20. Radimir

20

RADIMIR

I walked back downstairs still tying my tie...and stopped on the landing as I saw her again. She looked stunning, her black outfit setting off her milky skin and that shining, copper hair. Pinned up, it exposed whole new areas of soft, sensitive skin behind her ears and down the sides of her neck that I immediately wanted to kiss. And it made me want to run my hands through her hair, knocking out the pins and freeing it so it tumbled down onto her shoulders, then strip that dress off her until she was completely... undone.

I wanted her. Cared for her, in some way I was trying hard not to think about too much. But I was destroying her life, trapping her in a relationship with a man she hated. I had to find some way to make this work, for her sake.

And there was something else, the thing that maybe unsettled me the most. Whenever I thought about the fake marriage, there was this tiny, secret part of me, way down deep...that almost wanted it to be real. That wanted to have someone I could share my life with, tell anything to, have a future with…

I tore my gaze away and stomped down the rest of the stairs. As I reached the bottom, Valentin intercepted me. “Are you sure this is going to work?” he asked, glancing at Bronwyn over his shoulder.

“This was your idea!” I reminded him.

He sighed, worried. “I didn’t know she’d be so...innocent. Fragile.”

I glowered. First Gennadiy, now him. I knew they only wanted to protect me, but they were wrong about her. I’d seen how she protected her friend when Doyle and Yoz came into her store. She was tougher than they knew. But they were right: she wasn’t like us.

The limos arrived to pick us up. While Mikhail argued with the limo driver that yes, the dogs were coming, Bronwyn took my hand and pulled me behind a pillar. I struggled to focus on what she was saying: all I could think about was how good holding her hand felt.

“This funeral,” she asked. “You haven’t told me who died. Were they...family?”

I shook my head, mad at myself. I’d forgotten that she didn’t know. “His name was Borislav Nazarov.” And then, watching her carefully. “You met him.”

She blinked, confused. Then realization hit and she clapped her hands over her mouth. “No! Oh God, why would you—Why are we going to the funeral if you?—”

“We have to pay our respects to his brother, Spartak.”

Her eyes went huge. “I can’t stand there and talk to his brother when you?—”

I nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes, you can. You have to.”

“ Why? Why are we going?”

“Because it would look suspicious if we didn’t.” I took hold of her shoulders. “You can do this.”

And I led her to the limo.

As we pulled up, I cursed under my breath. I’d known that Spartak Nazarov would put on a big event to remember his brother, but I hadn’t counted on how big. There were at least twenty limos pulling up: every mafia family in the city plus some from Milwaukee and Detroit. Everyone was gathering behind a funeral carriage pulled by white horses. Right at the front of the procession, I spied Spartak, followed by thirty of his men, all no doubt armed.

It was a mile to the cemetery and Spartak had picked a route that went right through all the neighborhoods that he controlled. Shopkeepers, bartenders, construction workers...they all stopped work to line the streets, too scared not to. It was a testament to how much the Nazarovs were feared...and how much trouble we were in if Spartak ever found out I killed his brother.

I glanced to my left. Bronwyn was walking next to me, hand in hand. She bit her lip as if in pain and I gave her a questioning look.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing. My feet hurt. I shouldn’t have worn heels.”

The ceremony was short, and in Russian. As I watched Spartak toss soil on his brother’s coffin, I felt an unexpected tightness in my chest. I didn’t like Spartak, and I certainly hadn’t liked his brother but the man just looked broken, and I actually felt sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine losing Valentin or Gennadiy.

The wake was held in a dark, wood-paneled bar that I guessed was one of Spartak’s places. As we walked in, Bronwyn gazed around at the fifty or so people around us. “ All of these people, they’re...they do what you do?” she whispered.

I nodded.

She shook her head in wonder. Like most civilians, she’d had no idea how big the Bratva is: and this was just the leadership. “Different families...so they’re all your enemies?”

“Some are enemies. Some are rivals. Some allies.” I frowned. “But I wouldn’t trust any of them not to put a bullet in my back.”

She blinked at me. “How do you live like that? ”

I cocked my head to one side, thinking. This world was normal to me. “Family,” I said at last, nodding towards Valentin, Gennadiy and Mikhail. “You trust your family, because they’ll never betray you.”

I could see how scared she was, the lone civilian in a room full of criminals. She seemed to get smaller with each step, closing down and turning inward. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “None of them would dare lay a finger on you. Not when we’re engaged.”

Her head snapped up and she stared at me in shock: she’d forgotten, for a moment. I kept my face cold and impassive. But inside, a sudden, stupid rush of emotion had filled my chest. She’s mine!

As I led her deeper into the room, I could see her nervously glancing at the other wives. “Do they grow them all in a lab in Moscow?” she mumbled.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t exactly fit in,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “They’re all…”

I looked around. The other wives were the usual type: very thin, blonde, and Russian, sporting handbags that cost as much as cars, dresses straight from the catwalks and artful make-up that must take them hours. I frowned and drew Bronwyn closer. “They’re all what?”

“Perfect.” She flushed and looked away. And suddenly, I was mad. Not at her, at whatever man had made her doubt herself.

“Bronwyn.” She looked at the floor, so I put a finger under her chin and gently lifted it until she had to look at me. “You are the most beautiful woman here,” I told her firmly. “Do you understand?”

I saw her eyes flick away as if she didn’t believe me. But then she timidly looked at me again and this time she must have seen something in my eyes because her gaze locked on mine in shock. She swallowed...and nodded. And then she flushed again, but in a good way.

And now the problem was, I couldn’t look away. I’d meant what I’d said and the sight of her, those lush green eyes looking up at me, that copper hair all piled up tight and just waiting to be freed, those soft lips quirked in a shy little smile…

I knew it wasn’t appropriate at a funeral. But I just wanted to lean down and kiss my fiancée.

At that moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I looked round, scowling, the spell broken.

And looked right into the face of Spartak Nazarov. I’d been so focused on Bronwyn, I hadn’t noticed him walk up.

“Well,” said Spartak, looking right at Bronwyn. “Who have we here?”