by Raven Scott
“Because there isn’t any.” Darren lifted his head.
Ophelia’s breath hitched softly in surprise.
“Santino took over like 20 years ago and— boom. Just fucked everyone else in the ass, especially the Italians because they resisted. Vyachaslav withdrew on contract as peacefully as could be expected. Ever since, all we’ve managed is trade agreements, basically. They pay us for girls, guns and stuff at a discounted price. It’s the only way we could have a foothold in America. Old Man Santino is a psychopath… a real, confirmed psychopath. Vyachaslav couldn’t contend with that, so he’s been waiting until he could deal with the son- Carlyle. Bad, but not as bad.”
“Have you met him?” The question slipped out from between Ophelia’s ground teeth, colored in curiosity.
Darren shook his head, sitting up with a grunt to flick his cigarette into the driveway only to pull another from his pocket. “No, but I’ve dealt with the middle child… Oran Santino. There’s a third, but I heard rumors recently that he’s dead. I’m pretty sure something happened. About two years ago, Carlyle started taking more and more control from his father and whatever happened, changed Oran. He was an angsty douchebag with a big brother complex, but he disappeared for a while, kept sending his little English bitch to deal with me. After he popped back up, he was— just different. Like he came into his own somehow, and wasn’t trying to be his brother. Carlyle Santino and Aleksander Makovich are one in the same, if you ask me. You’re in for one hell of a fight, trying to get either of them too close. Honestly, you’ll be lucky if they don’t try to assassinate each other because you can’t replace people like them.”
At least ours isn’t the only drama with life-ending potential.
“What about your girlfriend? Does she let anything slip?” Ophelia asked.
This conversation was getting difficult for me to follow; Ophelia’s brain just worked so much farther than mine. I wouldn’t have thought to ask about Darren’s girlfriend. I wasn’t even paying attention at that part.
Shrugging lightly as he sparked up, Darren sucked in a toxic breath as he sat back, holding himself on a lanky arm. “She’s seen him once. He came to their headquarters on the California border to meet with this head bitch…some biker chick with a big dog and a lot of street smarts. When I saw Lydia last, she talked about it. Even across the room, she felt like she was in eminent danger. He was watching her, but never so much as glanced at her. She was really troubled recounting it, even though it happened a few months before. For what it’s worth, Lydia’s a mousy, little thing.” He smiled fondly, exhaling through curved lips as his care for this Lydia woman blazed from his eyes.
Truthfully, it reminded me a lot of how I felt for Ophelia before her parents were killed—before everything went to shit.
“You know what they say though, the timid mouse is less likely to be eaten than the bold rat.” Darren shrugged.
“Yeah…”
Before they could continue the conversation, a shadow fell upon us, and a scowl instantly twisted my face.
Aleksander actually seemed apologetic and awkward almost, as he cleared his throat.
Ophelia turned her head the opposite way, waving her injured, stiff hand in disinterest before I reached for it. Her wrist might not have been badly broken, but it was still obviously painful.
“The next time you want to waste my time, Aleksander…” Hoisting himself to his feet, Darren shot Aleksander a nasty glare as he threw his barely burned cigarette to the ground to grind under his shoe. “Don’t. From now on, you come to me. If you don’t like it, kill me and see how much easier it is to use my corpse.”
“Are you heading past the train station?” Ophelia spoke up before Darren could stalk off towards his car. “Do you mind giving us a ride?”
He nodded curtly. “Of course. The least I can do after a terrible date is make sure you get home safely.” Darren held out his hand with a slight wink.
I unfurled my arm from around Ophelia as she took it to stand.
“We’ll stop and grab you some clothes, first. I get wanting to come here pre-prepared, but just your underwear is taking that a little too far.”
“I have an extra shirt in my briefcase she can wear.” I nodded.
Once we were on the train back to Moscow, we were going to have a talk, Ophelia and I.
Her glance told me she knew this, as she grabbed my hand to squeeze tightly.
Standing up myself, I cast Aleksander a glare flooded with all the disappointment and venom I could muster.
32
Ophelia
“Every time I hear his name, I just…” A disgusting taste swarmed my mouth, and I rested my cheek on Sascha’s shoulder to close my eyes. “I’m sorry, Sascha.”
“You said it yourself, Oppie. You have no experience with him or even anyone like him. It’s okay to be frazzled by new experiences.”
I cuddled closer to him, savoring his warmth as he worked his arm around my shoulders.
“At least things went better this time. You learned some important information, and I think it’d be a good idea to foster with Linead. He seems like a level-headed guy, even if you’re not friends, having someone like him on your team can help you.”
“I’m very aware of my self-esteem issues where Aleksander Makovich is concerned.” I couldn’t hide the bitterness in my tone.
Sascha squeezed me comfortingly.
Frowning at the back of the seats in front of us, my throat tightened as every moment I wavered in the past few weeks circled against my eye sockets. “I want to stop feeling so out of control—so worthless. I want to stop feeling like nothing I do is going to matter because I’ll end up like my parents sooner rather than later.”
“You don’t need me to tell you that letting someone else determine your worth will always make you feel worthless, but you are my everything, Ophelia. If you ever were going to kill yourself, I’d like you to tell me first, so I can be there for you.”
I felt all the blood drain from my face at Sascha’s earnest statement.
He pressed his lips to my temple tenderly. “If you feel like you have no choice but to cut your losses, I’ll be there to support you.”
“Y-you heard that…” Shame thickened my tone, but Sascha didn’t judge me. How could he, when he didn’t understand what kind of pressure I was under? At least, that was how he thought and the conclusion he would come to. His beard tickled my forehead and rustled my eyelashes, and my heart thundered hard but slow in my chest.
“I will never, ever discredit your feelings. I won’t judge your hardships. I won’t belittle you, or decide what’s best for you. When we got together, I made those promises because you’re young, and my doing any of that wasn’t going to help you grow. Your friends might’ve thought I was a creep, but you’re the one that’s got me wrapped around your finger, not the other way around, Ophelia.”
My cold face warmed at the conviction of Sascha’s voice.
He twirled a lock of my hair around his finger to make his point. “When we get back from America, and you’ve achieved what’s needed of you, we’re going to have a new house together. I’m going to quit the university. You’re going to be so sick of me.”
“… What are you going to do if you don’t teach?”
Grumbling thoughtfully, Sascha played with my hair as my question hung lightly between us.
His words settled heavily into the deepest crevices of my brain. We’d have a house together. He loved me for more than my money despite the fact I was swimming in the stuff.
Speaking of swimming… My present to myself for ‒ well, for nothing specific but being alive ‒ was to build a pond. A nice, expertly plotted pond that I paid almost half of the cost of the actual house for. And my pond would have lots of goldfish in it. Because—
“I don’t know yet, but I have time,” Sasha answered.” I’m not going to miss teaching all that much, I don’t think.”
Humming softly in acknowledgment, I rolled my lips
between my teeth and cracked my eyes open.
He went on, “I do want to go to the Summer Festival in Vladivostok next year. Maybe, we should go to all the cool festivals this year? And the Romanian Flower Festival in the Spring. Oktoberfest… Paris’ Pastry Festival in January would be a great way to start…”
“I’d love that.” I nodded. “I’d love to go to the West and eat all the food. And be with you in all those beautiful places.” But my smile and warm feelings didn’t last; this all hinged on my succeeding in the first place. “I don’t want to leave Russia, but… voluntary vacations? Those would be nice. Being forced to America, of all places, for something I don’t know anything about—I’m uncertain.”
“But you’re not afraid, Ophelia. You said it yourself. You’re going to fix Aleksander’s pants off. You’re going to do what others failed at and you’re going to do it spectacularly.”
I wished I had as much confidence in myself as Sascha’s voice in that moment, but our conversation cut short by his cell phone ringing insistently. Unfurling his arm from around me, his face twisted in irritation as he fished out the device from his pocket. “Hey, Malda. We’re on the train right now.”
Turning my attention to my wrist, I flexed my fingers around the throbbing, fiery ache that stretched up my arm and through my palm. I’d broken bones before, but this hurt more intensely, for some reason. Did I really look like I was just going to toss myself down the stairs? That was stupid. It didn’t work for Rudolf Hess and he had a lot better reason to do it.
“Oh- yeah? That’s great! Why, though?” Softly nudging me, Sascha stole my attention.
I glanced up.
He continued, “It’s nice that you’re coming to America with us, but what happened to going back to babysitting Lyov?”
My brows rose before drawing sharply, and I pursed my lips thinly. Malda…I liked her. I thought that if we weren’t so skeptical of each other, we could be good friends. More, I was very touched by her actions today. I have to remember to thank her.
“He disappeared? How can he just disappear?”
Instantly, my brain churned out a few reasons why Lyov Makovich had run away and hid. I hadn’t been very kind to him; maybe that had been his breaking point. Having a complete stranger call him out must’ve been much more impactful than people he knew doing so. At some point, he must’ve convinced himself that everyone was out to make him miserable because he killed his mother. Which… really didn’t count. There was no perpetrator in a situation like that— only victims. I felt bad for Lyov and how he must’ve felt all his life, bearing that burden. To be fair, though, there’s times for self-degradation and times for sucking it up and doing his job.
“Oh… I get it. Okay well, we’ll be in Moscow in about an hour.” They said their goodbyes and hung up, Sascha took my injured hand to slouch in his seat a bit. “When we get there, you need to get patched up.”
“I can do it at home…” All I had to do was wrap it; going to a hospital would be a waste of time.
Frowning at me as he prodded my wrist gingerly, Sascha didn’t protest.
“I like Malda, I think we’d be good friends.”
“I think she likes you, too, Oppie. But back to the conversation at hand… You may not have particular experience with Aleksander or Santino, but you’ve been a diplomat for Makovich to Ukraine, Romania and Belarus… You can draw on that. You’re not flying blind into this. It just seems overwhelming, but you’re more prepared than you’d think for this.”
Wincing with a hiss when Sascha hit the tender part of my wrist, I gingerly pulled from his grasp.
His eyes met mine, narrowed but brimming with confidence.
“… At least it wasn’t my right hand that I landed on.” Leaning over to kiss him, I palmed Sascha’s crotch heavily, and a smile tilted my lips when he tensed. “I love you, Sascha. You make me a better person.”
“I love you, too, Ophelia.”
Butterflies fluttered in my abdomen as I drew back, and Sascha reached to wrap his arm around me once again. He didn’t have to do this— stick by me when everything was going so catastrophically wrong. His life could be in danger, but his faith in me was so absolute that he didn’t even care. To him, I could fix anything…
That was exactly what I was going to do. So many times, I’d thought to myself— next time. Next time, I would do it right. Next time, I wouldn’t crack under the pressure. Next time, I’d get the better of Aleksander Makovich.
But there was no next time… because if I failed, I wouldn’t get another chance.
33
Ophelia
“I’m gonna miss this sofa.” Flopping onto the couch, Sascha spread out his arms as a huge sigh burst from his mouth. “We should get another one…one that’s smaller and not so obnoxious.”
“I’d have to find the order somewhere. It’s not an old purchase, so…” Pulling his shirt over my head, I straddled Sascha’s waist as I trailed off. Rolling my lips between my teeth, my tongue tingled with the urge to just blurt out that I was keeping this sofa. I hadn’t told him as I wanted it to be a surprise.
Palming my waist, Sascha arched his body slightly before his eyes found mine, and everything around him started to blur and fade.
Blood drummed louder and louder in my ears as I caressed up along Sascha’s chest. His heart beat strong under my hand, and my own stuttered from the sudden surge of affection that sloshed against my ribs. My eyes stung fiercely, reminding my brain that I needed to blink as he overtook all my thoughts— even the unconscious ones. “When we went out to Bruv’s for your birthday… do you remember? We walked down the Moskva afterwards, and I told you about my family and who I worked for.” I popped open the top button of his shirt, my gaze never wavering as he nodded. Sascha’s orbs filled with memories; it’d taken me a lot to actually explain my job to him. “I told you… you could walk away, and you said you had to think about it.”
Another button slipped from its fastening. Goosebumps blanketed my back as Sascha’s fingers crept up, and my lungs sputtered in my chest.
“I hoped that the good would vastly outweigh the bad and I wasn’t wrong.” His smile ruffled his beard, his voice thick with his conviction that he’d made the right choice back then.
Four and a half years ago, I’d been adamant to work up the courage to give him the option, to explain my life wasn’t one I would’ve chosen for myself. Before we’d gotten together, before I’d even moved out from under my parents’ thumbs, I told Sascha about the family business. So he could turn around and walk away, and I wouldn’t begrudge him. After a few, maddening days, Sascha texted me to meet up at Red Square. At the time, I’d been so sure he’d tell me he didn’t want to go further. I was nearly 18 years younger than him; what did I have to contribute to a relationship when he’d experienced so much?
“Ophelia—”
I blinked, training my eyes on the Sascha of the present even though the past still clung to the backs of my eyelids. He’d always had a beard, but it was a few strands greyer, now. Gingerly peeling back his shirt, I scraped my teeth along my bottom lip as heat pooled in my abdomen. Sascha had a nice, comfortable body. He inhaled a deep, slow breath to push against my palm. Deftly unfastening the rest of his buttons with my one working hand, I sat back when he arched his back to shuffle out of the fabric. “I’m so in love with you. So… why do I feel so disgusting?”
His brows furrowed, lips thinning in concern, Sascha sat up to wrap both his arms around me. “When bad things happen to us, it’s natural not to want to get someone you love involved, Ophelia. This wasn’t unexpected or even that shocking to me, honestly. To be honest, everything was going so well for so long that we both became complacent.” Somehow, he managed to touch all of me at the same time, his cheek resting firmly on my crown.
Hoovering up as big a breath as I could, I took his smell deep down into my being. I held my breath.
Sascha sighed, squeezing me a little tighter. “When you told me about who
you were, I almost did cut things off. Bratva… you’re on the edge and it affected you so much. Your parents didn’t love each other or you and no one saw you as a child, a teenager, a young woman… They saw your last name and heaped responsibility on you because you’re good at it. All those reasons I shouldn’t have stayed were what made me want to.”
My heart stuttered when Sascha uttered that phrase— Bratva. The Russian Mob. Makovich Industries was a pseudonym, the safer thing to call what we were, but when the dust settled, nothing could hide it. My family were criminals. I was a criminal. I fixed messes, made legal repercussions go away— kept this criminal enterprise from being exposed. Aleksander Makovich was the worst criminal of us all, and I answered when he whistled.
Soaking in Sascha’s unfathomable warmth, I closed my eyes as our skin on skin shored up my wavering soul. Despite bullying the Ukrainian Prime Minister ‒ among other, worse things ‒ Sascha was still by my side. Knowing I had suggested removing people that posed a danger, or needed to be dealt with, and those people had been removed… he was still by my side. Sascha didn’t see me as a criminal.
Sascha saw me as the person I could’ve been if I wasn’t born a Cherinivsky.
“It shouldn’t have been a question of weight.” I sighed. Still… Ever since my parents were murdered, my own turmoil might’ve been great, but the situation was rather calm. I was a mess, but everything around me was still standing, tall, proud and strong. Inside this eye of the storm, everything was reversed. “Even though it’ll hurt… if you’re not happy, you can walk away, Sascha.”
“I know, Ophelia.” Pulling back to cup my cheek, Sascha’s eyes danced with earnestness. His breath rolled down the bridge of my nose and through my eyelashes before he spoke softly, “I believe with all my heart that you can make Aleksander Makovich look stupid.”
Tentatively lifting my lips to his, my eyelids fluttered closed. Sascha’s kiss was firm, his mouth gentle— his tongue considerate as it asked so politely for entry. Behind my shuttered lids, the memory of our first kiss played, but this one was better. Somehow, my fingers found their way into his hair as the base of his skull, and I opened my mouth willingly.