It was darkness without end, and a pain that held no hope of ever being healed, and this wasn’t what I was enduring now. I’d lost so much tonight, yes, but I still had Polo alive and well, and holding me like he would never let me go.

  That, to me, was everything.

  Nevertheless, as I buried my face into his neck, I couldn’t stop the sobs from coming.

  Epilogue

  Five days later

  When my father had been buried a year and a half ago, over five-hundred mourners had come to pay their respects.

  When I laid Knives to rest, it was just me, Polo, Shona and her husband Whit, and to my surprise, Sass and Rudy. There was no more family left to attend.

  For the first time in my life, I was alone in the world. Last man standing, so to speak. That sounded victorious, that old phrase—last man standing.

  It was victorious.

  But until today, I had never realized that it could also be lonely as hell.

  As the small graveside service was about to begin, my jaw nearly hit the ground when Emily Scorpeone marched determinedly toward me, right past Polo by my side, and gave me a bone-creaking hug before she whispered in my ear, “Anything you need, sweetheart, you call me, you hear me? I don’t care what the men think. They’ll sort themselves out. Or they won’t. Honestly, I don’t even care at this point. Right now, you are all that matters.”

  Helplessly moved tears burned under my eyelids, and I hugged her back full-force with my uninjured arm and hand. Okay. I could now admit it without a single drop of Vitaliev-related guilt or hesitation. I was definitely in Dr. Emily Scorpeone’s corner.

  That was why I couldn’t help but smile when she turned and embraced Polo before he could think of making an escape, then motioned for her husband Matteo and four children—Lord, she even brought her gorgeous, perfectly groomed and well-behaved children—to stand nearby in a thoughtful show of support.

  Scorpeones at a Vitaliev funeral. It was enough to make my head spin.

  I had placed Knives’s grave within the family plot out of respect for my father’s memory. It didn’t matter that Knives had come to hate Papa; in the end he’d hated everyone, especially himself, so that wasn’t a factor. What mattered was the revealing discussion I’d had with Jubilee. Thanks to what she’d shared, it was clear that my father had loved Knives, no matter what. Thankfully he hadn’t been blind to his son’s dangerous flaws, but he’d tried his best to keep Knives from going off the rails. Out of a father’s love, my papa had never given up.

  Besides, Knives was a Vitaliev. This was where he belonged.

  I only hoped no one would question me today about the added engraved marble plaque placed on the back side of the ornate marble headstone that chronicled the official stats of who Knives Vitaliev had been and how long he’d been walking the earth. The discreet plaque had been for me, not for anyone else. I’d needed to say goodbye to the person I’d known as my brother and finally get that closure. The inscription was simple, and straight to the point.

  Nizhy Borysko Vitaliev

  Beloved brother. Died at 15

  I love you, Nizhy. Together, we were unbeatable.

  Unbeknownst to anyone there, I had already placed a single rose beneath the plaque.

  As the ceremony concluded and I dutifully scattered a handful of dirt over the lowered casket with my uninjured left hand, I did it with dry eyes. I had mourned the passing of my brother long before Knives had died. Nizhy would never have turned on me. He never would have tried to orchestrate my death so he could start a war against enemies that existed only in his head. He never would have set his own house on fire—the house our father had built—and he never would have destroyed the strength of the once-vaunted Vitaliev name.

  But above all, my Nizhy had loved me.

  When the ceremony concluded, I tried not to think that there would be no pominki, or memorial meal, waiting at my place since no one who’d known Knives wanted to remember a damn thing about him. Instead, Polo had spoken with Whit, and together the men had decided that Shona and I needed some quiet bonding time before plunging back into work at Chicago’s Future. From the cemetery we were headed straight to the airport and taking off for Bermuda, where Polo had arranged for us to stay at Whit’s new resort. Once there, we were going to do nothing more than sit in the sun and heal.

  That sounded like heaven to me. A change of scenery and not worrying about when a contract hit was going to end my life would no doubt do wonders for my outlook. Hell, it’d do wonders for anyone.

  After I said my farewells to the priest, a strong arm curled around my shoulders. Gratefully I sank into Polo’s protective embrace, amazed at how peace flowed from his touch right into the center of me.

  “How you holding up, Fearless?” Polo bent his head to nuzzle my ear, and I rubbed his clean-shaven jaw with my temple. I’d loved his kickass, bad-boy beard and already missed it, but his chiseled jaw and the intriguing hollows in his cheeks were so deliciously yummy that when he’d emerged from the bathroom clean-shaven the night before, I’d fallen in love with that gorgeous face all over again.

  “I’m okay, baby. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  “Your job?”

  “Yeah, the job I was born to do—making you happy.”

  God, I loved this man. “I’ll be happy when this horrible day is over and we’re a thousand miles from here. I’m ready for sun and surf and not thinking about anything.”

  “Not thinking is good.” He kissed the side of my head. “Not thinking, and lots and lots of orgasms is even better.”

  It was amazing how he could make me want to laugh, even on a day like today. “True that.”

  “Thought you’d see it my way,” he said absently, pulling slightly away to tuck me against his side. “What the hell’s Arnold doing here?”

  “What?” Surprise zipped through me as I turned to watch my father’s lawyer, Arnold Papazian, move through the rows of headstones toward us, a file folder in one hand. He was a tall, spare man with thick white hair parted neatly on the side and a thin white mustache that made him look like he’d somehow escaped from an Errol Flynn film. “This is a surprise, Arnold. I received your flowers
, by the way. Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you.”

  “I’m just sorry you’ve had to go through so much, my dear.” Arnold came to a halt in front of us, his eyes kind as he took my hand in his. “Unfortunately, there’s one last detail I need to bother you with before Polo takes you away for some much-needed downtime. That’s why I decided to approach you now, rather than wait for you to come back home. I want you to be free and clear of absolutely everything so that you may finally get on with living your life.”

  “This better not be any shit about Knives or the fire,” Polo growled fiercely. “Our statement that Dash and I were at the Medvedev house can be backed up by that entire clan, so if the cops are looking our way, they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “I can assure you that Chicago’s law enforcement community in general doesn’t seem to be in any great hurry to get to the bottom of who wiped out the ultra-violent army of an unbalanced Russian mob boss,” came the droll response. “I get the impression that they’re content to count their blessings and simply wish to leave it at that.”

  I frowned. “So what is this about?”

  He held up the file. “Essentially, the legacy of your father.”

  I blinked. “I don’t understand. I already inherited a substantial sum when my papa died. Everything else went to Knives.”

  “True, but it all reverts to you in the event of your brother’s death, should your brother die within two years of your father’s passing. Basically, the assets of your father’s empire were held in trust, with Knives as its appointed trustee. In two years’ time, if he had lived, he would have become the trust’s beneficiary. Though I cannot say for certain, I had the distinct impression your father believed Knives would not reach that two-year limit.” He paused, then shook his head “Your father was a very smart man.”

  That terrible loneliness drifted through me once more. “He was.”

  Polo must have heard some of that desolation in my tone, because he pulled me closer and tucked my face into his neck. “You’re just like your father, you know,” he murmured, nuzzling the top of my head with his mouth with a tenderness that nearly unraveled me. “Smart and strong, and so determined to survive no matter what life throws at you. I don’t have the words to tell you how proud I am of you.”

  My arms curled tightly around his waist, and I could only hope he didn’t feel the wetness against his neck. “Thanks, honey.”

  “If you could sign here,” Arnold interjected gently, plucking a pen from the interior of his jacket, “this document will turn over those assets to Borysko’s last living heir. And with that, you’ll be able to close this chapter of your life and move on to the next.”

  “Actually, before we do that, you should know there’s another heir to the Vitaliev fortune.” I shifted away from Polo to glance over to Sass, who stood with her husband Rudy. The sense of being alone in the world lessened to a dull roar, and it eased the bleak ache in my chest. “In fact, I’d like to split whatever is in that trust equally with my little sister Sass, if that’s possible.”

  “Sister?” Clearly surprised, Arnold looked from me to Polo, and back again. “You have a sister?”

  “You bet she does,” Polo nodded, smiling wryly. “When I wasn’t a bodyguard for Dash, I was looking after Sass from the time she was seventeen, when Borysko was told of her existence.”

  “My father wanted Sass to be looked after, and that’s why I know he would have approved of this idea,” I said, though my mind had already raced ahead to what my father’s money could do. More than anything, I wanted my father’s life—his legacy—to not be represented with violence, blood and death. There had to be some kind of goodness that came out of all that horror, and there was only one way I knew to make that happen. “In addition, by the time I get back from Bermuda, I’d like for your office to have drawn up whatever legal documents I’ll need to put this new inheritance into the creation of a charitable foundation I’m going to name after my father. The Borysko Vitaliev Foundation will finance Chicago’s Future to feed and clothe the underprivileged of this city, and maybe even restore a bit of honor to the Vitaliev name. Can that be done?”

  “Yes, of course, Dasha. If that’s what you want.”

  “More than anything, that is exactly what I want.”

  Polo

  As he stood near the car that would take them to the airport, Polo kept an eye on Dash while she and Arnold Papazian chatted with a clearly thunderstruck Sass and Rudy. A corner of his mouth curled as Dash suddenly grabbed her half sister and gave her a bear hug, while Sass feebly tried to return it.

  That was something Sass would get used to, if she hung around Dash for any length of time. Once Dash decided to trust someone, that was it. They were hers, and she wasn’t shy about showing it.

  “How’s she doing?”

  Vaguely surprised that Matteo had decided to speak, Polo glanced his way. He’d been aware the Scorpeone heir had been standing nearby, but when he hadn’t moved in, Polo figured polite conversation wasn’t going to be on the menu.

  Every now and again, it was nice to be wrong.

  “She’s holding up. Dash is stronger than she looks.”

  Closing the distance between them, Matteo slid his hands into his pockets and watched the women as well. “Emily’s been worried about her. She’s got a couple of brothers back home in Indiana, and she was in tears last night trying to imagine being forced into a position where she had to choose her life over the life of a brother who was trying to kill her.”

  “Dash is a Vitaliev. A true Vitaliev, not like Knives,” he added, because that distinction had to be made. “She’s pragmatic almost to a fault, and she has the inner strength to risk everything in order to carry out what has to be done.”

  “So she’s okay?”

  To Polo’s surprise, he found that he couldn’t just nod and let the point die a natural death. “I don’t know if she’ll ever be as okay as she was before her brother betrayed her. That kind of wound never fully heals. But she also knows there’s a life to be lived now—to be lived, and savored, and loved. A Greek poet once wrote what cannot be said will be wept. It guts me to say it, but that is Dash’s lot in life now. That’s why I thank God she’s so strong. It takes a tremendous amount of strength to get through that level of betrayal, and while she’ll cry about it off and on for the rest of her life, she fought like hell to hold onto that life, know what I mean? She’s going to persevere, and she’s going to do it by living, and savoring, and loving. That’s what it is to be a survivor. That, to me, is beautiful.”

  “It is.” He felt Matteo’s eyes on him. “If I actually believed in romantic bullshit like fate, I’d swear the two of you were made each other. You two share a life experience that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy—the betrayal of your own family.”

  “Believe me, the similarities haven’t escaped me.”

  “I know I betrayed you by not fighting to get you back,” Matteo went on bluntly, shocking the shit out of him. “I deserve your hatred, because I never did what I dreamed about doing—roll up to the Vitaliev compound with whoever was willing to stand with me, and fight to get you back.”

  He could hardly believe his ears. “You dreamed about doing that?”

  “Dreams are nothing. I didn’t actually do it. That’s what counts, and that’s where I let you down.”

  “You were just a kid, Matteo. You would’ve been slaughtered.”

  “It would’ve been the right thing to do, though. I was too much of a coward to do it. I failed you as your big brother because I didn’t even try.”

  “No.” Polo again surprised himself by shaking his head, because at one point in his life he would have wholeheartedly agreed with Matteo’s assessment. Maybe some healing of that inner wound had happened, after all. “All that would have happened was that you would have lost your life for no fucking reason, and those kids over there—” he nodded in the direction of Matteo’s kids peering at faded headstones with their moth
er, “—wouldn’t even exist. The one who betrayed me was my father. Our father,” he corrected as an afterthought, then wondered why Matteo smiled at him.

  “Wow, look at you. You’re willing to finally admit we come from the same family?”

  “I never denied it.”

  “Still, it’s good to hear you’re not completely allergic to admitting there’s still a family tie or two there.”

  “Geez, man, don’t get so excited over nothing.”

  “A step in the right direction is never nothing.”

  Polo rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn’t bother answering.

  “Hey, Dad.” Matteo’s oldest came running over, so full of life in a landscape that represented the exact opposite that Polo couldn’t help but smile. “Maddie has to pee. I told her that I’d take her behind that tree over there, but she’s being a butt. Tell her she has to listen to me because I’m the oldest and I’m trying to take care of her.”

  “Looks like we’d better jet.” But Matteo paused a nanosecond before he pulled his son, a mini replica of Matteo if there ever was one, to his side. “Marco, I’d like you to meet the man you’re named after—my brother and your uncle, Polo. Polo, this is Marco, my oldest.”

  Shock rang through Polo like a gong as he stared at Matteo’s son, who looked up at him with those unmistakable Scorpeone brown eyes. Matteo’s boy, his firstborn, had been named after him…

  “Um. Hello,” the boy mumbled, eyeing Polo as though he might be the creepiest thing he’d ever seen. That was when Polo realized he was staring at the boy in stunned silence, and as a result, probably was the creepiest thing the boy had ever seen.

  Crap.

  “Hi.” Not sure what to do with all the chaotic emotions churning in his chest, Polo looked to Matteo, only to find his brother watching him with an odd mixture of wariness and hope. For no reason he could fathom, his chest and throat tightened up so much it was hard to talk. “You named your son after me?”