by A. C. Bextor
Moving in sync.
Together.
As if nothing outside this room ever existed.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” he chants, driving in again and again. “Now I’ll take from you.”
He holds my wrists down with his arms, his body pinning me to the bed. His guttural moans cover mine.
And after only three violent thrusts, he finds his release.
“Jesus Christ. What the fuck is she doing?” I question.
Already irritated after the funeral of my best friend, I’m staring out the back-bay window of Ciro’s mansion in disbelief.
Wren is soaking wet.
The falling snow, coupled with a mix of rain, is coming down around her in a windy curtain. She’s standing in the middle of the backyard’s open field looking up. The black wrought iron fence surrounding the property cages her in.
Wren’s face is red from the cold and she’s shivering as the wind briskly blows through her wet hair. Her exhaled breath surrounds her in a cloud. Cliff runs around her feet, back and forth, begging for the ball she’s clinging to.
“What do you mean what is she doing? Looks to me like she’s having fun,” Pete quips, hiding a smile as he brings his coffee cup to his lips. He blows on the warm liquid before taking an exaggerated sip.
“Did you let them go out there?” I accuse.
Ignoring my terse tone, Pete soothes, “I’m not sure there’s a man or woman on this earth who lets that woman do anything. And Cliff follows her wherever she goes.”
He’s right. The stubborn and determined woman does as she wants.
When I told Pete about my discussion with Calloy, he wasn’t surprised. He already knew, or at least considered, how Ciro was rebuilding his employ. Using kids. Sending his men out vulnerable and unarmed.
“But with Ciro and his men out doing what they do, I did tell Wren I wasn’t going to stop her from doing whatever she wanted wherever she wanted to do it.”
“I need to get her inside,” I insist. “She’ll get sick if she’s in the cold much longer.”
“Just leave her alone, Liam. There have been only a few moments that Wren has been able to enjoy herself here.”
“If you have something to say, you should say it,” I tell him at his hidden accusation.
“I have a lot to say, but we both know you stopped listening to me a long time ago.”
“Pete,” I warn.
“To my disappointment, that is,” he casually adds.
Turning in place, Pete meets my eyes. Concern, anger, regret, and maybe sadness lie within the depths of his.
I’ve disappointed my oldest, truest, and dearest friend.
“You were always smart beyond your years,” he repeats what he told me time and time again as I was growing up. “I always worried for you, remember? I was concerned you’d end up following Ciro. By the time you turned twenty-one, you nearly had me convinced otherwise.”
“I’m not following him.”
“Aren’t you?” he questions, turning his gaze back to Wren, now throwing a ball of snow in the air and laughing as Cliff tries to catch it midair, failing miserably.
Wren’s not wearing any gloves, and Pete’s oversized, heavy black coat is hanging open in the front, offering her no protection.
I run my hands over my face to shake the image. The woman is utterly exhausting.
“You and I both know she’s being caged here. She’s a prisoner, Liam. She’s blessed to have not realized that yet.”
“She knows,” I tell him. “And I’ve hurt her. I never wanted to do that.”
Attesting to Wren and Pete’s close relationship, he nods. He already knows I’ve hurt her. She told him.
Pete pushes, “She doesn’t deserve what’s coming.”
“I’ve talked to some of Ciro’s men. They’ve agreed to help. I’m getting her out of this.”
“Getting her out of this is good but temporary. Ciro will find something else. He found her. It’s only a matter of time, Liam. You need help.”
“What would you have me do? Really, Pete. Because if you have any advice, I’d love to hear it.”
“Help her.”
“How?”
“Free her.”
“I’m trying.”
“Really free her.”
“You forget who runs this family, Pete.”
“You forget who runs your life, Liam. Last I knew, that person was you.”
Silence falls between us as both our gazes move to Wren. Her smile drops when she looks up and catches us standing together at the window. She loves Pete; her affection for him now feels painfully obvious. Her distaste for me at the moment is even more obvious.
“Tell me what to do.”
“I can’t.”
“Pete, I’m asking for your guidance.”
Lowering his cup, he focuses outside before saying, “The vultures are circling. Help the flightless bird. Free her from whatever this is,” he compels. He does this so easily, with what seems little forethought into the ramifications of doing that.
“You’re asking me to go against the entire Palleshi name.”
“I’m asking you to do the bravest thing you’ve ever done. Help the woman you love.” Without waiting for me to respond, he adds what he’s truly means to say. “And if you can’t give her wings of freedom, take her to those who will remind her that she can fly.”
Surprised at what he’s implying, I hope to clarify, “You’d have me take her to Zalesky?”
“This is important. In more ways than you understand.”
“Important to who?”
“You,” he states.
“And Vlad Zalesky,” I finish.
“So you believe what your friend said,” Pete assumes.
When I told Pete about Mike, I also explained all that I asked Mike to do. As I informed him of Wren, who she could be and where she came from, Pete agreed Mike was right. He was relieved in ways I hadn’t expected. And he wasn’t entirely surprised.
“Yes, I believe him.”
Nodding, he pleads, “Then you know what you must do. It’s time, Liam. For all of this to end.”
“You understand that I’ll need to check for weapons,” Abram, the man I initially spoke with to set up the meet, asks without really asking.
When I called Killian and insisted he give me Vlad’s personal contact information, he didn’t hide his concern. He was not only surprised by my call, but further shocked by my insistence that I speak to Vlad myself.
I didn’t have time to explain why, after all this time, I was reaching out, so I promised once I was finished with what needed to be done that I’d come to him for a long overdue visit. I don’t know Killian, nor his wife Erlina, but I look forward to changing that once this is over.
Thankfully, the offer seemed to appease my grandfather, yet he didn’t let me off the phone without a warning. His voice was sharp and the message in his words were clear.
“Walking into the home of Ciro’s most hated enemy is dangerous,” he said. “Even a duplicitous devil can have a smile on his face before he shoots you where you stand.”
I took heed to these warnings and have taken every precaution possible. I told no one in the Palleshi family when and where I was going. Not even Pete. I couldn’t afford Ciro finding out and using my actions against those I love.
Lifting my arms, I do as Abram requests. Another man I heard called Rueon moves swiftly to search my body. My jacket, my pockets, even my shoes are carefully inspected; obviously, he’s done this countless times before.
“He’s clean,” Rueon states. “And thank fuck for that.”
Abram smiles, slaps my shoulder, and directs me into the front room of the Zalesky mansion where he explains, “Seems you have a guardian angel.”
“A guardian angel?”
“Killian had one of his men get word to Gleb right before you made contact. Told him you’d be calling to arrange a meet with Vlad.”
Killian was appeased not because of my of
fer to visit but because he’d already planned to run interference.
When I first arrived, standing outside the Zalesky-owned property, I paused outside the tall wrought iron gate. I contemplated, after all Wren and I have been through to get here, whether or not this would be the last move I ever made.
Then a man with dark glasses opened the gate and introduced himself as Gleb, head of Zalesky security. Then he turned on his heel and led me to the front door of the lavish home without uttering another word.
This is where I found Abram and Rueon standing guard and waiting.
“Vlad’s office is this way,” Abram bids, turning to me and waiting for me to follow. “I’ll say, Sicilian blood or not, you’ve got guts,” he continues as he steps forward at a quickened pace. “I knew the Palleshis were crazy, but calling to request a meet with Vlad after all your family has done to this one? That’s a new brand of lunacy.”
Casting off the fact that not all Palleshis are Ciro’s kind, I insist, “Vlad will want to hear what I have to say. It’s important.”
“I’m sure it is,” Gleb patronizes in a low growl, keeping his steps in sync with ours but sticking to his place at our tail.
As the double doors to a darker room open, I swallow hard. The red walls and black accents of the area make the space appear menacing. Behind a large desk, fitted with only a silver lamp and black laptop, sits the man I came to see.
Vlad Zalesky, so large in stature, exhibits no similarities to Ciro. Where Ciro is short in frame and sneaky in character, Vlad is bold and powerful in both. And he hasn’t spoken a solitary word.
“Well if it isn’t the Irish and Sicilian link, Liam Dawson,” Vlad greets with a smile as he removes his reading glasses and stands.
With his friendly introduction, I’m at ease, but cautiously so.
Abram comes to stand at my side while telling his boss, “He’s been searched. Want someone in here with you?”
“You’ll stay,” Vlad directs. “Rueon and Gleb, check outside to make sure Liam hasn’t brought any unwelcome guests. Once clear, you’ll stay close to both Klara and Emilia. Don’t let either of them leave until I’ve seen to them both.”
“Shit,” Gleb mutters, looking at Rueon.
Rueon smiles. “I call Klara. You take the little tyrant. I got her last time.”
“Fuck.” Gleb mumbles in return.
Abram smiles in the face of their tormenting dilemma. Vlad does not.
Klara Zalesky, the Russian leader’s wife, is a woman I met years ago at my uncle Cillian’s funeral. She was beautiful, sweet, and appeared totally in control—of both herself and Vlad.
This was also the last I saw Vlad. He’d been wearing an expensive tailored suit, along with an apologetic expression for our loss. Now he’s wearing a tight fitted black tee shirt. The muscles in his chest work as his arms cross against it.
I only know stories of their daughter, Emilia Zalesky. Vlad keeps her close to those in the family. She must be about eight years old now. She’s rumored to be as breathtakingly beautiful, but also as endearingly challenging, as her mother.
“What can I help you with, Liam?” Vlad queries, taking a seat and pointing to the chair across from his desk. As I sit, he doesn’t give me a chance to answer before he adds, “It’s been years since I’ve spoken to or seen Killian. Though, I wasn’t surprised to hear he made a call on your behalf. Have you two gotten better acquainted?”
“No more than we were, but I plan to change that very soon.”
“You should,” Vlad scolds. “Family is important. All family,” he stresses.
Obviously he knows Ciro, as everyone in this city does. He also knows Ciro and Killian aren’t close.
“What brings you into my home?”
“I need your help,” I start, not relishing in angering Vlad but needing to make this quick. “And you’re the only person who can give me what I need.”
His disposition changes. No longer is he curious; his stance is aggressive.
Vlad sits back in his chair, his eyes boring into mine with irritation. He temples his hands in front of him, resting his elbows on the arms of his high-back chair.
Looking at my uncle’s greatest enemy, fear and doubt plague my mind. Fear I’ve made the wrong decision and doubt that I’ll live to make another one.
And if you can’t give her wings of freedom, take her to those who will remind her that she can fly.
Pete’s pleading advice gives me the courage to do what I’ve come to do.
“Mike Marconi—”
“Your policeman friend,” Vlad inserts. Taking in my surprise, he continues with a smirk. “I’d be a fool not to have already vetted your friends, Liam. A rule to live by is that you can tell a lot about a person by the friends they keep.”
“Yes. He was my best friend,” I correct. “And he died doing what I asked him to do.”
“Something that brought you here,” Abram asserts, standing at attention behind Vlad.
Pushing this along, I explain, “There’s a woman, Wren Adler. He found something about her that you need to know.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Vlad’s eyes narrow.
“I don’t know that name,” he returns. “Wren Adler?”
“You wouldn’t know her personally. But she’s Russian.”
Abram utters a laugh. “Whether you Palleshis like us or not, there are likely thousands of people with Russian backgrounds living in this city and its surrounding areas, son. You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“You knew this woman’s mother.”
His brows furrowing with surprise, Vlad questions, “Her mother?”
Sliding the picture I took from Wren’s home across the table, but leaving the image of her covered, I state, “Years ago, your sister was murdered.”
Looking up, his eyes are angry and his breaths are growing shallow. I wait until I’m sure I’ve recaptured his attention to continue.
Releasing the picture, I slide it closer to him. Taking in a breath, I drop the bomb and wait for it to explode. “Faina is Wren Adler’s biological mother.”
Vlad looks as if I’ve physically struck him.
Abram sucks in a breath, taking two steps closer until he’s standing closely at Vlad’s side. He holds his focus to the photo we’re all concentrating on before he murmurs what sounds like a quiet prayer.
“No one in your family ever knew,” I quietly surmise.
“No,” Vlad replies, still staring at the photo of Wren. “And I find it hard to believe this is true. Surely I’m not supposed to claim her by a picture. What other proof did you bring?”
“Before Mike was killed, I asked him to look into Chase Avery.”
“That fuckin’ liar and cheat,” Abram hisses. “What’s he have to do with this?”
“Wren was with him for a time.”
A deep reverberating growl comes from Vlad. Abram’s hand rests on his shoulder, seemingly to keep Vlad from coming apart.
“During Mike’s check on Chase, he found out more about Wren. Where she came from and who she is.”
“This is all the proof you have?” Vlad questions.
“Does Wren look like Faina?”
Abram’s eyes stay trained to the photo. No doubt, the older man believes what I say could be true. This will work in my favor.
Ignoring my question, Vlad picks up the pictures and pushes, “How old is this woman?”
“Twenty-three.”
Abram curses, then states, “The time fits, Vlad. Faina left us.”
“For a year,” Vlad adds.
“I don’t have any more proof than this. All I have to go by is what my friend told me before he died.”
“Who killed him?” Vlad asks. “Mike Marconi was a decorated officer. I imagine he procured a few enemies during his time on the force.”
“I believe Ciro was behind Mike’s death.”
“Where is she?” Vlad demands, sitting up and gathering himself. “Where is Wren?”
> “I have her.”
“You’ll bring her to me,” he demands. “If she’s truly the blood of my family, then she belongs here. I want to meet her.”
“I can’t do that. The situation isn’t simple.”
“Make it simple,” Vlad demands.
“My uncle has her. He paid Saint’s Justice to bring her to him. He said he was protecting her, but—”
“Fuck,” Abram hisses. “Elevent. His lap boy.”
“Elevent cut ties to Ciro. He’s done.”
Rage. Absolute and utter rage engulfs Vlad. His face grows pensive, his jaw clenches, his hands ball into fists, and his posture goes rigid.
Before he completely loses his composure, I push, “There’s more.”
“Shit,” Abram curses again, this time louder.
“I think Ciro has someone on the inside. Possibly a contact in your name. There’s no way my uncle didn’t know Wren’s background when this started.”
“What the fuck?” Abram spits.
Vlad shows no reaction. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Which is incredibly dangerous.
“Ciro is crazy. I can’t trust him,” I state.
“You sure about that?” Abram says sarcastically.
Ignoring him, I press, “He’s desperate. He has nothing left.”
Vlad’s eyebrow arches and he asked pointedly, “Has Wren been hurt?”
“No,” I lie.
His next question comes with a threatening tone. “Is Killian aware of what’s happening?”
“No. He had nothing to do with this. And I didn’t share with him my reasons for coming to you.”
“Vlad,” Abram interrupts, “tell me what you want to do.”
“Liam,” Vlad addresses. “Why are you helping her? Why are you not standing at Ciro’s side to use Wren against me? You’re a Palleshi.”
Smart and powerful. A dangerous combination to a man with as much weaponry at his back as it’s said he has.
“Because, Russian or not, Wren is mine,” I admit. “I love her and I want her safe.”
“Wren is yours?” Vlad counters tersely.
“Yes. We’re together, and with your help or not, we’ll stay that way. I’ll get her out alone if I have to.”
“If she’s who you say she is, then she’s my family to protect.”