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Chapter46
Luka
I’m not a man of many words, but even now I wish I could say something. Women have never been in short demand. Many are attracted to the power of the Morozov name or are greedy enough to sell their bodies to marry into more money than they could ever dream of. Growing up, women would flock to my father, or the next best thing, his heir.
I don’t—haven’t had time for any serious relationships, nor did I want one. This life is demanding, brutal, and not for the weak. But I’ve never wanted to be as selfish as I do now.
The way Kate responds to me and the way I ignite for her—I’ve never had this with anyone. I’ve been conditioned all my life, growing up, that personal relationships are a weakness that can be exploited. The thought of not having Kate would be my true weakness—I would never be the same.
I want to drag Kate down into my world and keep her, but this world is not for good souls. The compelling tug to push her away all while pulling her deep war within me at this moment, and I can’t articulate that. So, I’m silent.
“Luka? Are you all right?” she asks.
Kate’s wiping at her face as she pulls away from my chest.
I don’t do this—have a woman in my arms.I wonder if she can feel my body rebelling.
“Yes. Sorry.” I lean forward, moving Kate to the side and onto the couch. “Do you want some water?” I’m not sure why I think water will help me speak, but maybe it will keep my tongue from sticking to the roof of my mouth.
“Uh, sure.” Kate worries with the hem of her shirt—my shirt, and I see her rubbing the fabric self-soothing. Her voice is shaky with uncertainty, and it bothers me. I hook a finger on the collar of the shirt and drag her to me, placing a light kiss on her forehead.
“Come on,” I say. Grasping her hand, I lead her back to the kitchen.
We grab two water bottles out of the fridge, taking our sips of water in silence, her in my shirt, and me—shirtless.
I was too caught up in my own thoughts and holding Kate in my arms, I never put it back on.
Kate turns back to the fridge and pulls out a jar of pickles.
“Pickles? At”—I glance at my watch—“midnight. Why the obsession with pickles?”
She chuckles, and I let out a sigh of relief, my shoulders relaxing.
“I’ve always loved them. My father and I used to grab jars at different farmers’ markets to try and it turned into a thing. We’d pick up dill pickles everywhere we went, enjoying the flavor. When I was nine, we had returned from a drive upstate, where we had picked up a specialty store’s dill pickles to try. We sat at the kitchen table savoring them, but they’d be gone too soon. When we were done with the jar I was upset, wanting more. My dad told me I should save to buy another jar next time we went. It was in that moment my dad pulled the label off the jar and rinsed it out. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his extra change, dumping it into the jar. He told me to keep it, to keep adding to it ...”
She pauses, her throat bobs, and she crosses her arms in front of herself.
“... and I never stopped. I love the pickles and I save the jars, using them to save money.”
I take in her story. A simple one but it speaks volumes about who her father was. My father barely ate meals with me, let alone savoring a special snack. He was a great leader, but he didn’t want to be a father. Kate’s dad lived for his family. I wonder at what point they each decided what type of father they’d be.
A sniffle draws my stare from far off to Kate, a small tear descending her cheek. A compulsion to hold her rushes me. I step forward and cup her cheek, brushing the side of her face. I pull her into me and wrap my arms around her.
“Wow—another hug from Luka Morozov. I should tell sad stories more often,” she says. Kate’s never-ending optimism via sarcasm. My lips twitch, enjoying her pressed into my body. She fits here.
“What is your favorite? Food I mean,” she challenges, the words muffled from her place in my arms.
“Anything Russian,” I reply.
Kate’s laugh booms in the kitchen. It’s boisterous and melodic all at once—I never want to hear anything else.
* * *
My phone ringsmid-conversation with Kieran McDonnell, the Irish Mob boss who flew in from Boston to meet with me. I glance over on my desk to the phone.
“Excuse me, it’s Nikolai.” I grab the phone, while Kieran tilts his mouth into an all too knowing smirk on his face. Kieran is someone we met and associated with growing up. The Bratva and the Irish Mob have had several generations of alliance that carried on with my father and Kieran’s, now to us.
“Da.I’m in a meeting. Make it quick,” I say, watching Kieran get up and help himself to the bar.
