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I nod. I know her appreciation is genuine. “You did well, Vasilisa. You have the potential to be a formidable opponent should some arsehole corner you again.”
She mimics my nod, a sense of accomplishment in her eyes. “Yeah, I feel for the person who mistakes me as an easy target.”
I chuckle, slightly amused by the return of her sassiness. “That's right,” I encourage. “But remember, this is just the beginning. Self-defense is a lifelong journey, and it requires dedication and practice.”
“I understand. Rome wasn’t built in one day, right?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
We make our way back toward my estate, the evening breeze carrying the scent of blooming flowers. As we walk, I can't help but feel a change in Vasilisa—a change in our forced relationship. It’s been transforming for a while now, but it’s even more prevalent today. Despite our rocky start, she is beginning to prove that with a little discipline from me and the separation from a family that has always coddled her, she has the potential to be a woman of substance.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
“Maybe,” I reply, my own uncertainty rearing its head.
“I was wondering ... why did you really agree to marry me, and will I ever get a ring?” she asks, her eyes searching mine for an answer. “I get the appeal from my father's perspective, but not yours. Why not marry an Irish woman, or anyone else for that matter? Why me? What does your family stand to gain from ours?”
“That's not something I wish to get into at the moment. We've had a successful day. Let's not tarnish it with the veil of our obligations.”
“So I'm an obligation?”
“Yes. We’re an obligation to each other for different reasons, but still out of duty. We have a chance to make this arrangement something we both can live with, but that truth isn't going anywhere, so it's best we let it lie where it be.”
Her shoulders drop with disappointment, but she doesn't push further. That one question has officially overshadowed the productiveness of our day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kai
Acouple of days go by before we get the call. Lennon and our men are still here at my estate, nobody willing to go back home until this shite with Viktor is resolved. We have too many loose ends for comfort, but finally Seamus has news. We all gather in my office at seven in the morning, ready to do whatever is necessary.
“Viktor was definitely there that night at Club Luxe,” Seamus begins. “In fact, he owns that location. The two men who abducted Vasilisa were seen on tape talking to Viktor ten minutes prior.”
“Vladimir said that they demanded money and his connections. This was never about Vasilisa. They were going to dispose of her,” I growl. “Viktor is now heir to the Sokolov Bratva in Russia. My guess is that they want to extinguish Vladimir's Mikhailov Bratva to rule here in the States, starting on his turf.”
“That was my exact thoughts, brother,” Lennon agrees. “And he was using the pretense of blocking you from marrying Vasilisa to get Vladimir’s own men on board.”
“That or they were willing to jump ship to be in favor with the new Russian power. Either way, they all need to pay with their life,” I point out.
“Exactly. This alliance was important to our numbers. If Viktor manages to snuff the Mikhailov Bratva out, that could be problematic for us. Their reach with Moscow alone would possibly hold rein here. That's not good for us or the Italians.”
“Let's get these motherfuckers before they get us. No torture ... no questioning,” I say.
My phone rings, and I see that it's Jacob. I hold up my finger and excuse myself from the room. “What do you got?” I ask, skipping the small talk.
“I've been looking into the murder of Margo Mikhailov. This is way beyond my jurisdiction, so I've had to pull in one of my connections that can access files without leaving a footprint,” he informs.
“Get to it, Jacob,” I say impatiently. We have other matters to take care of, so I don't need him drawing this out. I'm already aware that most of the shite he gets for me is not by legal means.
“Are you fucking this girl?”
“You know better than to ask questions like that, Jacob,” I warn. “How is that fucking relevant?”
“I just wanted to know how involved you were with her. I need to know if she has a birthmark that looks like the state of Florida on top of her right foot?”
“Jacob,” I growl.
“Okay, fine. My source and I have combed through birth records, newspaper clippings, the autopsy report, and basically anything related to the twins, Vasilisa and Margo, to find a motive. We initially investigated if Margo's death was Mafia-related—some sort of retaliation to her father.
