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“What?I could never…”
Her throat clearing finishes her sentence:She could never murder someone.Like me.
“What did you do that was terrible, little one?”
“Papa tried to marry her to the Boston pakhan. She didn’t want to get married, so she packed up to run away.”
Aw, fuck my life. I’m standing here, and a clue about the biggest mystery to hit Astoria just got dumped right into my unsuspecting lap.
After Stasia went missing, we assumed she was abducted. But months later, no ransom or demands from a rival Bratva or any other crime family came in. Stasia was a tough bird. Had someone taken her, I bet she fought like a demon. Enough to get killed. That had been my theory all these years. What in the world do I do with this new information?
“But…” Katya adds.
“But… Go on.”
“I messed up her room, so it would look like she was abducted.”
A war has been simmering for over two years now because of it. Because of Katya. The look of stress on her face kills me.
“It’s not your fault, little one.” I caress her cheek, my fingers tingling at her smooth skin. “Your sister made her own choice to leave.”
“I thought if she came back, Papa wouldn’t punish her for running away.”
“You’re very smart. He would have. Have you heard from her?”
“I got some postcards.”
My heart races, thinking I can solve this. “From where?”
“That’s just it. All over. California. Oregon. Texas. But… It’s not her handwriting.” She swallows hard. “Now, I’m worried, someone actually did kidnap her. Why wouldn’t she call me after all this time?”
Someone is sending Katya postcards, but not asking Alexei for money. This makes no sense. “Do you have the postcards with you?” I peer down at her, thinking Balor can examine them for more answers.
“No. They’re in my mailbox at school. I don’t trust my father. He’s more crazed than ever. He sleeps on a couch in his war room. There are top security investigators from Moscow living at our house.” She yanks on that golden braid, visibly shaken.
Yet, she’s looking at me like I’m a source of strength. Fuck, I want to be that for her.
She sees through my harsh lines and doesn’t flinch that I’m cursed with a fucked-up face thanks to a scar from mistakenly protecting a monster.
“That’s smart, Katya.” Saying her name out loud pulls me into a dream, suggesting when my nocturnal ejaculations soak my bedsheets, her name hisses from my sleeping mouth.
“Katriane,” she whispers with a rough drawl on her r—very French.
Fuck, that’s sexy.
Those ballet moves that captivated me that night, warmed my frozen heart with her beauty and grace. Since then, I’ve been watching her from the shadows. I fantasize she’s an assassin coming to kill me. The more I watch, the more I want to watch. I find myself taking photos of her to study her habits. I never had feelings for a woman and brushed it off as a harmless fascination. Now, with her right here in front of me, she feels real and genuine. But I don’t know what to do with these emotions of being so drawn to her. It’s confusing as hell.
My eyes shoot to the carved marble Jesus nailed to the cross, hanging above the church’s set of double wooden doors.Is this some kind of fucking test?
Or a gift.
“I’m so worried, it’s destroying me.” Katya presses her face against my chest and sobs. I throw my arms around her, a feeling so foreign, yet so perfect. Like I’ve been here before. “I worry, I’ll never hear from her again because…” She gasps for a breath.
Did she feel it, too? That undercurrent grounding us? Pulling us under?
“Because?”
“I’m leaving.” She staggers away, the look in her eyes sad.
