Page 14 of Sinful Hearts

“Aleksy, did you forget who the Lombardis are? They’re not stupid. IfIoranyonekills Emilio, they’ll hunt down whoever is to blame.”

Aleksy sighs in annoyance, as if I were saying no to letting him borrow a jacket, not freaking murder. “Listen, I know this is asking a lot. But look at it this way: Murdering him is your ticket out of the marriage. You become a widow, who will then choose her own husband. All we need from you is this onesimplefavor.”

I stare coldly at him. “No.”

“You don’t have a choice in this. It’s final.” He kisses my forehead, as if that seals our deal. “Make the family proud. You’re the future matriarch of the Bratva, Liliya. Make your husband happy. Get his guard down. Then, kill him.”

6

Aleksy’s demandreplays in my head as if on a loop.

“Get his guard down. Then kill him.”

Not only am I suddenly supposed to be a Mafia wife, but I also need to become an assassin.

I sink into the cool leather seat and glance out of Emilio’s SUV window.

Thunder rolls, and a bolt of lightning zips across the sky. For a split second, I consider throwing open the door and making a run for it.

Dread has etched itself in the pit of my stomach over what happens when we get back to his—no,ourhome.

We haven’t spoken the entire ride. The only sound is the screech of the windshield wipers and the storm.

Emilio finally slows at a black iron gate with pointed tips and stone pillars. Blinking, I attempt to see beyond it, but the rain makes it too blurry.

Water spills into the car when Emilio rolls down his window. He punches a code into a rusty speaker box. Craning my neck, I attempt to see it, but he blocks me.

The gate opens like a mouth ready to swallow me whole. Emilio rolls up the window and drives up the sloped driveway. Darkness and trees surround us.

My jaw drops when the headlights land on the all-stone estate home. It’s stunning and nothing like what I expected from Emilio.

The home is a fortress, fit for billionaires and regals. I don’t know how much the Lombardis pay their capos, but in the Morozova Bratva, only bosses have homes like this.

I turn to look at Emilio. “Did you grow up here?” That has to be the only explanation.

He tightens his hand around the steering wheel. “Yes.”

We park in the circular driveway, not in a garage. He cuts the engine, and without a word, steps out into the rain.

Sighing, I unbuckle my seat belt and trail him. The rain relentlessly soaks my dress and hair. By the time I walk inside, I’m drenched.

Emilio flips on a dim light, and a chandelier with cobwebs overhead casts a golden light in the grand entry.

For a long second, neither of us says anything.

Silence is our main form of communication.

Arguing seems to be the second.

The air is stale and thick with traces of dust. The interior reminds me of an old castle that’s been vacant for too long. But beneath the dust and cobwebs is architecture art.

Soaring ceilings that make me feel short, arched windows, dark walnut trim, and stained glass bleeding with assorted colors, create its beauty.

Whoever built this home spent time perfecting every detail.

Whoever lived here doesn’t have good lasting memories.

I can feel it in the air.