Chapter Thirteen

Elena

It was so good to see Matteo, and he looked good, the mark of the Sicilian sun on his rugged face. He reminded me of my old life—the one I want back. The time when I was free and working alongside a man I could trust with my whole heart—my departed father, Rocco.

I miss you, Dad. Why did you have to leave so soon? Feeling sorry for myself, I exhale, because once again Nikk is one step ahead of me, and it’s driving me insane. I didn’t want him knowing my internal gripes about him, and the fact he can understand Italian doesn’t sit well with me.

Although, I can’t turn back the hands of time, I’m aware now and can make adjustments. I won’t let it happen again, much like I won’t let him ever put a hand on my body, even though every day I’m fighting the feeling of wanting him inside me again.

Carrying my laptop under my arm, I enter the assigned office the Bratva have given me here in Manhattan. It’s a stone’s throw from Nikk’s office, but when I peek my head inside, he’s not in, but Yegor is already seated in place, typing away at his keyboard.

“Morning, Yegor,” I greet cordially with coffee in hand. I feel good being at the helm of the charity, and there’re so many ideas I have brewing. Sharon is being helpful as well, and it’s a good thing I have it to look forward to. I could never be a traditional Bratva wife sitting at home twiddling my thumbs. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

Yegor looks up from his laptop, scorn etched on his face. “You’re late.”

Swanning into my seat, I roll my eyes at him. “Sorry, I haven’t been feeling so hot, so I dropped by the doctor’s clinic.”

Yegor gives me the once-over. “I see.”

I open my laptop and fire it up.

“Where’s mine?” he jokes, mocking me.

“If you were nicer to me, maybe I would have gotten you one—if you’re referring to the coffee that is.”

Yegor scoffs. “You might be right. Maybe I could be nicer to you, especially since you’ve been making the charity more money than we’ve ever seen,” he adds lightly, indirectly feeding me a compliment.

A demure smile lifts on my face as I give him a quick sideways glance. “Thanks. How much are we up with this quarter’s profits?”

“Twenty percent. It is very good for the charity, and your last event in Manhattan has brought us new business opportunities for the Bratva,” he continues, jutting out his bottom lip. I don’t expect him to say “well done,” but it’s as close to a compliment as Yegor will likely give me. He’s really not such a bad guy since I’ve gotten to know him. That doesn’t mean we’re going to be hanging out anytime soon.

Wistfully, I stare at the picture of my father that I have set up as a background setting. It’s a blown-up version of an old, sepia photograph of my father. We’re standing in front of his favorite lemon tree back home. He’s wearing a large, self-satisfied smile as he holds on to my hand. I was happy then. So very happy. I fear if I touch the screen and Yegor sees me, he will take note, and personally, I don’t want any more intimate moments ruined by the Bratva.

Father, I wish you were here with me still. You would sort this out.

And he would. In fact, I wouldn’t be in this position if he were still alive. Rocco didn’t die because he wasn’t a capable Don. That’s the irony of all of this. He led us well as a Costa Nostra, and our Sicilian lemon trade success is largely due to his early visionary efforts.

Sighing, I take a sip of my coffee, staring at the screen. Yegor didn’t lie, there’s an influx of emails for the charity, and as I skim, I can see many of them are congratulatory in nature for the good work I’ve already done. I sort them out into categories to make things easier, noticing a few large digital files. Yegor now has me interested in checking deeper into the financials for the charity.

Maybe I could really sink my teeth into this project and turn it around. Opening the financials for the prior year, I notice there’s been events for the charity, but not to the extent to which I’ve run them. Sifting through the last two years records, my eyes latch on to a particular organization that keeps cropping up in the outgoings.

Be Happy Foundation. Frowning at the screen, I zoom in. Be Happy Foundation? They must be important; we’ve given them a lot of money. More than $200,000 to be exact.

Tracing the organization, I try a simple Google Search first, naturally believing they’re a normal company, but my stomach flips over when I don’t find them. Quickly, I look over to Yegor who’s busy on the phone. I have skills in many areas, and this includes hacking. Taking advantage of these, I weasle my way into the emails of the organization and trace back the name of the foundation, finding an email trail.

And everything in my body is telling me to dig deeper. There’s something going on. There’s an email address. [email protected] , and it doesn’t exist, so I keep probing to find out whose sending the emails to Fresh Start, tracing the VPN back to a computer. When I do find out who owns the VPN, I’m floored. Bodgan Orlov is the owner of the “fake organization, and as I keep going, I see several cc’ed emails buried in the archived and deleted emails with his real email attached.

What a fucking dummy. Squirming in my seat, a small sense of vindication rushes over me. This means there’s a family member embezzling money from their very own charity.

Double-checking to make sure I’m not imagining things, I gather more evidence. If I come out and accuse Bogdan, naturally I’m primed to have a bullseye on my back. Increasing my sleuthing efforts, I find out Bogdan didn’t do this without help. A Mr. Brian Dempsey aided him.

Thank you for you wonderful contribution to the Be Happy Foundation. It’s truly an honor and a blessing to be working with such a charitable organization. Your funds will give us the means to open a new youth center in the Brooklyn neighborhood.

Fuming on the inside, I read this crock of an email over and over again, taking note of Brian’s response.

It’s an honor, and our donation is truly in the best interest of New York City’s underprivileged youth. Thank you for accepting this timely donation of thirty thousand dollars. We endeavour to support you in the near future and continue a long and healthy working relationship.

Finally, after coming to the glaringly obvious conclusion, I speak up. “Yegor.”

“Yes?”

“Does the Bratva have a punishment for stealing from the family?” I keep the question as light and curious as possible, continuing to work, keeping my eyes on the screen.

Yegor grunts and does the same. “The punishment is harsh. Trust me. An inside mole is the biggest betrayal. Torture, and most likely death is their only way out,” he remarks casually, my stomach turning. He catches on to why I might be asking and stops typing, looking over at me with a deadpan expression. “Why? Did you find something suspicious?”

I want to blurt out what I’ve found, but something holds me back. What if he’s in on it and receiving a cut from Bogdan? I don’t completely trust him, regardless of how well we’re getting along.

Nikk. I have to tell Nikk, but with piles of evidence, otherwise he’s going to think I’m lying too.

Smiling politely at Yegor, I break out into a snicker, keeping up the charade. “No, maybe it was me planning on doing the stealing.”

Yegor shakes his head in amusement. “I wouldn’t, I warn you, unless you want the Russian brand of punishment. You’ll end up having to eat your own fingers for breakfast.”

“Eww!” I screw up my nose, but in truth it’s not as if I’m naive to the different tiers of violence.

“Exactly. You’ve made me want a coffee, so I’m going to take a break and get a snack. Want anything?”

“Yes. A cream cheese bagel if there’s any left.”

“Alright.” I keep digging, creating my own special folder and sending the information to myself. I need more…. I answer emails, my eyes glazing over, needing a break, and it leads me over to the blogs of New York celebrity news.

I balk a little when I see Nikk on the screen, a picture-perfect statesque blonde-model type gazing into his eyes like some captivated fawn.

Gawping, I shake my head, outraged at his hypocrisy. “What the fuck is this?” I ask out loud in an animated tone. “You tell me not to make a mockery of our marriage, but you can?”

The outline reads: Veronica’s rekindled spark with New York’s hottest eligible bachelor Nikkita Orlov. Is there a second-chance romance in the cards?

And it only gets worse in the fine print. Spotted out on the town together looking extremely cozy.