Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

A leksander

"You made it okay?" Vadim asked.

"Yeah. No issues."

"Good. Incidentally, I managed to establish a meeting with Shane O'Donnell for tomorrow."

Shane wasn't known for being particularly violent but the Irish mob had all but wiped out an Italian crime syndicate decades before, long before Luciano Bernardi and his family had emigrated from Italy. That was their claim to fame. The bad blood still existed, their attacks on each other often vicious.

The Bratva had rarely had any issues with them, but the issue at the courthouse had a different feel. But the Irish? I seriously doubted they'd do anything that reckless, but it would be interesting to find out what they knew about Luciano and the deal made for his daughter.

"Where?" I asked.

"Just outside Hell's Kitchen. Shane insisted."

Just like with the Bratva, the Irish had a particular location in the city they considered to belong to them.

"I bet he did. Do you suspect anything?" At least Roman's connection with one of Shane's men brought some additional credibility.

"No," Vadim sighed. He was obviously just as exhausted as I was. In the old days, leaders and soldiers fed off the bloodshed, reveling in destroying families and real estate. For the most part, times had changed and while neither Vadim nor I were old compared to our ancestors, we'd also found little need for constant, excessive violence. It was taxing both to lives and to wealth.

Plus, war was flat out exhausting.

"What time?" I asked.

"Eleven-thirty."

"Text me the address."

"Will do. You haven't watched the news this morning. Have you?"

Chuckling, I finally headed back inside. I'd had enough of the ocean today. "I have been a little busy."

"Well, you should turn it on, if you can get a decent station in Russianville." He liked teasing me about the area he absolutely adored. I could see him holding court in front of some restaurant or coffee shop when he was in his seventies.

"Cut to the chase," I barked more forcefully than I'd intended as I headed toward the kitchen. There was a small television nestled in the corner of a group of kitchen cabinets.

"Congressman Tillman was gunned down just this morning when he went out to get his paper from the lawn."

There were still diehards who preferred a paper copy. Why the hell was I thinking about that? "What?" I frantically tried to find the remote, fighting to turn it on and find a decent news station. When I finally did, I stepped back and eyed the scene of the carnage. "Any idea who?"

"No, but get this. The paper was marked with blood, actual blood. A threat. And from what little I was able to find out from a buddy of mine at the police station, the shot came from one of the roofs of the taller buildings across the street."

"A sniper. Shit."

"Exactly."

"Why the fuck didn't they try at the courthouse?"

He huffed. "Maybe because he was surrounded by people who walked him to the waiting SUV. Bulletproof I might add."

This fell into line with my gut instinct. "That's interesting."

"Yeah, well, that puts another layer of complexity to this."

I continued to study the footage, which wasn't pretty. The damn reporters had gone so far as to slink into the gated area, passing the police crime scene tape and yanking back the covering placed over the dead man to take several photographs. All the while, his wife was still wailing in the background, which is what had likely distracted the police.

Some people had no respect. Granted, the kill was huge news, likely going national. Even worse were the picket signs being held by at least two dozen bystanders. I could swear they'd known the man was going to be shot. Their signs were far too similar. They were even chanting ‘death to vicious criminals and those who defend them.'

"Interesting news coverage," I said, still in awe that shit had been allowed to go on.

Now he was chuckling. "I did find out what was written in blood."

"And?"

"Fumigating the city of roaches."

"Ouch."

"Maybe it's time for you to check your list of enemies from your other job."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm already doing that." Defense attorneys always seemed to have several enemies: either people they hadn't gotten off and had been released from prison or potentially in this case, a disgruntled family member of someone who had been defended successfully. The list could be very long. And it was something I'd need some help with.

I could gain access to the network at the office on my computer, tasking Roman to double check those who'd recently been released from jail.

"I'll see you tomorrow unless you need something tonight," Vadim now teased.

"No, I think I can handle one little lady."

"I'm sure you can."

I was smiling as the call was ended. However, the edge deep within was increasing. I didn't like what was happening on any level. However, we could use the Irish mob to try to locate someone with a personal vendetta. They had skin in the game.

I immediately dialed Roman, hoping he wasn't in court.

"You heard," he said by way of answering.

"Yeah. Any other details, other than it was a sharpshooter and the newspaper had a bloody threat?"

"I was going to ask where you got your information but duh," Roman said, half laughing. "Nothing. Now, the police are tight lipped. You should be worried given the attack outside the courtroom."

"I'm not thrilled but I'm not certain this is all about the congressman in particular."

"A new serial killer?"

"Possibly. Can you cross reference records on the most violent men recently released from prison, including from our caseload?"

Roman whistled. "Yeah, but it'll take some time."

"I know. I'll check the old files myself."

"Where are you?"

"Best you don't know."

"The scene was chaotic as fuck," he offered.

"I know."

"Married yet?"

At least I'd laughed more than once today. "Not yet. I think I'll wait until this shit blows over."

"Let's just hope it does, Aleks. We have a lot to lose, including our reputation."

"By the way, there's a girl named Jasmine in the admin pool. Do you know her?"

He snorted. "Yeah, she was good but she sent me an email quitting on the spot. Why?"

I'll be damned. "Because she issued an odd threat to Raphaella. Is she anyone in particular?"

"Not that I know of."

Maybe it didn't matter at this point. "See if you can find anything."

"Will do."

I heard a noise and turned around. I honestly think my heart stopped briefly. I'd seen my bride to be in jeans and sneakers so much, the fact she was wearing a red dress and heels shocked the hell out of me.

How many beautiful women had I seen and experienced in my years on this earth? Dozens, most dressed to the nines, prepared for a cocktail party or some other illustrious event. They'd had money and their attire had cost multiple thousands of dollars. I knew my fiancée had a trust fund waiting for her that had increased tenfold with the help of a wealth management team. She was worth multiple millions of dollars.

Getting early access had been dangled over her head to try to bring her back into the fold. She'd refused, including the typical allowance her father had provided. She still had two years to wait before she could decide for herself what to do with the money. That meant the beautiful, yet simple dress was likely off the rack from Bergman's Basement or some other famous secondhand store.

Yet it only made her that much more beautiful. And natural. She was looking at me timidly, as if I wouldn't like what I saw. Was she nuts? In my eyes, she was the most beautiful woman on the face of this earth.

I growled. "I gotta run."

"Hot date?"

"In truth, yes."

He was muttering under his breath, also laughing. "I'll forward what I find tomorrow."

"Good." I slipped the phone into my pocket and headed toward her. "You look incredible."

Raphaella turned in a full circle. "Since I managed to convince you to go out, I thought I'd look nice for a change."

"News flash. You always look nice."

"I found a place we could go."

"Snooping already?" I teased.

She gave me a saucy look. "I wanted to know what I was getting myself in the middle of. I'm picky with food."

" Russkaya yeda—eto dykhaniye zhizni ," I told her. "Russian food is the breath of life. My grandmother used to say that."

"Well, then I guess I'll be the judge of that."

"What restaurant?"

"Skorvorodka."

"Not a bad pronunciation." The choice would work, not too far away while being smaller and easier to deal with. Plus, at one time I'd known the owner.

"Are you game?"

"Mmmm… For more than you know."

"Good because it's time we have a little fun. And trust me. I can show you how."

Of that I had no doubt.

Raphaella

I was an Italian girl. What did I think I was doing going to a Russian restaurant? And if anyone heard my name, I would certainly have an additional target or ten placed on my back.

In this place, my father was a hated man. At least, so he'd told me when he'd warned me never to be caught in Brighton Beach.

Well, dear old Daddy could no longer rule my life.

Plus, given the location of the restaurant, which was nestled in a strip of various businesses, we'd been required to walk several blocks from where Ivan had parked the SUV. It was so weird to be chauffeured around everywhere, but I had to admit I could get used to it. Night had fallen. Unlike the evening before, the stars were twinkling in the sky. There were varied white Christmas-style lights strung in windows and around doors of several of the businesses.

Two things struck me as we walked arm in arm down the street. One was the fact there were alcoves everywhere with people sitting by small tables sipping coffee or their alcoholic beverage. More important, every single time we passed a group, they'd stood, greeting Aleksander as if he was a long-lost friend.

Of course, I couldn't understand a word given they were speaking Russian, but I didn't need to in order to know whatever was being said was out of respect.

He stopped in front of several, the Russian flying between all the parties and I'd never seen him so animated. He'd been such a cool cucumber in court, but this was as if he was holding court.

When the last group paid attention to me, one of the older men took my hand into his, kissing my knuckles.

" Yemu povezlo, chto u nego takaya krasivaya nevesta ." The man's voice was gravelly, a reflection of the Russian vodka he was sipping and the cigar he was smoking.

"What did he say?" I had to whisper to Aleksander.

He leaned in. "He said I was a lucky man to have such a beautiful bride."

"You told him."

"As with all things in the world of the Bratva, it's better to pave the way."

"Because I'm Italian."

"No, my little lamb. Because I'm second in command to take over the Bratva if something happens to Vadim, or he finally retires."

I don't know why I hadn't known that. I should have figured it out given his position, but seeing it up close and personal, the total respect in most men's eyes, instead of the fear shown for my father, was eye opening.

"How do you say I am the one honored?"

He whispered it into my ear several times as I mouthed the words. I had a terrible feeling I'd butcher it but what the heck? You only lived once.

" Ya udostoyen chesti ."

The immediate silence told me I had.

When the older man brought me in for a hug, his companions clapping Aleksander on the back, I had a feeling I'd passed some test. I was more relieved than I would have thought possible.

A few additional words were said, still in Russian, followed by nods of respect and Aleksander wrapped his arm around my shoulders, leading us further down the sidewalk. "You were a hit, my little lamb."

"And you're highly revered."

"This area is full of my people."

"You don't understand. My father put the fear of God into almost everyone. Pay your taxes or your family is caught in the middle. Don't betray the organization in any way or you'll face a devouring wrath."

"I learned a long time ago, as did Vadim, that if you want to rule any group, the best way to gain loyalty and respect is by giving it to them first."

"You're a snake in the courtroom yet you're considered a nice guy?"

He laughed and pointed to something in front of us.

"What the hell?" I broke away, heading toward the statue. "A bear?" The huge lifelike creature stood in front of the glass front of the restaurant as if inviting customers inside. Or maybe threatening them with bodily harm. I couldn't help but feel giddy from seeing it. "Take a picture of me with Mr. Bear."

The eight-foot-tall piece wasn't cuddly, but it would make for a great photograph for my roomies. Ex roomies. I even posed and while Aleksander growled at first, he took several pictures with his iPhone.

When he was finished, he shook his head and tugged at my arm, pulling my back to his chest and guiding me to the entrance of the restaurant. As soon as he opened the door, the wild music caught my attention, the dark surroundings next. The interior was exactly as the photographs on Google had depicted.

The interior was galley style with a sloped wooden ceiling, one long bar on the right-hand side with booths on the other and tables further back in the darkest part of the dining room. Everything had a lively feel to it from the music to the banter in Russian. And the smells were incredible. My mouth watered at the same time my tummy grumbled for food. It had seemed like days since I'd eaten. While the wall lights barely added any real light, they did add to the sensual and perhaps dangerous atmosphere.

The moment we walked through, all conversation stopped, the bartender still wiping a glass with a bar towel while he studied both of us. The man had a scowl on his face as he slammed the tumbler onto the surface of the bar.

As he approached, I was certain the man was angry, but the moment he stopped directly in front of Aleksander, a smile broke out on the bartender's face.

The two embraced, clapping each other on the backs as they spoke Russian.

Suddenly, the entire restaurant broke out in cheers.

"Drinks all around," the bartender said in English. "Papa. Look who the cat dragged in." The yell wasn't acknowledged right away but when a man came rumbling from the back, the various customers parted ways.

The old man's eyes lit up like a firecracker. He mentioned something in Russian and Aleksander grinned.

"English, old man. English. My bride to be doesn't speak Russian. Yet. But eventually, I'll teach her."

Another eruption powered through the place and it was so different than any place I'd ever been to that I instantly felt at home. The cheers continued even as the older man screamed out for lively music.

I hadn't noticed a small band in the back that immediately broke out into some folk music and almost everyone in the place started dancing. It was so odd to me, so refreshing that it was as if I was seeing my man for the first time.

And through other people's eyes.

In the next several minutes I was required to dance with one man after another, all the while Aleksander keeping a watchful eye on me. As I was handed a shot glass of clear liquid, my fiancé admonished the bartender but took one for himself.

What struck me most of all was how my heart lurched, the emotions I'd felt for Aleksander instantly stronger.

I never would have believed there was any chance at finding lust, let alone love, in an arranged marriage.

But I'd been wrong.

Very, very wrong.