Page 160 of Mafia Obsession

We spend another hour at Marlowe, Ares not rushing me. Sandrine’s hug goodbye feels stronger than ever. I remind myself this isn’t goodbye.

When Ares finally steers me to the SUV, I give one look back and see Sandrine sitting once again with her sketchbook. The look of ease on her face that I will not be there tomorrow or the day after that steadies me.

Ares takes my hand. “She’s amazing, Lourdes. And that’s because you never gave up on her.”

Sniffing, I say, “And I can take the jet back here anytime I want?”

“As often as you want. As often as you need.” He kisses our linked hands. “And I hope you’ll let me come with you when my schedule allows.”

“I would love that.” Relief moves through me like a long, slow breath.

“You changed my life, Lourdes,” he says softly. “And I’ll spend the rest of it making sure you never forget how much I love you.”

“Ares…” I don’t know what to say, so I just put my head on his shoulder.

We drive for a few minutes, and then Ares sits up. “Lourdes, when Sandrine finds out her name isn’t Jessica Parker, will she learn the other truth?” he asks, concern in his voice.

His question makes me wonder how my sister will react if we tell her she’s also engaged. To a man we’ve been keeping her from.

“She doesn’t remember Kirill at all,” I say, shaking my head. “We’ve been talking more about the past. She doesn’t mention him or any past boyfriends or dates. No one. Nothing.”

Ares is silent for a moment before he says, “Then perhaps she doesn’t need to know that part of it.”

I glance up at him. “You think we shouldn’t tell her?”

“Not yet,” he says calmly. “Let her accept who she is first. The rest can wait.”

After a moment, I nod. “I think you’re right.”

Ares’s jet waits for us at a private airport. I board the plane, and when the attendant welcomes me as Mrs. Zervas this time, I finally feel like I’m Ares’s real wife.

Chapter 68

Kirill Volkov - Chicago

Chicago’s harsh winter keeps its claws dug into this city. The March blizzard rages outside my window. The Volkov family mansion sits in the heart of the Gold Coast. Not hidden. The Bratva doesn’t hide.

I stand behind my desk, hands braced on the dark wood edge, looking down at the map spread across the worn surface. New York has fallen. Boston, too. More brotherhoods will follow.

They thought legacy would protect them. Because their blood spilled to raise their skyscrapers, they thought they owned those cities forever.

Nothing lasts forever. I learned that the hard way.

Chicago will soon stand as the new center of the American Bratva. All the pieces to take my power are exactly where they need to be.

Except foronedamn thing. And that’s about to change.

The map is curled on the edges now. Territories. Routes. Names that still need to be erased. By the time my father dies, there will be no one left to challenge me.

A muscle in my jaw ticks. But none of that can happen until I get Sandrine back.

I push away from the desk, the maps, the plans for the night. Satisfied. Until I turn my attention to the one thing in this office that gives me angst. Unsettles me.

The painting.

It hangs alone on the far wall, lit from above the same way artwork is displayed at a museum or gallery. Where it belonged. Now it’s here. As a reminder of what I fucking lost.

I stand in front of it with a glass of vodka in one hand. With the other, I finger the strokes of color layered over one another, movement trapped in stillness.