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Dr. Taylor mentioned that the fugue state could last from days to months, and that Lia would eventually remember who she actually is.
It’s been a month already and yet, my wife seems more interested in being a different person altogether.
Yan drags a deep inhale of his smoke, then releases it. “There’s something you need to know, Boss.”
“Talk.”
“That motherfucker Richard put his hands on her.”
My body goes rigid. “What?”
“He harassed her and she kicked him in the balls—among other things—before she left.”
Two emotions rush through me simultaneously. The first is rage. A dark foreboding grips me by the gut at the thought of Richard or any other bastard touching my Lia. I’ll rip every last one of them limb from limb and bathe in their blood so they learn to never fuck with what’s mine.
The second is pride in my Lenochka. She fought because that’s what she is deep down.
A fighter.
The first emotion is stronger and more potent, compelling me to shred Richard’s heart out of his chest and tear him fucking apart.
I tighten my hand into a fist. “Where is Richard?”
“In his office.” Yan taps his cigarette. “Why are you asking?”
“Why do you think?”
“He’s the Bratva’s mayoral candidate, Boss,” Kolya interrupts from the driver’s seat. “Not only would Sergei not like it, but he would also consider it a betrayal.”
“What Sergei doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
I step out of the car and stalk to the back entrance of the shelter. Since I’ve been here countless times either to talk business with Richard or to keep an eye on Lia, I know my way around.
The director of the shelter isn’t aware of who my wife is and he would never suspect that she’s under his roof. When I first had Kolya talk to him about it, he thought she was a prostitute I intended to fuck.
That was his mistake.
At first, I let him believe that because I couldn’t care less what he thought.
But who the fuck is he to believe he could touch her?
That he could put his filthy hands on her?
I twist the doorknob of his office, opening the door and slipping inside. The place is shabby with a faux leather sofa and a desk made of cheap wood.
Richard stands by his chair, dabbing a piece of cotton against his cheek that has fingernail scratches.
My lips twitch as that feeling of pride hits me again.
That’s my Lenochka.
The shelter’s director is a middle-aged man with a flat nose and bushy brows. He dresses in cheap suits that make him look like a wannabe clown.
Upon noticing me, he straightens, ugly greed shining in his bland, mud-colored eyes.
“Oh,” he stumbles over his words. “A-Adrian. I didn’t know we had a meeting today.”
“We didn’t.”
