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We return our focus to the morbid scene stretched out before us. We lift the bodies of the fallen and silently carry the corpses to a waiting truck. All of these men, traitors or not, will be buried as men of the Starukhin Bratva. Gunsyn’s lies tricked them like they tricked my father and my brother. These men died believing they were fighting for the Bratva. I owe them that much.
“Your actions have shown that you’re different, Nikolai,” Zakhar says, shutting the back of the truck. “Gennady and Matvei would never have rescued my niece Mercy or agreed to a truce with the Lanzzare.”
I nod, remembering Mercy’s tear-streaked face when we found her. That moment of gratitude when she saw me filled me with pride that seemed to chase away some of the demons inside me.
“Is it enough though?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the back of the truck. “Can love truly guide me to be a better pakhan?”
“I can’t answer that for you, Nikolai Gennadyevich,” he says, a hint of challenge in his stern tone. “But compassion is not a weakness. It can be your greatest strength. Embrace it and use it to decide your actions.”
Zakhar is right—love is not a burden, but it takes courage to accept it.
“Let’s finish this, Zakhar Sergeyevich,” I tell him defiantly. “Let’s find Gunsyn. Together.”
He lifts a brow and then pats me on the shoulder. “Da, Nikolai Gennadyevich,” he smiles. “Together, my pakhan.”
46
EDEN
WINTER
The penthouse waslike living in a gallery, but living in the castle is like living in a museum. I wander freely from room to room, and the only thing that stops me is the occasional locked door. I admire paintings of landscapes and saints that are centuries old. Paintings in carved gold frames of bearded men in cloaks, caught in the throes of ecstasy. Landscapes of the West when it was first settled. I gasp loudly when I find a room of Madonnas. A wall covered in icons, ancient and breathtaking.
I walk in a trance toward the serene faces and smell a whiff of incense in the air.
But a guard materializes like magic when I step too close to a door leading to the outside. I’m always reminded when I forget I’m not really a guest. My life is ironic. I made plans to find freedom and ended up being held captive. A pawn in a strategy controlled by a Bratva I didn’t know existed.
I laugh bitterly at a painting of a small, naive girl holding a bouquet. Well, I wanted to spend my days visiting museums and looking at art. Now, I have nothing else to do with my lifebut wander through this castle, looking at a recluse’s massive collection.
And yet …
Be careful what you wish for; it might happen.
Ascending the stairs, I start to explore the upstairs bedrooms. Most are empty, but the sheets are changed daily as if someone is expected. Natasha has stayed on but warns me almost daily that she won’t stay much longer.
Every day after lunch, she and I go to the range to practice. It’s getting colder outside, and I should ask for a coat, but I don’t care. Closing my eyes, I inhale the biting air as we walk to the building. This is my last bit of freedom.
Sorokin doesn’t have a social life. His butler stays with him in his office, and they talk like old friends. I try not to eavesdrop, but the sound of laughter and happiness is so infectious that I want to hear it. If nothing else, to indulge in the lack of either in my life.
Snooping is a bad habit, but I never learn anything unless I do it. So when I find an unlocked bedroom with framed photographs, I study each one.
A framed black-and-white photograph of a much younger Sorokin is on a dresser. I almost drop the frame when I see his wide smile. He’s always sneering or smirking, but this is a genuine smile, and he gazes at the viewer with warmth. His hair was once dark, and I see that he was actually handsome, with a cleft chin in his younger days.
I place it down and pick up the next photograph of a gorgeous young woman with blonde hair and pale brown eyes. She’sdressed in a frilly blouse, holding a rose and smiling sweetly. But the next photo gives me a shock that lowers my jaw. Sorokin and the woman are standing together, and his arms are wrapped around her. They’re dressed in formal clothing, and maybe it’s a wedding photo.
“That was my wife, Ksenia.” His voice answers my unspoken question. “She died young.”
I almost drop the photo but manage to place it down carefully. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t mean to get caught.” He walks over to the vanity and straightens the photos, placing them back into their original positions. “You have been kept in the dark, which has made you curious. Not a bad thing, but a dangerous one if you don’t know how to be sneaky.”
I swallow hard. “I wouldn’t know anything if I didn’t spy.”
He smiles at my sarcasm and then looks thoughtfully at her photo. “Ksenia was my first love before I joined the Bratva.”
“You joined?” I ask.
Sorokin laughs. “Willingly. Because I thought she deserved to look like the queen that she was, and I had nothing else to offer her.” He glances once more at the photo. “Natasha has been looking for you. It’s time for your lesson.
