GHOST (Boston Underworld Book 3)

by A. Zavarelli

  But Viktor is not finished.

  “I am stripping you of your duties as Avtoritet,” he announces. “And from here on out, you will take your orders as Boyevik to Nikolai. Who I am promoting in your stead.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Sergei bellows. “He is only a boy.”

  “He is twenty-five. And he conducts himself in the way that a Vor should.”

  Viktor catches my eye before he goes on. “And besides, you should be happy. He is your pride and joy, no?”

  27

  Talia

  Alexei comes in late.

  I know, because I can’t sleep in his absence.

  Even though we are still worlds apart and will probably never trust each other, his being in the house is the only thing that makes me feel safe. Even though it shouldn’t. Even though it’s the most foolish thing I could do after Dmitri.

  I hear him fumbling around in his office, and then a curse before the light comes on down the hall. I swing my legs over the bed and move towards him, like a beacon in the night.

  I find him at his desk, pouring a glass of cognac, although it is apparent he has already had several. Only the lamp next to his desk is on, so the light is dim, but even still, I can tell something isn’t right.

  When his face comes into view, I see he has a split lip, and a bruise on his cheek.

  I step inside and move towards him, only catching his attention when I’m directly in front of him.

  “Go back to bed.”

  His voice is harsh and cold. I ignore it and round the desk, instead.

  He is too wound up, so I don’t chance sitting on his lap. Instead, I sit across from him, on the desk. Studying him, as he does the same.

  “What do you want?” he demands.

  Right now, I want to fix whatever is hurting him. But I don’t know the way. Nobody has ever showed me. So I do the only thing I can to connect with him. The only way I know.

  I lift my hips and discard my shorts while he watches, followed by my cami. And then I’m naked on his desk, spreading my legs for him to see me. My hand slides down between my thighs slowly, playing with myself while he watches.

  The room is quiet, and I have every bit of his attention. Cognac long forgotten, he leans forward, just a little, his eyes moving over my body.

  “You said you were going to fuck me every day,” I tell him. “But you’re a liar.”

  He’s on me then. I’ve never seen him move so fast.

  His body is pressing me down against the desk, one hand tangling in my hair and yanking my head to the side so he can kiss my throat. The other is fumbling with his belt and zipper. He frees his cock and then sinks inside of me.

  There’s a sigh of contentment, and then some angry muffled Russian against the skin of my throat. He fucks me into the desk and I get more of the same, wrapping my legs around him and letting him use me.

  He fucks me hard. Punishing. But the war he is fighting is with himself.

  I don’t understand a single thing he’s saying, but his message is clear in any language when he yanks me off the desk and sends me down onto my knees.

  I take his cock in my mouth and he gags me with it. And then strokes my face in a tender gesture. I get more of the same. Harsh and then gentle. The words continue to flow from his mouth uninhibited, and I’d give anything to know what he was saying to me right now.

  I feel him tensing. But he won’t let himself come. He grabs my head to hold me in place, allowing himself time to pull back from the edge. And then he’s yanking me up, flipping me over. Now my ass is hanging off the desk, and he’s behind me.

  “Don’t move,” he tells me.

  I feel him disappear from the room, but only for a moment. When he comes back, there’s a candle in his hand, which he sets on the desk beside me.

  Anticipation and fear war inside of me.

  But between them, somewhere in the middle, is the one thing I shouldn’t feel.

  Trust.

  I can hear him shuffling through his drawers, and then the smell of butane combined with the catch of the lighter. The room is quiet and still when he leans down and kisses my back. Gentle and soft. Right between my shoulder blades.

  “Mine.”

  It calms me when he says that. There is so much meaning behind that one word. So much promise. And against my better judgment, I relax for him. Gripping the edge of the desk beneath my palms and laying my face flat against the wood.

  He picks up the candle with one hand and strokes my ass with the other.

  On the opposite side of the wall, his shadow looms over me. His arm tilting. I close my eyes and breathe. The first drop of wax falls onto my skin and steals that same oxygen. The second hurts less. And the third is when I feel the rush of endorphins.

  His palm slides down between my thighs to cup me and then finger me. He alternates his movements from the dripping candle to the hand between my legs. Pleasure and pain. So much pleasure and so much pain. I come harder than I ever have this time. My back covered in heated welts when he drags his fingers down and pulls off the wax while he shoves his cock inside of me. And then he’s fucking me again. His hips jarring against my ass. I have to grip the desk to keep myself in place.

  I think he’s going to come, but he doesn’t. He flips me back over and lifts me into his arms, holding me close while he fucks me in the most intimate of positions. Face to face.

  “I want to look at you,” he tells me. “I need you to always see me.”

  He kisses me, and then he comes inside of me.

  Then he lays me down on the desk and steps back.

  “Stay like that,” he tells me as he sits back down in the chair. “I want to look at you.”

  That’s what he says. But I have a feeling that isn’t the case at all. I have a feeling he put me in this position for a reason. Legs bent and knees up. He wants me to get pregnant. To have his baby. And yet, when he finishes with me here tonight, he will go to his room. And I, to mine. We will not have lingering conversation or touches because we are both afraid.

  So I disobey him by sitting up and gathering up my clothes.

  I can’t bring myself to leave without a word, so I lift my fingers up to touch his bruised and swollen face.

  “I hope you made them pay.”

  His eyes are tormented and filled with longing. For me.

  But he does not act on it.

  So I leave.

  28

  Alexei

  “Talia has made breakfast this morning,” Magda announces cheerfully.

  “She has?” I question, my lack of excitement clearly deflating hers.

  She nods. “She is getting better.”

  “It always gets better before it gets worse,” is my answer.

  Magda frowns and then moves her attention to the reports I’m working on.

  “You will eat together this morning,” she tells me.

  I cock my head to the side, and she smiles.

  “You must, Alexei. You must reward her progress. It is the only way.”

  “My time and attention is not a reward.”

  “I think Talia would disagree.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair and glance out the window. The seasons have changed so quickly now that she’s here. Tonight is the Christmas party. Which she will attend with me. And do her duties as my wife. And for this reason, I tell myself, I will go downstairs and indulge her this once.

  I can’t have her moods changing when I need her to play her part.

  When I tell Magda this, she frowns.

  I ignore it and file my papers away before going downstairs.

  Talia is in the kitchen, just as Magda said. And in a good mood, just as Magda said. I turn to Magda, who is trailing behind me.

  “You should not have left her alone in there,” I warn.

  Again, she frowns.

  “It is not an act, Alyoshka.” She shakes her head. “She is getting better.”

  “Until she finds a knife to set herself fre
e.”

  I do not wait for Magda’s response. Instead, I take a seat at the table, unsure what else to do. I usually dine in my office unless there is company. Magda delivers my meals, and I rarely give it any thought. But now, I feel uncomfortable. Out of place. Watching her move around the kitchen.

  When she turns around and looks my way, there is flour on her nose and shirt. And some sort of batter tangled in her hair.

  But also, a smile on her face.

  I clear my throat to hide my own.

  “Good, they are all ready now,” Talia says. And then she delivers a heaping plate of fresh waffles to the table, followed by a bowl of Strawberries.

  I reach for one waffle, and she stares at me. So I take another. Magda does the same, and we all eat in silence.

  During the meal, I watch Talia carefully. Her good mood dissipates quickly. Magda glances at me, silently telling me to do something. But I don’t know the answer. So we wait in stillness.

  And eventually, Talia speaks. Trapped by old memories. Locked inside the darkness in her head.

  “She made waffles that day,” she says, as though she is just remembering.

  She blinks up at me with glassy eyes. “I should have known, because she made waffles.”

  “Your mother?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she answers, her fork clattering to the plate. “She never cooked. She barely let us out of the room. I should have seen it.”

  “You couldn’t have,” I tell her from experience. “When someone is that far gone, they make you believe what they want. They fool everyone.”

  Both Magda and Talia are staring at me now, and I look away. Pushing my chair back, I reach for Talia’s hand. She does not hesitate to give it to me. But the despondency has set in again, so she cannot walk. I lift her into my arms and rest her head on my shoulder while I carry her up the stairs.

  I don’t know what to do with her. How to help her. And it weighs on me.

  I can’t leave her alone, so I simply sit down with her and cradle her in my arms. She rests her face against my chest and relaxes. Her fingers move over the soft material of my sweater, sliding the material between her thumb and forefinger.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” she says.

  Live.

  That’s what she means by those whispered words.

  “You can, and you will,” I tell her.

  She is quiet. Thinking dark thoughts. And I know that I need to coax them from her. I know that helping her means facing my own fears. That she will not recover. That I can’t ever help her.

  I reach for her fingers and place them over the star on her hand. And without further insistence, she moves them of her own accord. Into a rhythmic pattern. Tracing the lines and my name, over and over again.

  “Tell me about your mother,” I insist.

  She meets my eyes, and hers are violent with emotion. More than I’ve ever seen in her before. It wants to break free, but she doesn’t know how.

  “Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear,” I encourage. “You have only ever been honest with me, Solynshko. So be honest now.”

  It takes her some time. Time to decide she trusts me. But that’s exactly what it is when she looks up at me. And I know it is not easily given.

  “I hardly knew her,” she tells me. “She was a storm. And we just tried to survive the bad days until the sunlight broke through.”

  “You took care of your siblings,” I reply.

  “I was the oldest,” is her answer. “She kept us locked away. During the bad times. In a room, together. We only had each other.”

  Her eyes drift up to the ceiling, and she finishes. “And now, it is just me.”

  I know what I need to tell her. The thing that is true, but I cannot bring myself to admit. That she has me. The words don’t come. So I comfort her in the way that I can. With my hands. Combing through her hair. Clearing away the tangles from her face.

  She likes this. She will never admit it. Just as I will not admit I enjoy doing it.

  “Tell me what you think you should feel about your mother,” I say.

  This time, she answers without delay. “Sorry. I should feel sorry for her. Because she was sick.”

  “But what you really feel is anger,” I reply.

  She moves her gaze back to me. Examining me. Picking me apart. “Tell me about the woman in the bathtub.”

  “This is not about her,” I deflect.

  “It never is,” she replies.

  “You need to allow yourself to be angry, Solnyshko. Release that anger. On me, if you want. But you have to accept that it’s there.”

  “But you don’t,” she says. “That’s always the way it works with you.”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “By lying to me and yourself?” she sits up and stares at me, the anger I asked for rising to the surface. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. A selfish asshole.”

  She tries to get up. To leave me. But I hold her in place. My own anger coming out to play.

  “Yes, and you are a psychotic bitch.”

  She tries to yank herself away, but again I don’t let her. I grip her chin in my hands and force her to kiss me.

  “But you’re my psychotic bitch,” I murmur against her. “And I am your selfish asshole.”

  Her resistance flees, and she places her hands on my face. Kissing me back. Stroking through my hair. But then she pulls away again, angry and hurt.

  “They are just words, Solnyshko.”

  And then she says the thing I don’t expect. The thing that guts me. Because it is the most vulnerable thing she’s ever said.

  “Not when they come from you. Not then they aren’t.”

  29

  Talia

  When Magda and I reach the bottom of the stairs, Alexei is waiting for me.

  He is dressed as he always is. Gray trousers, black oxfords and a charcoal sweater stretched across his muscular frame. He is in the process of shrugging into his black coat and flat cap when he pauses to look up at me.

  He takes a breath. And I feel a sense of relief pulsing through me.

  The dress is one that he picked, Magda informed me. Not something I’d ever worn before. Black embroidered tulle with an exposed back. It’s expensive and flashy. Alexei wants to show me off tonight. As his wife.

  A part of me questioned if it was because Katya would be there. But the response from him now tells me otherwise.

  He moves towards me as if he can’t help himself. Magda smiles and steps to the side as his fingers find my cheek and skate down over my neck.

  “You are so lovely, Solnyshko,” he tells me.

  I reach for his waist and touch him too. My hands against his warmth. And for a moment, we just look at each other. I want to believe that I’m not the only one who feels this pull between us, but I’ve been wrong before.

  I’ve been so wrong.

  My heart is beating too hard. Too fast. And I need to think of something else.

  “What does it mean?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Solnyshko?”

  He pulls me closer still, his lips hovering over my ear. “It means little sun.”

  He kisses my ear and pulls away, resuming his activities of dressing for the outdoors. Once he has finished, he takes me by the hand and leads me from the door.

  Franco is already outside where two separate cars are parked and waiting. He’s examining one of them, checking underneath and all around it. I swallow and glance up at Alexei, who is already staring at me.

  “It is okay,” he tells me. “Just a routine safety check.”

  I nod, and he leads me to the car and deposits me in the passenger side. Then he kneels down beside me and captures my leg in his hand.

  “Give me your foot,” he tells me.

  It is a strange request from him, but I don’t argue. I stretch out my leg over his muscular thigh, my heel dangling in the cool evening air. He removes the shoe and does the unexpected. Dragging his fi
ngers down the center, the most sensitive part, before he removes a switchblade from his pocket.

  “You will want this tonight,” he tells me. “But only a little bit.”

  How he can know this about me is unnerving. But he does. He sees my anxiety at the prospect of leaving this sanctuary.

  “Only a little bit,” he tells me as he drags the knife to the ball of my foot. “And only the first time, Solnyshko.”

  I nod, and he scratches the sensitive flesh with the blade. Not even to draw blood. But enough to sting. And then he leans down and presses his lips to the curve at the top of my foot.

  I watch in fascination as he puts the heel back into place and directs me to press down onto the ball of my foot. Until I feel the pain that I will need at some point tonight.

  “Good?” he asks.

  I nod, and he puts the knife away before buckling me in and closing the door. He speaks with Franco for a few moments, and then climbs inside with me, the scent of him mixing with the rich leather interior. The headlights of the car behind us follows as we leave the house, and I know that Franco is coming too. Though why he is driving separately, I’m not entirely sure.

  “I thought it would be more comfortable this way,” Alexei answers my unspoken thought. “It is a long drive.”

  I nod and sink back in the seat, turning my attention towards him.

  “It’s not a good name for me,” I tell him. “Solnyshko. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense to me.”

  That’s the only answer I get before his hand is on my thigh. He glances at me, his eyes moving over me as his hand slides up. Further and further until it’s between my legs.

  “Pull your dress up,” he instructs me. “I want to look at you.”

  I do as he asks because I always do with Alexei. I lift my hips and bring the dress up so the material falls around my waist, giving him full access to me.

  He isn’t shy about what he wants. He just takes. But with Alexei, it never feels like he is taking anything from me. But rather, giving instead.