Page 9 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

Nate’s been in hysterics all afternoon, griping on and on about the “goddamn murder attempt ” that I endured this afternoon. I admit that the barrage of machine gun fire into the restaurant was a close call, but he keeps asking if I need to go to therapy for the trauma of it all.

“I lived,” I mutter, when he asks for the twelfth time if I’m okay.

“This is just par for the course, I guess,” he says with a heavy sigh. “My first date with Ness ended in a near death experience too.” He pats my forearm absently in what I think is intended to be a comforting gesture.

For once, I do not glare at him for getting too close to me because he was just worried and the mafia is still rather new to him.

I’m still not sure how Vanessa convinced him to go from math teacher to part-time mafioso, but he’s not so bad.

As much as I pretend to dislike him, he’s weaseled his way under my skin the same way he has the rest of the family.

I would kill for him, and expect that, if needed, he might for me as well.

Willa and Vanessa were more pissed about the situation than concerned when I got home.

They understand there’s no use fretting over what could have happened when I am obviously still in one piece.

After making sure I wasn’t injured, the pair of them immediately started making calls.

Maxim had been doing the same since ushering me into his town car, a protective arm around my shoulders.

All three of them are trying to get to the bottom of the attack—who made it, why, if they’ll try again, etc.

Boring shit.

I make no calls, because that’s not in my job description nor particular skill set, but I do go downstairs and punch things until my arms hurt. My hands have been shaking since Maxim loaded me up in his car. I balled them up in my lap then, but now, they still shake.

The punching doesn’t help, nor the twenty minutes of stretching, the food I force myself to eat, the shower I take, the deep breathing—none of the usual fixes.

Now, in my bathroom, I stare at my hands in front of me for a moment, steam from my shower still fogging the mirror.

Nate’s frantic reminder that I could’ve died slides around my brain, bumping into the “what if’s” that are once again raging there. I could’ve died, a shot through the brain or neck or chest that would have resulted in a quick death. After all these years of fighting, that would’ve been it.

This is the thought that keeps me so on edge, this reminder of my mortality.

My sisters would mourn me, my mother would weep over my casket like she did over my father’s. They’d miss me and yet, life would move on. They’d each deliver two perfect babies and I wouldn’t be there to protect them.

Maxim would find another bride, maybe a nicer one, and have no obligation to the Morelli family.

I grip the stone counter and squeeze my eyes shut, breathing slowly in through my nose and then out through my mouth.

A knock sounds at my bedroom door, distracting me from my impending spiral and I flex my hands at my sides before I go to answer it.

I’m taken aback to see Maxim waiting on the other side, still in the same shirt from earlier, but the sleeves now rolled up over dense forearms crossed over his chest. I raise my eyes to meet his.

Water drips from the ends of my hair onto my bare shoulders and tank top.

“You’re still here,” I observe. I thought he’d left hours ago, off to run his own investigations.

“I came back,” he says. His voice is impressively deep. Nate always mentions it, and he’s right. “I wanted to give you the opportunity to tell me to go to hell.”

My face twists into displeased confusion and I take a large step backward, granting him access into my room.

He stalks past me, his huge frame foreign in my space.

I’m suddenly self-conscious of what he sees; the basket of dirty clothes, the weapons on my desk, the journal on my nightstand that I’m supposed to write in when I feel myself slipping.

“Your shoes,” I say before he can step on my green rug. He peers over his shoulder, then down at his leather shoes that are probably twice the size of mine. Christ, why is he built like that?

Maxim kneels to untie them and my mind supplies that this is how he might have looked if he was proposing to someone he actually liked in a different world—one less fucked up than this one.

He stands and leaves the leather shoes side by side on the wood floor.

“I’ll understand if you’re done here,” Maxim says.

His face is entirely impassive. I have no idea if he wants me to be done here or what he’s saying, but it’s making my stomach churn.

If I’m getting shot at in public, what’s to say my sisters won’t be next?

I need him more than he needs me at this moment.

I step past him, pulling out my desk chair and setting it down facing the bench at the foot of my bed. I drop down on the bench and grip the cushion beside my thighs to hide the way my fingers are still trembling. After an unsure moment, Maxim sinks into the chair opposite me.

“Did you find out who it was?” I ask.

“No, but I have my suspicions.”

He won’t look me in the eye. His shirt is unbuttoned more than it was this morning, and I see the top of a tattoo peeking from his chest that I do not let myself wonder about. Now is not the time.

“I told you I need to have a child,” Maxim continues after another quiet minute. “If I don’t, my cousin is next in line and, to some, he is the preferred choice.”

Maxim always speaks of his legacy like he’s part of the royal family—heirs and a line of succession—like Boston is his hard-won kingdom and the slightest misstep will put it in the hands of the wrong king.

“Who is he?”

“Nikolai Orlov.”

I recoil, recognizing immediately the spineless Orlov that’s not much older than me.

He was a senior in high school when I was a freshman—same grade as Vanessa, and he hated our fucking guts.

Said it was unnatural to let girls get into what we were getting into.

Leo beat his ass once—I’m still surprised it didn’t start a war.

I guess Nikolai was too embarrassed to snitch about a Morelli beating him in a fight.

“You know him?” Maxim eyes me warily, as if I might favor Nikolai as well.

“He’s an idiot. Not to mention a prick,” I say. “I knew he was an Orlov, but I didn’t realize how closely he was related.”

“He is,” Maxim agrees, “and his morals are nonexistent in the shadow of his desire for respect and power.”

I blink at Maxim’s intensity and the disgust on his face. He has the slightest Russian accent, but it’s more pronounced when he’s angry. “Why would anyone choose him?”

“He’s easy to sway. A compliment, a bribe, it doesn’t take much. He’s a simple man.”

“And you think he tried to kill us?”

“No. He’s stupid, not suicidal.” Maxim rests his elbows on his knees, which brings him fractionally closer to me. He twists the signet ring on his pinky, then flexes his hands when he catches me watching the movement. “I believe it was someone with direct interest in Nikolai taking over.”

“Why kill me then? My sisters would retaliate if I died. It would be a mess.”

Another reason to take greater care of my life, I realize. Starting a crime war in Boston isn’t safe for new mothers nor their new babies.

“Our relationship and short engagement has spurned rumors.”

“They, what? Think you already knocked me up?” I must be more tired than I thought because I could almost swear that his cheeks darken at this.

“Yes.” He stares at the carpet as he speaks. “They believe it’s already too late. I worry this isn’t the last move they’ll make against us.”

If I was anyone else in the world, I might be more worried about this prospect.

But I’m not. I’ve trained for nearly my whole life to be sharp, observant, agile, and deadly.

If we can both stay at the top of our games, we will be fine.

Maxim needs me; he needs a wife and a baby and someone who stands a chance at keeping that baby alive—but I need him more .

I mirror his position, resting my elbows on my knees and leaning toward him.

It brings our faces close enough that I can see the light wrinkles around his mouth, probably from too much frowning.

We lock eyes, his as blue as mine are brown.

Some strands of hair have escaped from his gelled style and hang over his forehead.

I refrain from moving them, though the thought returns the phantom touch of his fingertips on my face this afternoon.

“If you’re offering a way out to protect me, then forget it. I’m capable, and I’m not going to change my mind,” I tell him. I clasp my fingers together to keep him from seeing the shake, how fragile I really feel. I don’t need him to see, again, how weak I can be.

“I can’t protect your family if I’m dead, Marianna.” He looks away, but I can’t lose him now. Racking my brain for a way to convince him, I say the one thing I’ve wondered about the Orlovs for years.

“How did your father die?”

“What?” Maxim asks, not following the abrupt subject change.

“Tell me.”

Maxim presses his lips into a thin line. I know the story, and he knows that I know it. But I also know the rumors. “He was very sick.”

“Right.” I chew on my bottom lip for a moment then release it from between my teeth. “Now how did he really die?”

Maxim exhales. A line appears between his brows, one I’ve noticed there when he’s thinking or worrying, which seems to be almost all of the time. I want to press my thumb against the spot until it’s smooth.

“I killed him,” Maxim admits.

At the risk of rejection, I reach out and place one of my hands lightly atop of his.

He stills and I take a slow breath. “You did what you had to. I think you would do whatever it takes to protect the people in your circle. I can’t protect anyone if I’m dead either, which is why you’ll watch my back and I’ll watch yours.”