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A choked sob escapes Tori’s lips. Luka hugs her close. My other brothers hang their heads, their eyes wet with tears.
But I don’t cry.
Adrenaline floods my veins, my pulse pounding hard like a fist against the side of my neck. She’s gone. My mother’s life was snuffed out like a candle flame because I was in the wrong place at the wrong damn time.
I fucked up.
She paid the price.
I should have just left when I got the news about Olek passing on our proposal. I could have gotten out of Ukraine before things went sideways but instead, I chose to stay because my ego and my cock needed a distraction. Truth was, I couldn’t stomach the thought of facing Dad and Dima with my dick in my hand.
And Mom paid the price.
I grip the arms of the wheelchair tight with my one good hand. My fingertips numb from me clutching the metal with every ounce of strength in me.
Luka ordered me to stand down. He told me to wait until the time was right before hitting those bastards back.
Guess what, brother?
The time is fucking right…now.
And my gorgeous target is about to suffer my rage.
Chapter4
Larysa
My cell phone buzzes from somewhere deep inside my oversize handbag as I walk down the desolate corridor at the Knight Concert Hall in Miami. A chill whispers against the skin on the back of my neck. Maybe it’s one of my brothers, Hadeon or Petro, calling. A quick glance up and down the silent hallway confirms that they are most definitely nowhere in sight. Neither is Bohdan, my personal security agent.
They’d never approve of Bohdan leaving me down here to wander the underbelly of this place alone, especially now.
I juggle an open bottle of Mountain Dew and a heavy garment bag while I dig around the black hole that’s become my traveling storage center. But that’s what happens when you’re the mom of an almost two-year-old. I always hated carrying big bags around, but now I can’t live without them.
I rifle through the diapers, travel packages of baby wipes, assortment of plastic giraffes, elephants, and monkeys, my eyes scouring the contents for my phone. My head slams into something hard and I bounce backward, stumbling in my UGG slippers. The phone stops buzzing.
I raise my eyes from my bag. They latch onto the darkest ones I’ve ever seen, so deep and inky, they look like endless pools of gloom and doom.
A shudder ripples through me, and I’m suddenly very aware of my desolate surroundings and glaring lack of protection.
“Lola Andreev.” The way this man says my stage name generates a sensation no less disturbing than what I’d imagine slimy, slithering snakes would feel like winding up my bare legs. “You are even more beautiful in person than you are in your YouTube videos.”
I swallow a groan. Damn you, YouTube.
After The Juilliard School rejected me, I did a few local concerts dressed in the highest heels and sexiest outfits I could find. I figured it couldn’t hurt to stand out in a different way since my dream of having the nameJuilliardon my resume burst like a frozen pipe. I obviously didn’t stand out inanyway to the musical arts program directors.
But others did notice. Someone uploaded a video of my performance at one of those events to YouTube. It went viral, and I became an overnight celebrity and fashion icon. Now I have revered fashion designers sending me their creations to consider for my performances, and a fan club of men and women who love my music and fashionista flair.
Fuck you, Juilliard.
But fuck me, too, for putting myself out there to weirdos like this guy.
“I’m a big fan.”
“That’s really nice. I appreciate your support.” I fake a smile, remembering a can of pepper spray I’d stuck in my bag, just in case. Then my heart sinks into my slippers. Good luck to me finding it in the black hole of baby tools, makeup, and assorted crap.
He steps closer and I slam my shoulder into a column in an attempt to slide around him.
Unsuccessfully.
