by A. C. Bextor
“The girl isn’t going anywhere, either,” I tell him. “My sister doesn’t believe that, but I do.”
Abram laughs. He is also well versed in how unwavering Faina’s determination can be.
“You need to get Faina married off, Vlad. She’s thirty-two years old and causing you more headache than she has a right to.”
Nodding, I agree. “Other than listening to my son about big trips he’s planning to New York, how is little Aline doing?”
Aline is a six-year-old crippled girl who was born in France. At the age of two, she came to live with Abram and Lucienne.
Luci, as we all call her, had been spending the summer visiting her parents where she heard about an old, but still operating, orphanage.
According to Abram, the moment his wife set eyes on Aline lying in a bed, being blatantly ignored by most visitors, she fell in love. Subsequently, she then felt compelled to save the little girl from a life of solitude.
No one knows why Aline has never taken a single step, but her condition has never mattered. Once the adoption went through, Abram took her to see several specialists who all concluded an accident as an infant caused her paralysis. Being that Aline was so young when it happened, we were thankful that not only did she not remember the accident but that she was strong enough to survive it, as well.
I admire Lucienne’s kind heart. She’s not so different than my sister or Klara, yet Luci doesn’t live the life of the organization other than by Abram’s extension. Which, if he keeps his work from his wife the way I try to keep my work from the women in this house, is to say she doesn’t truly live the life at all.
“Aline is doing great,” he reports, walking to the kitchen table cluttered in dishes and pans. He moves a few to the side, giving us both room before he sits.
“You have something else to discuss,” I speculate when Abram hesitates. I take a seat in the chair next to his. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure with Faina acting out that I should—”
“Tell me,” I insist. “You’re my closest friend, Abram. We don’t keep secrets.”
He sighs. The aging lines around his dark eyes, paired with those around his mouth, reflect his worry.
Abram is ten years older than I am. His dark hair has prematurely started to gray, most likely due to his line of work in dealing with so much of mine.
His broad chest rises as he takes in a breath before he counters. “As your closest advisor, we don’t keep secrets. As your closest friend, I hate to worry you.”
“Tell me,” I insist again.
Shaking his head and exhaling, he states, “There was a man outside the gates.”
“A man?”
He nods. “He had a camera. A professional one.”
“What? When was this?”
“Tonight. Gleb called me at home. He didn’t want to upset you, as you’ve been as busy as you’ve been, but he wanted to let someone know he handled it on his own.”
“How so?”
Abram smiles. “Let’s say the unwelcome visitor didn’t state his business quickly enough, so Gleb and Rueon handled it.”
Gleb is an older gentleman and head of my mansion’s security. He holds a crucial position within the organization. Watching over my sister and all who she employs can be daunting for anyone, but Gleb handles Faina with care. His cut in profit is high, and the information he receives is just as high. I trust him, as he’s been with me now for many years. However, I only trust him so far.
Rueon is the youngest member of the family. At the age of eighteen, he came to me after hearing rumors on the street about what our family does. He asked to be given legitimate work, things he could do to earn extra money. After a year, I found that not only had he earned the money he was paid, but he had earned the trust of my men as well. I brought him in and now, at twenty-three, he’s one of my most dedicated soldiers. He lacks experience, but working under Gleb will give him this without question.
“We’ll have to respond to Ciro’s bait soon,” Abram advises. “The idiot has been quiet too long.”
“You suppose the man who was handled was one of Ciro’s?”
Looking unsure, Abram states, “If he was, he certainly didn’t own up to it, and Gleb said Rueon gave him ample opportunity before he broke his jaw.”
“Christ,” I hiss.
“Who knows? He could’ve been innocent.”
No one is innocent.
“If we find out it’s Ciro, another statement needs to be sent, Vlad,” he worries. “And it should be done soon.”
“Yes,” I agree before taking another drink and setting the bottle on the table at my side.
Sending a message of demonstration has consequences. The same consequences which should still serve to remind Ciro of the penalty he paid the last time he crossed his boundaries.
“Vee?” Klara’s small voice calls out, causing both Abram and my head to turn.
Klara stands at the kitchen’s entrance wearing a bright yellow summer dress that ties at the back of her neck, the hem stopping mid-thigh. Her long blonde hair, which is usually pulled back, falls haphazardly against her exposed bronzed shoulders.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. Maag said I have chores—”
“Come in, Klara,” Abram happily invites. Standing and then walking to her, he bends at the waist to kiss her cheek, then grabs her hands, and compliments, “You’re looking as pretty as ever. How are you?”
My hands ball to fists at his casual greeting. My back tenses as Klara walks two steps to gain distance in order to pass where I sit.
“Hi, Abram,” she greets with a nod on her way to the sink. “I’m good. Thank you.”
“I hear you have a birthday coming up this weekend,” he remembers. “A big one.”
Klara looks to me with surprise.
Abram catches her hesitance and offers, “Faina reminded me before she left that we’re all going to help you celebrate.”
Klara’s eyes roll before she closes them. Pink blushes her cheeks. “I don’t need a party to celebrate. Faina insisted I do.”
“Well, of course she did. That feisty woman would throw a party every Tuesday for no reason if Vlad would let her.”
Klara laughs, a quiet and sweet sound, before asking, “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m leaving, unfortunately,” he insists. “Luci’s made dinner for Vlad. He hasn’t eaten today, and rather than listen to my advice, he’d prefer to starve. There’s plenty in there.” He points to the fridge. “Help yourself.”
“I—” She tries to speak, most likely to deny him, but Abram cuts her off.
“Eat, Klara,” he instructs, though doing it gently. “Luci would be devastated to hear her best dish went to waste.”
When Klara turns her head, her eyes hold mine.
Disregarding Abram, she questions, “You haven’t eaten today?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I take another drink from the bottle.
After a subtle clearing of her throat, she presses, “Vee?”
Abram peers down at me and knowingly smirks. I return his expression with a leer. In response, he slaps my shoulder as he passes on his way to the door.
“I’ll call you if I hear anything else. Get some rest, and mind your manners.”
I listen as Klara moves around behind me, but she doesn’t say anything more.
Abram’s eyes scan Klara’s body up and down before he moves them toward me and grins while still speaking to her.
In a low, subtle voice laced with what I’m certain is appreciation, Abram says, “Klara, as always, it’s been a pleasure. See that you keep Vlad company. He’s tense. Surely, there’s something you can do for him.”
As I turn in place to find her, Klara loses focus on what she was doing. Her green eyes widen before frantically falling to mine. Her shocked expression dims as he walks out, leaving the two of us alone.
My sister has been gone only two days and now I’m face-to-face with her—for lack of better term�
��disobedient pet. And I’m doing this after watching the most honest man I’ve ever known eagerly peruse her young, blossoming body.
Unfortunately, I can’t blame him at all. She’s difficult to ignore.
Klara grabs a small towel to wipe her hands, then leans her back against the counter while studying me.
“You can go,” I instruct.
Rather than accept the invitation to leave, she insists, “I’ll make you a plate and—”
Standing, hands fisted in irritation, I turn in her direction. “Not necessary. I’m not hungry.”
“But Faina said I was to—”
“To what? Tell me,” I snap, aiming my rigidity at anything I can and finding her as target.
There are many things Klara could do to relieve my tension. None of them are good for either of us to consider.
Angry at the visions preying on my mind, I push my annoyance back her way. “Tell me what you think you could do.”
Looking down in submission, Klara drops the towel on the counter before nervously threading her fingers together.
Her body is slack, and her voice is shaky as she admits, “Faina told me I needed to look after you.”
A heinous laugh escapes my chest. Grabbing my beer from the table, I down the rest of it in one drink, hoping to aid my already threadbare nerves. Once I’ve finished, I lift the bottle in her direction.
“You’ll get me another drink, and then you’ll go.”
Klara’s eyes narrow, which is typical. She’s never much cared for my blunt and direct way of giving orders, and I’ve never much cared to curtail them.
Errantly traipsing her way to the refrigerator, she passes me with a quickened step. The light waft of soft lilacs teases my senses.
Time has been virtuous to the girl—in all ways. With each passing year, the delicate grace she carries adds another reminder to how much of it has passed.
Her once young and awkward body now sanctions the opulent features of a grown woman—her hair thick and glossy, her skin fresh and clean. She’s no longer the child following Faina around at all hours of the day. Klara has grown into her own woman by aging right.
Other than to feed my desires with Katrina or other whores from my stables, I don’t remember the last time I’ve been alone in the company of a woman.
Years have passed since I’ve shared a bed with a woman untouched by so many before me. Not to mention how long it’s been since I’ve been left alone with her—the daughter of the first man I ever ordered killed.
Faina believes Klara to be an equal among this family. Through resentful curiosity, I’ve often wondered if Klara has ever felt the same.
Sitting back down in my chair, I position it in her direction and watch. Not only is Klara pulling out another beer, but she’s also pulled out the dish Abram’s wife saw necessary to send over. The white, ceramic plate, now laden with mass amounts of French cuisine, rests on the counter as Klara fusses over it.
“The Flamiche is still warm.” To my surprise, Klara recognizes the French dish. “I have work to do in the kitchen, so if you’d like you can eat dinner in your study.”
Coming to stand beside me, Klara avoids my eyes.
“I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“And I promised Faina I’d look out for you,” she clips. “I can take this to your study—”
“No,” I return, dismissing my usual terseness. “Just set it on the table.”
Continuing to avoid my gaze, she sets it down in front of me before placing a fresh beer next to it. The top hem of her yellow sundress dips in the front, revealing the pale pink garment she wears under it. Another testing tease of her scent lingers.
Her hair. That’s what smells of blossomed lilacs.
“Now go,” I snap, regretting having noticed her at all.
Ciro sits behind his dark mahogany desk, tapping his fingers against the shiny wood and staring into the eyes of a man so desperate and angry he dared to walk into his office—his home—for help.
Josef Embers.
The Sicilian boss carefully considers how best to handle this gifted opportunity. Vlad Zalesky deserves to suffer a great pain after all he put him through. Because of the Russian leader, he’d had to start his family and his business over again from the ground up. Finding men worthy to employ, testing their loyalty and trust as well as their resolve, and positioning his operations to profit took time he couldn’t afford.
The last fifteen years have been daunting. Time has taken a toll on Ciro, as well as those who depend on him. However, motivated by revenge and driven with the patience to see it through, he thinks he may have found a small chink in Vlad’s armor. And it’s one he’s considering utilizing.
Vlad’s weakness is most likely the girl—Klara Koslief.
He’d always known the traitor’s daughter lived there. In fact, he feels responsible for her life turning out as it did. Enzen Koslief wanted something for himself, a name. He came to Ciro for a trade. If Enzen sold Ciro information regarding the Zalesky operation, Ciro in turn agreed to compensate him—generously.
However, the stupid fool failed to cover his tracks and Vlad’s man, Abram Wiles, figured out the scheme before Enzen was done seeing it through.
His new plan may take time and it may cost him his own already corrupted soul to complete, yet Ciro can’t help but bask in the vision of Vlad on his knees, begging for mercy, once and for all.
“So, your sister—” Ciro starts to summarize, wanting the man out of his sight.
Josef nods, adjusting his posture in his seat. “Yes. Her name was Amere.”
“Amere,” Ciro tests the name. “You say she’s dead?”
“She killed herself a year ago, but I’ll tell you again, Vlad Zalesky is responsible.”
“How so?”
Josef’s eyes narrow with disgust. “He took her little girl away from her. Amere loved Klara so much.”
Ciro tenses, sensing Josef is not being completely truthful. During their entire conversation, Josef has given no intimate details regarding Klara or his alleged dear little sister, Amere.
Ciro remains skeptical.
Josef’s cheap beige suit and the amount of dirt and grime in his slicked-back hair prove he’s a liar, if only in appearance. The dark rings beneath his nearly black eyes and his ashen skin, along with his sunken cheekbones, indicate the man in front of him regularly uses drugs. The deplorable amount of filth beneath his fingernails turns Ciro’s gut.
The Sicilian leader has had experience with men just like the one staring at him now. These experiences cause him hesitation.
Leaning forward, Ciro clasps his hands together and twines his fingers in a fold. “You tell me you haven’t seen Klara since she was a small girl, and neither had Amere before she died.”
“That’s correct,” Josef confirms.
“Yet you waited all these years to come find your long-lost niece? The one you tell me you’ve missed so much.”
“I haven’t always been well,” Josef admits, to Ciro’s surprise. “At the time she was taken, I was living in Boston. I was working the docks and couldn’t care for Klara then.”
“But you can now that she’s an adult?”
“Yes.”
Ridiculous.
“Let me see what you’ve got there,” Ciro instructs, snapping his fingers across his desk.
Handing him the photograph of Klara standing with another woman outside a local market, Josef explains, “This was taken a few months ago. I wanted to be sure it was really her before I approached Vlad.”
The picture confirms everything Ciro hoped was true. The loving way Vlad’s boy is watching Klara laugh. The protective stance Vlad’s sister takes next to them both.
Klara appears to be the heart of them, and if that heart were to stop beating….
“If all you say is true, why haven’t you gone to Vlad already? After finding out this is your Klara, as you say, why are you in my office and not his? Better yet, why haven’t you approached your
niece personally?”
Josef’s jaw clenches, his temples protruding with each grind of disdain. His lips draw tight, and his hands on his lap ball into fists.
“I had planned on that. But the last man I paid to visit the Zalesky home to ensure Klara was there never came back with more pictures or for his payment.”
Ciro takes this in as no shock; anyone stupid enough to step foot near the gates of the Russian home would assuredly be risking their life.
“When she leaves the house, the young boy is usually with her,” Josef states, pointing to the picture. “He and that woman watch her very closely.”
Yes, Ciro mindfully agrees. Veniamin Zalesky is growing up. He’s his father’s son and will soon step into the role his father has made ready for him.
As for the sister, Faina, she could be of use, as well.
“I understand you want your family back—if Klara is indeed your family. And I understand you need my help. However, I can’t get involved yet.”
“But I thought—”
Lifting a hand, Ciro quiets Josef. “What is it you really want from me?”
“Help getting Klara.”
“What will you do once you have her?”
“I-I…,” Josef stutters. “She must be worth something.”
There it is.
Ciro notes his instincts weren’t wrong. Josef is crooked—a lifelong liar and petty thief. He’s aiming now for a much larger and lucrative payout.
Ciro feigns surprise as he accepts the bait, if only to test Josef’s resolve. “I’ll leave it to you to get to Klara, then. If you do, you bring her here. I can either pay you what you think she’s worth or make it so you both safely disappear together.”
“But doing this alone will take so much time. And resources I don’t have.”
“What’s your rush?” Ciro questions abruptly. “You’ve waited this long already.”
“I don’t know—”
Tired of dealing with this liar, Ciro sternly advises, “You do what you choose to do. That’s all the advice I can give you.”
“Don’t you think—”
“That is all I can give you,” Ciro states again. “Xavier will see you out.”
As Josef stands to leave, Xavier, Ciro’s top enforcer, moves forward from his position by the door. Xavier nods to Ciro, then looks to Josef before grabbing the top of his arm to lead the way.
