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Emma pecks Sonya on the cheek. “I’m doing okay. Back at school. You look fabulous, by the way.” Emma suddenly gawks. “Is that a ring?”
Sonya giggles like the woman I knew before the war, little lines crinkling around her vibrant blue eyes. “We’ve been engaged since Christmas.” She looks at Vanya again. “We’re moving to Raleigh, North Carolina.”
My eyes are still poking out of my head.
“My grandparents live there,” replies Vanya. “We’ve decided to move back and take care of them while Sonya goes to school.”
I nod my head slowly and briefly wonder what else has changed. “I’m so glad to see you both. Please let me know where you move. I’ll want to send a picture.”
“Send a picture?” laughs Sonya. “You will come and visit us with my baby niece or nephew? I can’t wait to meet this little one.”
“It’s a girl,” I smile.
“Wonderful.” Sonya hugs me and holds on tight. All the hate has been erased now that the war is over. “I didn’t hear you ask, but he’s okay and on his own.”
I bite my lips though I can tell my eyes are shining. “Thank you, Sonya, and good luck.”
“Thank you, Paige,” she whispers. “I hope you also get what you want as well.”
Emma stares after Sonya until she and Vanya are out the door. Sonya catches Emma and flashes a huge smile before waving goodbye.
She sits back in her seat, resembling a balloon slowly deflating. “I guess it really is over. Not that I expected the two of you to start slinging, but …” Emma bites her lip and stares at me wide-eyed.
I swallow hard. “Yes. He’s really gone.”
Chapter 52
Andrei
The packed rush-hour traffic entering the city takes longer than expected, and while driving, my boastful words return to haunt me.
“I will tease and pleasure you until you forget your morals. Until you stop judging me. Until you stop trying to run away. And when I’m done, you will beg me to keep you in my bed. And you’ll forget why you ever wanted to run away from me.”
It was our wedding night when I said that to Paige, and none of it came true. I had the strength, but Paige had the determination. I always underestimated it though I also admired it. I try hard now not to be bitter about what happened between us, but I’m not used to being wrong.
After I find the parking deck, I walk to a building on 23rd Street with an imposing granite facade. My heart pounds in my chest as I walk through the revolving doors. No guards with me, I look around cautiously, knowing I’m taking an unnecessary risk, but I have to speak to Popov alone.
On Fridays, the building is abandoned by the office workers, with only a few necessary ones scattered around. I follow the directions I’ve been given to the fifteenth floor, where Bratva business continues nonstop. I control my unease with a deep breath before I push open the heavy glass door and step into the office suite.
After a hard and bloody fight, I am the most powerful pakhan on the East Coast, but without the support of my key allies, I’ll end up dead by sundown if I turn my back on the wrong punk with something to prove. One can’t just walk away from the Bratva. Feet first is how you leave; that’s the tried-and-true saying.
“Andrei Vasilyevich.” Popov steps out into the empty waiting room with arms wide open. “Please follow me to my office.”
“No receptionist?” I ask after giving him a quick hug.
He sighs. “The new girl figured it out yesterday and didn’t return after lunch.”
Popov’s office is decorated in the typical CEO style—polished mahogany furniture and upholstered leather chairs. But the floor-to-ceiling windows let in abundant natural light and make the space extraordinary. Also, one of the bookcases that lines the walls is ajar.
An open window lets the hum of Midtown below enter the room. Popov shuts it, and there’s a peaceful silence, not even disturbed by the ringing phones in the distance or the occasional rustling of paper as some unseen person shreds documents.
I sit down heavily in an armchair that dwarfs my tall frame. “I won my father’s war, and now, I want to live my life.”
Popov nods with a smirk on his face. “So, now you’ll fight your own wars?” he asks.
I hesitate, wondering what the diplomatic response is to the question. I can’t tell the Bratva to fuck off. I know that if I stay in the Bratva, there is a likelihood I will eventually end up dead. But I also know that if I walk away, my rivals will judge me weak, come after me, and finish me off. To stay means death; to leave means certain death.
Popov breaks the silence. “Maybe you should consider retiring,” he says softly. “You’ve earned it. Why wait until your funeral? Take a title like I did, and step into the shadows.”
