Lawless 2 (The Finale) Read online

  “I haven’t tried anything with the Tsarina,” he mumbles.

  “I’m well aware. Still, you’ve placed me in a position in which I have to address you. She’s mine, Mikhail. Don’t make me out to be the man you knew my father to be. He would’ve had your life on speculation, Kazen. One little glance, and you’re dead, dah?”

  Mikhail sighs, and an alcohol stench assaults me full force. “I worry about her—”

  My forearm slides across his throat. “Because I love you, I will grant you something else to worry about. Would you like that?”

  His heartbeat thumps against my skin. The desire to kill is almost enough to consume me. “Would you?”

  “Y-yes,” he gasps.

  “Good.” I breathe easy. I wouldn’t fight Mikhail to the death or issue a few custom-made hydro bullets between his eyes. Nyet. I’d tear the mudak apart without any regard to my love for Uncle Malich. I’d spent all night dreaming the perfect death.

  The how has always led to my satisfaction. I head to the door, drumming my fingers along the knife in the back of my blazer. “Kazen, brush your teeth and wash your fucking ass. Then let’s play a game. Not one for little boys but grown men, for sport. Dah?”

  Chapter 3

  Anastasiya

  A jostling at my shoulder snatches me from the dream. I pop into a seated position, the handle of one of my beloved Colts fitting my palm. As I cock the hammer, Luka dodges away from the bed.

  “Oh, just you,” I murmur, engaging the safety, though continuing to palm the pearl handle. Power seems to funnel through it, settling me. If our lives were a story, we could’ve closed the book last night with fireworks splaying across the sky, Simeon claiming me in the haven of his strong arms. In a perfect world, the Tsar and Tsarina lived happily ever after. But we all know of the demise of the last true Tsar.

  Anyhow, in my perfect world, the epilogue would transpire like so: we killed some people, had a child (not replacing the one who died but created another new life), killed more people, and brought more children into the world, loved them. Then somewhere along the lines, Simeon and I healed together and memorialized the tiny soul lost to us.

  The end.

  A worthy epilogue to our sordid life. An exemplary second chance romance. But it’s not. Real-life has tribulations, and our love never stalled between said tragedies.

  So, the story is still playing out. Enter Villain number whatever. A more worthy opponent than any of our past enemies.

  Sofiya is Simeon’s mother and the reason we were apart for four years. She’s the under-signer of my unborn baby’s death.

  “Just me?” Luka waves a hand, garnering my attention. He sits wide-legged on a silk chaise across the way. “Who were you expecting? An enemy? Anastasiya, us bykis are thorough in securing the grounds.”

  A sly smile dons my lips. “Don’t feel slighted, Luka. I meant you rather than Simeon. Where is he?”

  “Oh, I get it.” Luka sighs. “Nightmares about Sofiya.”

  “Sim made last night perfect . . . until he asked me to visit her.”

  The diva grins at me. “When are we paying my manipulative aunt a visit, Asya?”

  “Day after never.” I let my head rest, kissing the cushioned headboard. “Hey, why are you so insistent I play a game of Russian Roulette.”

  “Sim won’t murder you, Asya. You’re a good person. You won’t attack her, not without asking your questions, wishing the best. Human nature at work.”

  Heaving a sigh, I murmur, “I hate that, Luka. Hate how I wish the best for her.”

  “Still! You’ll gather evidence, present it to Simeon.”

  “Yes!” My head bobbles in a nod, attempting to keep me above water. “I’ll ask my questions, ask if Anatoly coerced her, and I’ll allow Sim to handle it.” The end of my statement strangles out. But I wanna handle that bitch myself!

  “You can do it.” Luka offers a therapeutic smile to which I roll my eyes.

  “Mother Sofiya was the only good thing he had in this life. She was constant—until Simeon murdered her brat. Fuck, even I disappeared.”

  “He understands now, Anastasiya. And my aunt isn’t the only good thing. He’s got me and Kirill. You will never meet a man more loyal than my brat. The twins—”

  “Dot and Beam?”

  “Dah, you call them creepy, I call them loyal. Simeon has good family. We will support him—however he handles Sofiya. Speaking of family . . . Mikhail might die today.”

  “What?”

  “Hey, I hardly grew up with the guy. Sure, he’s my cousin, but he was more estranged to us than Vassili and even Yuri and Igor.”

  “No, Luka. I mean what as in . . . Oh fuck. He’s not thinking.” I rub a hand over my face. “Cover your eyes.”

  A faint smile forms on Luka’s lips. He slaps his hands on his knees and gets up. “I’ll come back. Simeon might enter this room after washing his kazen’s blood from his hands. He’ll forget my attraction to my own gender and fly into a second rage. So, I decline the compromising situation.”

  By the time he’s to the door of the massive suite, I’ve already shrugged into a shirt and jeans. I run past him. Luka laughs.

  “This I have to see. My next statement cannot be considered treasonous, but some advice from your good friend. Saving Mikhail’s life might cost you your own, Tsarina.”

  “Don’t,” I grit.

  “Besides, Simeon is probably disposing of his body right about now. It looked like Mikhail was walking the plank when they left this morning.” Luka winks.

  I felt sorry for Mikhail Resnov. Simply put.

  I was to blame for his attempt at a connection. At least my dysfunctional mind had been when I flirted with the slightly older Resnov. It was a single encounter—years ago—in Vegas. He symbolized Volk, and I hate the part of my brain, which reacts without prompt because of my old owner. I’ve told myself Mikhail’s gravitating toward me because of grief.

  After showering and completing my morning routine, I find Luka in the massive dining room. I pluck up his second slice of toast and settle next to him. With a faint smile, he pats the side of his mouth with a linen napkin like true royalty.

  I shove his arm. “Luka, they’re both your family.”

  “I know Mikhail’s my kazen,” he groans.

  When I reach over to snatch a slice of melon, Luka swats my hand. “Ahem, why do you keep stealing my food?”

  “Why didn’t you request a plate for me?”

  He cocks his head toward the opposite end of the table. At least fifty seats down, there is a silver dome. Holding in a chuckle, I retrieve the plate and settle back next to him. “Simeon has enough betrayal in his life. This is a misunderstanding.”

  Luka pats my cheeks, and I swat at him. “You’re too gorgeous for your own good, Anastasiya.”

  “Pah.” I point a piece of speared pancake at him. “You haven’t given me a compliment since I tore a hole in the dress moth—Sofiya,” I pause to grit, “designed and had a tailor spend a thousand years making for me. You only said that because I was afraid she’d give me the spanking I never received and sorely deserved.”

  Before placing a mug of coffee to his lips, Luka mumbles, “Speaking of the devil.”

  “I’m speaking to you.” I clear my throat, then close my eyes and bite my lip. I shouldn’t have brought up the sweet memory. All the good ones from my younger years lead me back to Sofiya.

  If the term parents were tangible, I’d douse it in gasoline and light a fucking match!

  After finishing the fluffy confection, I set the plate aside.

  Luka grips my bicep, rubbing it with his thumb. “Do it now.”

  “No.”

  The friggen Prima Donna holds steady. I clutch a steak knife in my hand.

  “Not fair,” he growls.

  I twirl the base of it in my knuckles “You’ve known me as long as Simeon, Luka. It’s my timing or . . .”

  He laughs a little. “Or The Tsar’s timing, dah? Don’t
pretend as if you always get your way. Only with me. And it stops today.”

  Luka presses his hand over the knife, and we’re up in seconds. “Do it, now.” He enunciates every word.

  “Okay. Now.” I rise from the seat, conviction slamming through my bloodstream. “Now. We’re going now,” I grit out, stalking along the vast corridor toward the foyer.

  “And start speaking Russian again,” he counters.

  I glare back at him, my pace quickening.

  “Too much?”

  “Dah,” I snip out. Although I was born into this life, I still can’t force myself to play the part—the Russian girl. I’ve denied my mother's African heritage all my life, not sure why I never rejected my father's. Maybe it was because I grew up here. But with people I care about, the façade is down. And I deny my native tongue.

  “Keys,” he orders to a byki standing guard near the front door. Seconds later, the byki returns with a set of keys for one of the cars in the fleet along the way.

  An Aston Martin SUV lights up. He steps around to the passenger door. When I don’t make a move to slide into the awaiting seat, Luka clears his throat.

  He glares at my hesitation. “We’re visiting Aunt Sofiya and getting answers.”

  Mouth set, I climb in.

  Minutes later, Luka navigates along the row of luxury vehicles. Ahead, more courtyards split the road in half. He drives the lengthy wooded lane leading to the edge of the land. To force Sofiya from my brain, momentarily, I toggle onto my email app on my phone.

  My mouth tenses. Kosta still hasn’t responded. When we first escaped to Cape Town, Kosta and I bickered to no end. In Miami, my Sestra was a little easier to stomach. The only difference was we had more than a twelve-by-twelve-foot area to live in. Since everything went down in Italy, the stubborn suka hasn’t responded to me.

  “Slap on a smile.” Luka reaches over and nudges me with the back of his hand. “Today, you meet with one witch. No need starting the meeting already disheartened by another witch.”

  “I—”

  “You don’t owe Kosta shit.” He begins to slow as we approach the wrought iron gates. “Kosta saved you from your headmaster when you were children—she made the sacrifice.”

  “Ha, I gave you the short story. She's done more for me.” While Simeon dealt with some business on the jet ride home yesterday, I confided more in Luca than I had anyone. I guess it was a practice of sorts, preparing me to talk to Simeon.

  “One thing distinguishes Kosta from martyr status,” Luka starts in retort. “It slipped the suka’s mind that she made a conscious decision to sacrifice herself for you. Again, emphasis on her choice. Listen, I’m a Russian man, but I understand how women like their choices, maybe even more than the next man.”

  “Whatever, diva.” I start to chastise him then calm myself. “That’s not all Kosta did . . .”

  We come to a stop at the main gates to the palace. A byki exits the hut and leans in, resting his elbows on the driver’s window. “Morning.” He lowers his head at the sight of me. He’s torn between the proper greeting of Bratva royalty and something else. A ribbon of apology is in his gaze as he says the customary hello to me, then adds, “Please wait a minute.”

  “Do you see who is in the passenger seat?” Luka asks.

  “Dah. I still have orders,” he huffs.

  Luka zips up the window, and the byki moves away.

  “Moreover, when are you telling Simeon about your headmaster?”

  “After I see Sofiya. Which would’ve been never, but you’re a pizda. So, tonight,” I strangle out. I hadn’t meant to share so much with Luka before Simeon. I couldn’t even bring myself to mention the mudak’s name to Luka. How the hell will I ever be able to say Oleg out loud to Simeon?

  “Tonight is good.” He shakes out his nerves. “Wait until I’m out of the general vicinity.”

  “How nice of you.”

  The byki taps on the window.

  “What the fuck?” Luka growls, lowering his window.

  “Kirill is in charge while the Tsar is away. Open the back door.”

  “Did you tell Kirill his more-than-competent brat is accompanying the—”

  “Dah, Luka. I value my life. The door, please,” the byki groans.

  Twenty minutes later, we’ve arrived at a townhome where Sofiya is held against her will, for her sanity’s sake. A faint dusting of snow blankets the massive roof, which stretches like a cloud across the sky. The byki opens the door for me. Again, he offers an apology for his presence, and I smile then push back my coat, letting him catch a glimpse of my twin pistols.

  “I’ll stay here.” He clears his throat.

  More byki are on the scene at the front door and inside when we enter. An older man is sitting at an antique settee, a cup of tea in one hand, as he reads a psychological journal.

  “Mr. Garbovsky.” The byki begins making introductions.

  “I remember you.” Garbovsky smiles a row of caffeine-tinted teeth. Other than this addiction, he seems high society. “You brought Simeon lunch on a few occasions.”

  “Ye-Dah.” I smile.

  “Before you meet with Mrs. Resnov, may I have a word with you?”

  I nod slowly.

  “Privately, if possible.” His gaze tracks over the additional men in the room.

  “You are all relieved,” I call out.

  Each one, including Luka, nods their respect before exiting the room. I close the door and take a seat in the stiff chair adjacent to him.

  “Sofiya mentioned your coronation this morning. It triggered her honesty, softened her a bit, too. She cried and mentioned you were the daughter she never had.”

  A boulder drops into my throat.

  “She shared how much she’s grown to care for you over the years, Ms. Anastasiya. And how you had a traumatic experience with Anatoly . . . similar to what she’s endured in his hands in the past.”

  “She said that?” My eyes gloss with tears.

  “Sofiya has fond memories of her past as your caregiver. How she brushed your hair when you were a little girl. How much she doted on you and watched as you grew into the young lady her son loves fiercely—these are all her words.” He pauses to smile. “Her memories, including you, have had a positive effect on Sofiya. Thus, I’d like to include you in a few family sessions. If you’d be willing?”

  The therapeutic, smoothness of Garbovsky’s voice captivates me. I wipe a stray tear. “I’m willing.”

  “I will take you to her now. Please keep your discussion to about fifteen minutes or so. Then I will return to discuss her sessions going forward.” His words seem to echo in my ear, followed by white noise as he arises. We exit and are led to a courtyard at the center of the home.

  “Ah, she has finally returned to her gardens,” Garbovsky says. He glances around the area.

  “Where is Simeon’s mother?” I ask, but it comes out more of an order to a byki seated on a wrought iron bench, ornate in the shape of roses.

  Brown eyes peer through me.

  Head tilted, my senses heighten.

  The mudak is snoring!

  I jar him awake. “Where is—”

  The byki jumps up and bows.

  “There she is!” Garbovsky’s chipper voice grows farther away.

  The byki stutters out an apology as I follow after Garbovsky toward a small greenhouse. He opens the door, and I enter first.

  Sunlight shines down on Sofiya’s silver, silk tresses. She seems to be fussing softly about how her red roses are frostbitten. When she turns around, her mouth pulls into a smile. “My daughter, Anastasiya, you have returned . . .”

  My eyes widen in shock. “Mother,” I gasp the words, falling to my knees before her.

  The thick stem of a red rose glides along Sofiya’s wrist. With her gaze locked onto mine, Sofiya’s movement is autonomous. The sharp thorns of the rose dig into her flesh, ripping at her sensitive skin. Soft droplets of blood fall to the ground as the dramatic suka smiles and sl
ashes at her wrists. “My precious daughter has returned.”

  Fingers trembling, I beg, “Stop, Mother, please.”

  “Hush, Mother knows best. Just a tiny prick. How many times have I told you roses love blood?”

  Though it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she’ll bleed to death, I’m seized by her cold blue gaze, pupils awash in a sinister glow.

  The single rose with its thorny vine Sofiya used to dice at her lifeline shimmies to the ground. I’m gathered into her arms. All my senses fail me save for my sight. I’m aware she’s embracing me tightly because of vision alone. I’m aware she’s crying because I’m viewing rivers gliding down her porcelain skin.

  Then my hearing returns, Sofiya’s lies funnel through the white noise. “I’ve missed you, Anastasiya.”

  The moment becomes real, and I’m clutching her as tight as she is me. I never knew my mother, and for a time, Sofiya Resnov settled into the perfect place. There is no dysfunction, only love as she offers a hug only a mother would give.

  “Sofiya!” Garbovsky rushes toward us. He yanks at the linen sleeve of his shirt.

  The connection I have to her breaks. I blink, and her dark blue eyes gloss in tears. Blood is streaming down both her wrists into a bed of roses.

  The byki’s mouth forms his next apology. My eyes close, and I squeeze the trigger. The bullet pierces the mudak’s head.

  “You should’ve watched my mother,” I whisper. Because her death has my name on it and no one else’s.

  Chapter 4

  Simeon

  I fucked up, made impossible promises. Aside from crowning the head of my love, I agreed to slow down. In a sense, I have, and I will continue to align myself with Anastasiya’s desires. Her pace.