Despite the predilection to the contrary, money didn’t always buy safety.
No one was safe, no matter how much protection came with the position that called for it. And when it came to the men in the Bratva, someone somewhere was always trying to put a bullet in their heads.
Vasily was a wanted man—wanted by two of the most powerful factions of the Vory v Zakone—and if he’d been smart, he might have reached out to his politician friend and asked that he find him a way out of the country.
Hiding in Chicago wasn’t his brightest idea, and despite his eagerness to finish his business with Vasily, Kaz had learned his lesson. If it seemed too good to be true, it had to be. And for that reason, he didn’t go alone to the safe house that Vadim had been given the address to.
Rus, Konstantin, and Kaz—along with a number of others Vadim had sent along with them—sat in the back of Kolya’s Hummer with the surly one behind the wheel as he navigated through late-day traffic.
Despite Konstantin’s whistling in the background—a low, haunting sound that resonated in the truck—Kaz tuned them all out, focused instead on what awaited him at the address they were drawing closer to.
It was a shipping yard, Kaz realized as they drew nearer, and he could just see the shipping containers on the other side of the fence. Before they reached the entry point, however, Kolya killed the lights to his truck, slowing to a crawl as he parked on a side road and killed the engine.
There was no conversation as they each got out of the car, going around to the trunk as they strapped on bulletproof vests and the special case Kolya kept in the trunk of his car was opened, unveiling the AK-47s he had hidden inside.
Kaz didn’t bother with one. Instead, he checked over his Glock one last time. When he finished, Rus clapped a hand on his shoulder, as he often did when they were younger and he wanted to offer brotherly advice—this time wasn’t quite like the others.
“Ready?”
As he asked this, the others Vadim had sent along were already at the gate, cutting away the padlock that kept the gate closed to those who didn’t belong. With one sharp snap of the tool against the metal, it dropped to the ground.
Kaz nodded once. “Let’s get this done.”
As the first shot rang out, sending them jogging toward the entrance, Kaz thought about the warning Vadim had given them before they took off.
With the mayor’s cooperation, they had more than just his cooperation, but his help in another matter. Someone hearing gunshots was inevitable, and it wouldn’t take long before they were calling the police to report it.
Kaz hadn’t the slightest idea as to how they would handle that situation, but Vadim had assured him in that vague, all-knowing way of his that he had already taken care of the matter.
As they neared the gate, Kolya and Rus in front, Kaz and Konstantin behind, the eldest Boykov said, “We have a twenty-minute rule to get in and get out before one of Chicago’s finest rides by to reports shots being fired.” He looked at Kaz and asked, “That enough time for you?”
Even if it weren’t, he would have to make sure it was.
Kaz didn’t waste any more time, rushing through the gate as his heart pumped anew with each step he took. The gunshots were impossibly loud, nearly drowning him in harsh echoes, but he kept moving, keeping his head down, and Rus close at his heels.
On the south end of the yard, they entered a building through a thick, steel door, one that had been installed after Vasily had made a home inside it, but with a makeshift key, they were in within seconds.
One of Vasily’s guards turned in a rush, but he was too late to stop the bullets Rus drilled into him.
“Go,” Rus said as he nodded his head at the staircase while still firing at the other end of the hall.
Kaz didn’t hesitate, starting up the stairs with a swiftness he hadn’t felt in years, but as he reached the top, the loud crack of a gunshot brought him up short. When it was quiet once more, Kaz called, “Don’t make this hard on both of us, Vasily.”
A snarled, Russian curse sounded a moment before Vasily was pulling the trigger again in quick succession.
Vasily was too proud of a man to bow before any man—it was why they both had the stars tattooed on their knees—so Kaz hadn’t expected anything less. He had come here expecting this to be hard, to defy death in a means to finally put his father down.
His finger wrapped around the trigger, Kaz swung around the corner, firing before he even had a clear view of what awaited him on the other side of the landing.
Fresh holes appeared in the door at the end as Kaz fired off more rounds, but just as he was about to pull the trigger once more, he heard the unmistakable grunt a moment before something heavy clattered to the floor.
He didn’t waste time, crossing the floor and shoving the door open, on guard and ready for anything Vasily had planned.
Vasily’s hand was bloody, a few of his fingers missing, his gun at his feet as he simultaneously tried to grab hold of his only weapon and tend to his wound. The scent of vodka was strong in the room, so strong that Kaz’s nose stung inhaling.
He didn’t remember much from that night except the glint of the blade Vasily had used to slice open the skin of his neck. He remembered his voice, the smug quality that spoke so candidly about his impending death, but what Kaz didn’t remember was how his father had looked that night.
Since he had last seen his father, the man had lost weight, his face thinner, his cheekbones more pronounced. A tiredness on his features that hadn’t always been so prevalent.
Before he could reach the weapon, however, Kaz lifted his gun once more, only feeling the slightest pangs in his chest as he pulled the trigger, watching as the heated metal tore through more flesh.
A brief image of his father flashed in his mind—back when they were still father and son, their relationship not tainted by the demands of the Bratva. How caring he had once been, eager to give his time and affection if only for the adoration Kaz showed him in return.
Vasily was a man who wanted to be loved by all and to love in return—but his love came with strings, and despite the many years of his life, he had never learned that love could only be freely given.
Now, he was a shadow of the father Kaz had once known—a man he no longer admired.
Vasily laughed, and sharp moans of pain broke up the sound. “It was only a matter of time,” he said as he turned familiar eyes on his youngest son. “I knew you would find your way here.”
Unbidden, Kaz asked, “Then why didn’t you run further?”
“You wouldn’t have stopped,” Vasily said. “You’re my son, after all.”
Vasily looked at Kaz, as a sense of calm seemed to wash over the man. He had to know that, for the first time in his life, he had been beaten—and despite how good he thought he was, there was no way to talk himself out of this one.
Letting his hands fall to his side, Vasily said, “I’m not afraid to die.”
The statement registered in the back of Kaz’s mind, but even still, his arm raised on its own accord, his Glock pointed at his father’s chest. “And I’m not afraid to kill you.”
The first shot slammed into his chest, sending him back a few steps as he stumbled, his hand going up to cover the wound. Red spilled out between splayed fingers, rivulets running down his arm even as the color bloomed brighter on the backdrop of his white shirt.
His back hit the wall a moment later, his legs giving out beneath him as he sunk to the floor wearing a dazed but pained expression on his face. When Kaz stowed his gun and crossed the floor in unhurried strides, Vasily’s gaze lifted to him until Kaz dropped to his haunches, folding his hands in front of his knees.
“No man should die alone,” Kaz said, answering his unspoken question. “Not even one like you.”
Vasily coughed, blood spraying from his mouth as he tried to draw a breath. “Where did I go wrong with you, Kazimir?”
“It wasn’t where you went wrong with me, but where you let your greed consume you.”
So softly Kaz almost missed the words, Vasily whispered, “Apologize to my girls for me, Kazimir. I owe them that.”
The last words of a dying man, Kaz thought as he didn’t respond, watching his father—the same man who had both raised him as any doting father should and betrayed him as any enemy might—take one last ragged breath before his chest stopped moving.
For a long minute, he remained there, staring at his father, but when he finally stood, heading for the door, Kaz knew he wouldn’t do as his father had asked.
When he went to his mother and sisters, he could only apologize for his own sins.
Violet tiptoed down the hallway, wanting to get past her father’s office without being noticed or called in. It was way too early in the morning for her father’s nonsense. Hadn’t she already put up with enough of it as it was?
Unfortunately, since learning she was pregnant, Violet’s entire schedule had been turned upside down. Before the pregnancy, it was unusual for her to be up before nine or ten in the morning if she didn’t absolutely have to be. The baby seemed to want her up at seven at the latest, with a full bladder to boot.
The good thing about earlier mornings was the fact Violet usually got to spend them alone, sipping on tea or juice on the back porch or in one of the three sunrooms the mansion sported. Everyone else was either asleep or just beginning to prepare for their day.
They were too busy to notice the quiet girl off on her own, lost in her thoughts.
She held tight to those moments. Precious seconds when she could think of Kaz and not worry if someone was watching for even a flicker of unhappiness in her features. Moments when she could have her back turned to a door, say good morning to her unborn baby, and not worry that someone might see her do it.
But she had to be careful.
Which was why she was currently tiptoeing down the hall when she noticed her father’s office doors were wide open.
The low murmurs coming from the office told Violet the space was not empty. She recognized her father’s voice, of course, but the other voices were too quiet for her to distinguish. The closer she got, the better she could hear.
Three people.
Her father.
Angelo.
Caesar.
“We have a bigger problem,” Angelo said.
“I’m not sure that we do,” Alberto replied. “My daughter will do as she’s told. The rest is rather simple.”
“It’s not simple, Alberto. She’s married. And not through the church or another religious entity, but through a Justice of the Peace. We’re not talking about bribing enough people to get an annulment through but an actual divorce.”
“Be that as it may—”
“How long do you expect Caesar to stay in New York?” Angelo interrupted, his tone thickening with his irritation. “Because I will be leaving soon—I expected my son to be following with the promise of a marriage arrangement soon after.”
“The divorce can be put through without trouble,” Alberto said. “If the Russian wanted to stay married, he would have kept her around.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Alberto.”
“Which one?”
“How long will I need to stay in New York?” Caesar asked, finally joining the conversation again. “Because I’m already bored, you see, and the longer I stay bored—”
“Caesar,” Angelo warned.
“—the more likely I am to find someone to amuse myself with, Don. And we all know how much trouble that leads me into, don’t we? I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“At least, he managed to add the title in there for my benefit,” Alberto muttered.
“He has his good qualities,” Angelo replied absently. “And if he wasn’t my favorite, those occasional qualities would mean nothing. He tends to forget that.”
Caesar scoffed but said nothing else.
“The divorce,” Angelo said pointedly, “is not a simple thing.”
Alberto sighed heavily. “I have contacts—it could be forged, for now.”
Violet’s heart beat so hard in her chest, it was beginning to hurt. She was pretty goddamn sure this was not in Kaz’s plans when he sent her back here to be safe. And now … now, she had no real way of contacting him to tell him what the hell was going on and that it was going south really fast.
“How good of a forgery when the marriage is legal, registered, and recognized by the state government?” Caesar asked.
“State—not Federal. It’s a loophole. It would give me time. I have other … documents for Violet as far as identities go. One of those could be used.”
Oh, this was not good.
Violet cringed, wishing she had stayed in bed. It could be as simple as making a phone call, but she knew good and well that her father had all the lines tapped and his security monitored all calls. Even her cell phone was monitored.
How the hell was she supposed to get out of this one?
“I’ll stay a while,” Caesar said, bringing Violet back to the conversation at hand. “It’s not like my brother couldn’t use the time away from me. And besides, your daughter does have one thing going for her.”
Alberto made a disgruntled sound under his breath. “Should I even ask?”
“She’s interesting. I like interesting women. They’re a challenge.”
Angelo chuckled. “And when does that interest wane? With you, it always seems to wane rather quickly.”
Caesar took a second to answer. “Somewhere between a surname change and babies.”
“He’ll never make a good husband,” Alberto groused.
“You didn’t want a good husband,” Angelo replied as if he was reminding Violet’s father of that fact. “What you wanted, old friend, was a blanket to cover the shame. I’m providing you with that, aren’t I?”
“Actually,” Caesar put in, “that would be me.”
“This or a grave, son.”
“You could at least make it interesting for me, Papa.”
“Well, she is technically married,” Angelo said like it was an afterthought. “That is your type, it seems.”
What hell had Violet fell into?
She didn’t know if this was some kind of nightmare or just a sick joke. Hiding the pregnancy was one thing, but she was not going to fake marry someone just to please her father or stay in a safe haven.
The more she even had to consider it, the sicker it made her feel.
Violet’s morning sickness had finally decided to show itself at the proper time—for once. All the anxiety and panic she felt began to thump hard in the back of her throat as the bile spilled onto the back of her tongue. She spun fast on her heel, making sure to keep a tight grip on her messenger bag as she went. It was the one thing her father let her keep—though he’d gone through it, only not with a sharp enough eye to realize the white bottle of vitamins were missing their telltale wrapping. He’d never even questioned the prenatal vitamins, really, and she supposed that was sheer luck.
She barely made it out of the hallway, going back the way she had come, and into a spare bathroom in enough time to be sick without making a mess and exposing her eavesdropping. Somehow, she managed to get the door shut and the exhaust fan turned on—it offered just enough sound to muffle her vomiting, but not by much.
Violet leaned over the toilet, more sickness spilling into the porcelain, as her bag fell to the tiled floor, the contents falling out. She didn’t even care.
This was horrid.
By the time she was finished, the whole bathroom had smelled of vomit, and her cheeks were streaked with tearstains.
Just freaking wonderful.
That wasn’t the worst part, though.
No, that came when the bathroom door was pushed open with a certain care that said whoever was behind it had been listening to her the entire time and was wondering if she was dead or not. Frankly, she’d be wondering that herself had she needed to listen.
“Fuck,” Violet muttered.
Caesar stood outside the bathroom, arms crossed and a curious expression on his face as he watched Violet reach up to flush the toilet. “Well, then …”
“Get out.”
“In a minute.”
“Now,” Violet snarled.
“Sick?”
“Deaf?” she shot back.
On wobbly legs, Violet stood, turning to the sink to turn the tap on and cup water in her hand to drink and swish out her mouth. She only turned around when she heard a telltale rattle behind her. Caesar held the bottle of her vitamins in his hand, though it looked like he’d been refilling her bag for her.
She would have thanked him because it was a nice gesture, if he hadn’t been holding those pills.
Her secret …
Jesus.
“Caesar,” Violet started to say.
“Just a second,” Caesar said, holding up a finger as he looked the bottle over. Then he took the top off and looked inside, nodding as though the contents were exactly what he’d expected to find inside.
Shit.
This had just gone from bad to way worse.
“Question,” he murmured, “if you wouldn’t mind answering.”
Well, what options did Violet have at the moment?
“What is it?”
“You could be a little nicer right now, Violet.”
“Could I?”
Caesar dropped the vitamins in the bag and handed it over, not giving it another ounce of his attention. Instead, his gaze focused on her. “Tell me, you don’t have your wedding bands hidden somewhere, right?”
“You already know the story—he sent me back without them.”
A smile graced his features, and then it was gone just as fast as it had come.
“No man who gives a woman a ring and his last name would take it back unless he intended to give it to her again someday,” Caesar said quietly. “He wouldn’t care to, you see? If he truly didn’t want her anymore, she could take the rings, his name, and run with it, as long as she was gone. I thought—maybe—your Russian was a special case. Cultural differences, we’ll say. Indulge me—how wrong was I?”
Violet shot a look behind Caesar, wondering who else might be in the hallway listening.
He seemed to take note of her distraction. “It’s fine. They’re drinking in your father’s office—I closed the door on my way out.”
“That doesn’t make me safe.”
“You—this agreement between our families that they’re working on—are a means to an end for me, nothing more. Not a means that I chose or wanted, mind you, but one nonetheless. If you have a way out of this for me, I would love to hear it.”
Violet swallowed hard. “I thought I was interesting—a challenge. Wasn’t that was you said earlier?”
“Spying is a bad habit.”
“You should close doors you intend to talk behind.”
“True enough,” he agreed, “but you just got a whole lot less interesting, Violet. Married women are one thing. Pregnant women are a whole other breed. No offense.”
“None taken. You’re not a very good made man, are you?”
Caesar smirked at that question. “I’m good at pretending to be, and isn’t that what matters?”
She was good at pretending, too.
Sometimes, a person had to work with what they had.