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41
Lyon sat in his car and stared at the house through the windshield. Even now he could admire the gabled roof, the sheer size of the place. It had probably been a mistake to come here, but he’d been full of mistakes since Kira left him, all of them centered around her.
Trying to forget her, remembering her. Hating her, loving her.
He got out of the car and headed up the walkway to the double doors, then fished around in his pocket for the key.
The house was still empty, the rooms dark and cavernous in the gloomy December light. He wandered for a bit, remembering the kitchen where he’d imagined Kira trying new recipes, the den where they would have a library with all the books she could read, where they could talk in front of the fire with glasses of bourbon.
He didn’t dare go upstairs, didn’t dare walk through the house’s many bedrooms, imagining the children he’d thought they might fill them with, the sound of laughter and running feet that would echo through the halls.
Instead he stopped at the glass doors leading to the sweeping grounds at the back of the house. He’d thought she might plant a garden there, one like her father’s. He’d imagined her out there — had even imagined Viktor with her — toiling in the soil.
It had been the best kind of dream.
It had been the worst kind of dream.
He walked away from the doors and made his way back into the living room, stopping in front of the big stone fireplace. He removed the letter from his pocket, already worn from the many times he’d read it.
His heart had been punctured a thousand times by the words, but he couldn’t seem to stop reading, couldn’t seem to stop asking himself how he could have gotten it so wrong.
One more time,he promised himself.One more time.
He opened it and read.
Lyon -
I think it’s time we both admit our business arrangement is no longer expeditious for either of us. The Baranov name means nothing without my father, and frankly, neither does our sham of a marriage.
As you know, ours was an arrangement based on mutual ambition. Feelings of any kind never entered into the equation, although I tried for both our sakes to make it as pleasant as possible.
Now, the time for pretending is past. I hope you didn’t find it too trying.
Kira
He stared at the letter for a long time, had spent countless hours staring at it over the previous weeks, trying to find a shred of the woman he thought he’d known in her words.
It had been futile. The letter was as cold as an arctic tundra, as cold as he’d thought Kira was back when he’d first made his proposal to Viktor. Whatever he thought he’d seen in Kira had been a lie, a projection of his own foolish desire.
But he had learned his lesson.
He reached into the pocket of his coat for the book of matches he’d been carrying around, hoping for the strength to destroy her final words to him. It had taken him almost a month, but it was time.
He stepped closer to the fireplace, lit one of the matches, and held it to the corner of the letter. He watched the fire consume it. When he could no longer hold it, he dropped it into the hearth and watched it turn to ash.
The ritual was cathartic. As the smoke dissipated, his resolve hardened. Kira didn't have to love him, but she did have to honor their agreement. Whatever she thought about the merit of the Baranov name in Lyon’s bid for control of the bratva, she was his wife.
She would see their agreement through — one way or another.
He turned away from the fireplace and headed for the front door. His month was almost up. The Spies would soon have an answer regarding his exile, and there were rumors Musa was in the shadows, preparing to strike. The bratva was on the brink of a civil war and Lyon intended to win once and for all.
In the meantime, he would find his wife and bring her home. Then he would punish her for what she’d done to him.
For what she’d made him feel.
