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Once, while lurking in the shadows, I used my phone to record Lilyana practicing this piece so I could fill my apartment with her sublime interpretation instead. I connect to my speaker, and with a crackle, her talent paints the air with beauty.
My eyes shift to the framed photographs scattered around my study. Morgana is a photographer and takes countless pictures, some of which she organizes neatly and others she leaves scattered in albums. She loves having Lilyana as a subject because she’s so photogenic, and whenever I was alone in the mansion, I sifted through them, amassing my collection.
Some photos were in formal settings, but my favorites captured her when she didn’t realize she was being watched. Stolen moments of perfection where she was nothing more or less than her fascinating self.
I pick up a silver-framed photograph of Lilyana bathed in warm light, engrossed in writing music. Her tongue peeks out from the corner of her mouth, and she’s tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
If only I could climb into the picture and sit beside her. I long to ask her about her music, feelings, likes, dislikes, wants, and needs—everything and anything. She enthralls me in every way possible, whether she’s playing piano beatifically to a stunned audience or battling to keep her fears in check.
I told Lilyana she wasn’t in charge, but that was a lie. I’ll willingly be her servant forever.
I throw on a T-shirt and grab my keys. As I step outside, something catches my eye, and I freeze in my tracks.
What the fuck?
Some piece of shit has keyed my car. My Rolls Royce Ghost, less than six months old and custom-sprayed in metallic black, now sports a long, ugly scratch along the front fender and driver’s door. I had a nagging feeling that I should have parked it in the apartment garage last night, but I was too focused on Lilyana and left it in the communal lot. I can access the security camera footage, but it will take time and a few calls.
I climb into my car and head for the chop shop. I may as well kill two birds with one stone.
Raul gives a low whistle as he runs his finger along the scratch. “!Venga! And this happened right outside your home? The nerve of some people! A Moretti, right?”
I’m suddenly less interested in my car. “Why do you say that?” I ask.
Raul raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been preoccupied with the girl, haven’t you? The Moretti famiglia is questioning your claim. After Vlad and Sasha married civilians, it’s not surprising that they’re upset. Now their sister is marrying you instead of a mafia man.”
“Vlad doesn’t want Lilyana to be hurt just so some jerk can put his hands on the Kislev bratva,” I explain. “Her father had everyone convinced she was useless. No one would approach her with good intentions, but she’s safe with me.”
“But you’re in too deep with her, right?” Raul lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can tell, hombre. You say her name like it’s a prayer.”
Great. If he can see how crazy I am about Lilyana, it won’t be long before everyone does, and that’s dangerous.
I swore to two things: that our marriage was a sham and that I wouldn’t sleep with her. The first was a lie from the beginning, but why did I promise to keep my hands to myself when I could feel her body calling me whenever I got near? If she wants me, I’ll be powerless to resist, even if it means risking my life.
“Mind your own business,” I snap, changing the subject. “Can you fix this or not?”
Raul nodded. “Of course, my friend. Want to use one of my spare cars while you wait?”
“I’ll take the Veyron. I used to own one; it’s a great ride.”
One of Raul’s guys goes to retrieve the Bugatti. “So, about this Moretti thing,” I continue. “Where did you hear it, Raul? Because rumors like that can be dangerous for me. My marriage to Lilyana is about protecting her from harm, and I can’t have those fuckers thinking she’s still fair game.”
Raul stares at his shoes. “The guys around here heard it on the streets, in the bars, that’s how it is. People talk. I wouldn’t pay it much mind.”
He’s backpedaling. It’d be typical of Raul to blow something out of proportion, so I suspect he doesn’t know much.
I’ll make discreet inquiries, but I don’t want to involve Vlad yet. There may be trouble coming my way, and if Vlad catches on to it, he might deem my marriage to Lilyana pointless. I can’t turn back when I’m so close to making her mine.
“I need you to grease the security guy in my building,” I told Raul. “I’d talk to him myself, but I prefer to keep out of it for now. Download the security footage from the communal lot camera.” I hear the Bugatti engine outside and stand, giving Raul a nod. “Call me when you’re done, alright? And keep your mouth shut. Until I find out who did this, you have no idea.”
“You got it.”
The car is outside, with the keys in it. My phone beeps just as I climb into the driver’s seat—a message from Lilyana.
I’m at Juilliard. Can you pik me up? Plz hurri.
Her off-kilter spelling only happens when she’s stressed. I dash off a quick reply.
I’m twenty minutes drive away, baby girl. But I’ll see you in ten. x
