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Picking up the house phone, I dial Genevieve’s line. She answers promptly. “Monsieur Walker, how can I help you?”
“We’ll take our meal on the upper deck this evening. I’d like to start with chilled champagne. It’s Alyo… Alison’s favorite.”
“Of course, monsieur. We will have everything ready by eight sharp. Is there anything else?”
“No vegan food. I’ll take high blood pressure over being miserable.” Genevieve releases a little laugh and agrees to a new menu.
The next words burst from my lips without approval from my brain. “Can you put out some candles or shit, maybe flowers. Make it feel romantic.”
“Bien sur. We always do. Especially when a couple is enjoying time away together,” Genevieve gushes, clearly thrilled to play Cupid.
If she only knew.
“Please let Alison know to dress up tonight.” This may not be my brightest idea, but in for a penny, in for a pound.
I hang up the phone and slump back in my chair, wondering what the fuck I’m playing at. Aly’s going to have my balls when she sees how thick I’ve laid on the romance tonight. I could blame it on our cover, but we both know I’d be lying.
I should keep her at arm’s length—treat her like I would anyone else under my protection—but instead, here I am, ordering fine champagne and candles. Next, I’ll be scattering rose petals all over the bed.
A smile grows on my face. I’m asking for trouble, and I have a feeling that’s exactly what I’m going to get.
CHAPTEREIGHT
8 YEARS AGO
LEO
There’snothing more depressing than the rituals and customs of a Russian Orthodox funeral. Earlier today, we’d stood in the front pew—my brothers flanking me and my father at the end of the row—as the priest led the congregation in prayer. Reciting passages from the Bible, his voice resonated through the church adorned with golden icons and the soft glow of candlelight.
But I barely registered any of it. My focus was entirely on Alyona sitting beside her mother, Mina, both of them quietly sobbing, their shoulders shaking with each tearful breath. Her grief is like a bullet to my chest. Yulian sat on the other side of his mother, his face pale and solemn, his eyes glued to his papa’s casket.
Much like Yulian, my father remained stoic, a clenched jaw and serious expression, masking the sorrow pressing on his soul for his loyalavoirtet. But I didn’t miss the way his hands curled into fists when the last rites were read.
Back at my family’s secluded East Hampton home, hundreds have gathered to pay their respects to the Nikitin family and, by extension, to my family as well. I haven’t caught a glimpse of Aly through the crowd of mourners, but I imagine she is busy shaking hands and receiving condolences.
It was barely a week ago that my father called Yulian and I into his office and told us the tragic news. Kiril had been killed protecting my father in a shootout with a rival mafia. Yulian took the news like the vor he was raised to be. His sorrow morphed into rage. Unsure of what else to do, I got shit-faced with my best friend, then allowed him to unleash his pain on me in the boxing ring, his grief materializing in forceful blows.
Aly was away at boarding school. Her mama left right away to pick her up, and while we’ve been under the same roof for the last few days, she’s been holed up with her mama and Yulian. The truth is, I don’t know how to console her. Unlike Yulian, a shot of vodka and a pair of boxing gloves won’t cut it. So I’ve stayed away even though I know she’s hurting. Alyona was close to her papa, he called her hiszaychik, his little bunny, and doted on her, always bringing her Matryoshka dolls from his trips to Russia. I wonder if she still has the collection?
Nearing the late afternoon, the guests have finally thinned out, my brothers and Yulian are off smoking in the garage, and I know it’s time to face Aly. I’d spied her slipping out of the room about an hour ago and I know just where to find her.
The hallway leading to the library is quiet, as expected, all the guests are holed up in the other wing. Swinging open the heavy wood door, I find Aly’s long form huddled by the bay window, and she’s nursing something that is definitely not juice.
Her head snaps around, eyes wide and startled by my unexpected presence. “Leo, oh my god,” she exclaims, placing a hand over her heart, “you scared me.”
“Whoa, didn’t mean to scare you,” I blurt, nervously rubbing the back of my neck. We’re both frozen for a beat, just taking each other in. Even with red-rimmed eyes, I can’t rip my gaze from her. “I can leave you alone if you’d like.”
“No, of course not,” she says, rising from the window seat. “It would actually be nice to have someone to drink with.” She holds up a tumbler of amber liquid.
I clear my throat, stepping farther into the room. I feel like a total jackass and at a loss for words. So I go with the trite shit I’ve heard from others all day. “Aly, I… I’m sorry—”
She starts shaking her head before I can get the words out. “No, please don’t. Not you too.” I’m not sure what she means, but keeping my mouth shut seems like the best course of action. Her gaze snaps to the window, looking off at the distant sea, while she brings the tumbler of… what? Whisky maybe?… to her lips and takes a hearty gulp, causing her to cough.
“Shit, that’s strong,” she announces, pounding her chest. A chest that’s a hell of a lot fuller than the last time I saw her. I feel like a fucking asshole. The day of her father’s funeral, and here I am, eyeing up her perfect curves.
Over the past year, she’s blossomed, ditched the braces, and started styling her hair so it falls in a glossy black wave down her back. Even in her somber funeral dress, her legs seem to go on forever, and my mind takes a detour, imagining them hooked over my shoulders while I—
Stop. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me?
