Page 19

The sun is beating down from above us as we stand beneath the shade of the umbrellas provided by the church.

Everyone is solemn as they quietly watch his casket being lowered into the ground. My mother is crying, streams of tears flowing freely over her cheeks, turning her face red, her eyes swollen and painful to look at. She is grieving openly. She lost a man she truly loved and believes loved her, too.

My chest is tight, pulling my heart in different directions.

Today is about respecting someone who died. I might not like the man, but I do have great respect for my mother’s pain, and her loss is what I have come to honor and provide support for.

Miron, on the other hand, isn’t bothering to show his own father any respect at all. He isn’t even watching the casket as it disappears into the rich, dark hole, to be buried beneath freshly-dug earth.

I glance at him, and his eyes are tight on me.

He’s already made several comments to let me know that he has no doubt I am the reason his father died. That I was behind this ‘accident.’ He’s already vowed revenge.

I glare back at him, but when Lara shifts a little closer to me and wraps her arm around my waist, it pulls my attention back to where it is supposed to be. Honoring the passing of a life.

My mother’s sobs are breaking my heart, and I can’t engage with Miron now. It will hurt her even more if we fight at her husband’s funeral.

Ulyana’s gaze catches mine, and she pulls her mouth tight. I can see what she’s thinking in that one, quick look. She’s hurting for our mother, but not sorry to see the man gone. She has her arm around our mother’s shoulders, holding her close, letting her grieve.

I am the one who identified the body, partially because I needed to see for myself that he really was dead and that this wasn’t some ploy or trick or part of a bigger plan they might have.

It was him.

His face was sliced open, grated over the road as he was launched through the front window of his car during the crash. One side of his face looked like him; the other side looked like it had been in a meat grinder.

I’ve seen what flesh looks like once it’s been in a meat grinder.

Swallowing hard, I push the image of his dead eyes out of my mind. The funeral director suggested a closed casket, and I insisted that my mother understood there wasn’t another option.

After he is lowered into the ground, Lara takes my hand and leads me away from the graveside, into the church where our family is hosting a memorial with food and drinks and photographs of Sergei propped against easels around the room.

It’s morbid.

Lara walks ahead of me, her hand locked in mine, leading me to the bar so that she can order me a vodka.

Her long black dress has a high slit in it. Every now and then, I see a glimpse of her creamy thigh before it disappears beneath a layer of soft, flowing black fabric.

She is becoming more confident with each passing day. She is growing into the role of being my wife, not missing a step, standing at my side, and saying all the right things.

She turns towards me, and my eyes trace over the black diamond choker I chose for her to wear today. It accentuates her collarbones and complements the long lace sleeves.

“Nestor?”

“Mm?” I say, distracted.

“Vodka, my love.”

She’s holding a glass towards me.

“Thank you.” I sigh in relief, letting the sharp liquid pour down my throat, and the burn eases some of my tension.

Lara leads me away from the bar to stand near the wall of white and black flowers.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, snuggling close against me.

“I’ll be much better when we get out of here.”

“Nestor Rostov, would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” a reporter asks politely. It’s a necessity to allow the vultures into the memorial. A select few, but still, vultures nonetheless.

They were not part of the ceremony or the burial, but they were there, lurking, taking photos, whispering rumors.

“Go ahead, but keep it short,” I say roughly.

Lara remains right against my side, her arm protectively around me.

The reporter smiles at her before starting her line of questions.

“It is no secret that you and Sergei did not get along. His son has been rather vocal about the conflict between you two. People are worried that his death was not an accident.” She tilts a recorder towards me.

“I did not hear a question,” I huff.

“Oh, um, sorry. What was your relationship like with Sergei? Is there any merit to what his son, Miron, is claiming?”

“Sergei was my mother’s husband. He made her happy, and I am sorry to lose him. He was a part of our family.”

“But you two were fighting?”

“All families argue.”

“Did you kill him?” she asks, boldly—and stupidly, because if I had killed him, why the fuck would I confess it to her in some pathetic interview at the man’s memorial?

I’m biting my tongue, wanting to rip her throat out for the ridiculous question, but Lara speaks before I can think of anything to say.

“My husband, like the rest of the family, is distraught over the loss of his stepfather, Sergei. People in the media will, of course, want a juicier story than a simple, heartbreaking accident, because to whisper rumors of foul play is far more exciting than allowing a family to mourn in peace. Your line of questioning is incredibly disrespectful, and I suggest you move on before I have you removed from the venue. And do not even try to talk to Sergei’s wife.

You have already made it clear that you have no intention of being empathetic to the pain she is in after losing someone so close to her heart. ”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to stare at Lara with my mouth open, wanting to keep my composure in front of everyone.

“Nestor…" The reporter looks shaken by Lara’s stern reprimand and decides to try with me again instead.

“I believe my wife made it very clear that you should shift to a more respectful line of questioning if you want to remain an invited member at this memorial. Save your gossip for the tabloids. We have nothing further to say to you.”

And when the reporter walks away from us, muttering an embarrassed apology, it takes every ounce of my self-control not to lift Lara in my arms and spin her around in celebration.

Instead, I pull her very close and lean down, whispering against her ear, “You are incredible, Lara. My mind is blown by how well you handled that.”

She looks up at me and smiles.

“I’m just looking out for you, Nestor.”

If not for my mother’s pain, I would have paid my respects and left hours ago. The memorial is dragging on, and I’ve spoken to so many different people, shielding against the rumors that Miron is spreading, doing my best to protect my family from them, and I’m exhausted.

Another reason I haven’t walked out of here is that Lara is right by my side, supporting me, defending me, and helping me stay calm in this heavy chaos. Her gentle touch, her arm around me, and her confidence as she stands at my side—it’s giving me more than she knows.

And more than I thought possible.

She’s giving me strength.

Miron is currently talking to a reporter a little way from us, and I can hear every third or fourth word.

He is not being subtle in his accusations.

I can’t believe that he thinks the media is the best way to deal with internal family issues; even though I didn’t kill Sergei, I know Miron has made many attempts on my life, and I never once took it to the media.

It’s not how things are handled in the bratva world.

It’s another glaring example of why he should never be trusted to lead San Francisco, even in the event of my death—he would be voted out of power before a few months had passed.

But by the laws of the mafia, he is next in line. The next closest relative who should take my place.

If I had a son, that would be different. My son would be the automatic heir, and I could appoint someone to teach him and hold my position until he comes of age.

That person would be Roan.

It would shock a number of people, but he is the only man I’ve ever felt enough confidence in.

What I would prefer, though, is to have a son and raise him myself. And for him not to inherit the position in the event of my death, but rather for me to hand it over to him when I retire.

***

It’s late when we get home.

And I’m exhausted down to my bones. It takes effort to walk upstairs to my bedroom.

Lara follows me into my room.

“That was horrible,” she sighs, dropping her purse onto the chair in the corner.

“It was. I thought it was never going to end.” I kick off my shoes and strip out of the dark layers of clothing I wore today.

Lara tilts her head to the side, watching me, then smiles softly.

“I am going to get changed and then come and sit with you for a while, if that’s okay. I don’t feel like being alone right now.”

“I would really like that,” I nod.

By the time she returns to my room, wearing cute pink shorts and a cropped T-shirt, I am already in bed, tired, but with my head too busy to even think about sleep.

When she walks in, I smile right away, feeling some of the tension lift.

“Thank you for today, it meant a lot to me to have you there,” I say quietly as she lifts the blankets and slides beneath them.

I reach out under the blankets and pull her closer, and she nuzzles against me, letting out a soft breath of air as she gets comfortable.

I can smell her body lotion. She uses a rose one. I know because I chose it for her, and it smells incredible on her skin.

I lift her wrist to my face and take a long, slow breath of her.

“I love it. It’s creamy and delicate, it makes you smell like wildflowers.”

She has her head resting on my chest, and she slowly starts to trace her finger around the edges of my tattoo. The sensation is surprisingly relaxing, and I close my eyes.

Her touch is alluring, enticing, but I’m so tired, and she brings me such deep comfort that I drift off to sleep.

***

In the morning, I wake up with Lara in my bed, and I smile broadly. She feels me moving, and in her half-asleep state, she snuggles up closer to me and wraps her arm around my chest.

I can’t remember the last time I slept that well. We were close all night; I was holding her and enjoying every moment of it, even in my sleep.

I am more rested than I ever remember being, and it feels incredible.

I’m lying on my back, and her body pressed against mine has my cock throbbing with desire.

I slip my arm beneath her back and pull her even closer, and she moans sweetly in her dreams.

I’m about to lift her onto my chest when I realize this isn’t just lust.

This is so much more.

I don’t just want her.

I want her.

My body is begging for her.

Shock bolts through me. Panic, perhaps, is a better word.

I never had any intention of falling for Lara.

From the moment we met, she has been a wild attraction for me, and I didn’t even notice the day it changed into something more. I race through my memories, trying to pinpoint the moment it happened, but each memory with her is filled with fondness that overwhelms me even more.

What’s happened to me?

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

I slip my arm out from around her and shift across the bed, trying not to wake her anymore.

I’m in too deep.

It’s a risk to care about people, and I already have my family to think about.

I didn’t want this.

I just wanted— I don’t know what I wanted.

This is too much.

I climb out of bed and hurry from the room, heading downstairs to make coffee.

As I walk away, I hear her softly calling my name, but I ignore it.

I can’t think straight, and all I want now is to create space between us.

How did I let her get to me?

It’s a weakness.

To become emotionally involved with someone is a form of weakness. And I can’t afford weakness in my position.