Wrath

by Lana Pecherczyk

  Alek walked in at that moment, as though he’d been watching at the door, waiting for an opening. He signed a greeting to Wyatt and continued to help with the meal prep.

  Because he knew it would annoy Her Royal Duchess-Self, Wyatt spent the rest of the morning being obtuse.

  If she addressed him as anything other than Chef, he ignored her. If she replied to his requests with “Yes, Chef” then he rewarded her with a few minutes of attention about the kopitka, but then went back to doing things his way. It annoyed the living daylights out of her, and he was pleased to see the Duchess re-emerged once or twice.

  After lunch, Roksana came in and leaned on the kitchen bench with her elbows, head on her palms, watching Wyatt with a secretive smile.

  “Ooh, is this a staring competition?” Misha joined her to stare at Wyatt. “You know I’ll win.”

  It’s only a competition if he played, and Wyatt ignored both of them. He considered stabbing something nearby, but managed to squash that urge and continued with cleanup. After a few minutes, Roksana said, “Someone is here to see you, Chef.”

  He looked up. Bullshit.

  No one knew he was there.

  But she had a dreamy look on her face. With each of her following words, Wyatt’s tension worsened. “He’s totally buff, like you. He’s got all this cute, sexy messy hair. And—” She peeked at Misha. “He’s got tatts all over him. Totes badass. Maybe he’s a biker dude or something. Maybe Chef was in a gang.”

  That persistent little—he bit the curse off, because he felt no anger toward Evan anymore. Only guilt and shame occupied that space. If it weren’t for his little brother’s persistence, Wyatt and their entire family would still have that Syndicate mole living in their house… in his fucking bed.

  “Ooh.” Misha turned to Roksana. “Do tell.”

  “He said he’s Chef’s brother.”

  “No shit!”

  “He asked for Wyatt Lazarus. Said Wyatt’s got black hair, an attitude, and thinks he’s scarier than he really is. Sounds a lot like you, Chef… or should I say, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt shrugged and shook his head. Just act like you don’t know who it is. Eventually, they’ll go away.

  Too late. Recognition plastered Misha’s face. “You’re right. They do look similar.”

  She raced out the front. Wyatt could hear her squeal of excitement filter back into the kitchen.

  Wait. They looked similar? How the hell would she know? Did she know Evan?

  Buried feelings rushed to the surface. Even after all these months, jealousy and denial still burned in his blood. He knew it was ridiculous. Evan had never had an affair with Sara. It had been all lies. So why was his gut churning with the same torn up emotions?

  Wyatt tried to resist heading out into the restaurant, but his curiosity got the better of him. He dumped the rag, untied his apron, and went out.

  Eight

  Decorated with red walls and elm hardwood trim, the dining room stretched long and narrow through the small commercial block. White table cloths, more wood paneling on the walls, brown leather sofas near the rear. Simple orange flower arrangements scattered everywhere. The smell of cedar and spice permeated the air. It was like Fall vomited in the room. And there, at the back, sitting on a dinky round table for two, was his youngest brother. Same overgrown haircut, a few more scribbles inked on his used-to-be-blank left arm, looking smug and so sure of himself.

  He should be. He was the first to find his soul mate and unlock his powers. The little fucker could electrocute Wyatt where he stood.

  Things had been strained between them for years and when Wyatt had learned all the bullshit Evan had been peddling about Sara was true, the strain had pulled tighter. Wyatt hated being wrong. When he’d left the family a few months ago, he had good intentions. He’d wanted to be a better brother—the one he used to be, the one who stood up for Evan when he was bullied in the playground as children, the one who growled away the monsters under the bed—but anger and pride had swallowed him whole.

  Something clicked inside Wyatt. He wasn’t sure if it happened because of his proximity to the woman now speaking with Evan, or if it was just time for him to accept… but he’d never be able to outrun his demons, he knew that now. His family would never let him get far.

  Misha stood next to the table, hip cocked to the side, talking with an animated expression on her face. Her infectious enthusiasm made him want to feel the same excitement. Wyatt wondered if she did anything boring. Life in her orbit would be fun.

  He strode up to the table.

  Evan took his eyes from Misha and watched him approach.

  Just as well.

  What did that mean? He checked himself. Was he… protective of Misha’s body? Did he care that another man stared at her?

  “Wyatt.” Evan stood as he approached.

  Misha cut herself short, jaw clicking closed when she caught the tension between the two brothers. Then she grinned and slapped Wyatt on the chest. “You never told me you had a brother, you old dawg. Why weren’t you at the opening of Hell?” Totally enjoying the flummoxed look on Wyatt’s face, she went back to Evan and continued speaking. “So, after the day I’ve had, I really need to go out tonight, blow off some steam, you know? I actually have a night off work. Do you know if Grace is working?”

  “Um.” Evan darted a glance at Wyatt. “Yeah. She’s in surgery.”

  “Bummer. What about Lilo?”

  “Why don’t you call her?” Evan gave her his cell phone.

  What the fuck? Evan’s girl and Griffin’s girl knew Misha.

  “Great idea,” Misha said. “Calling from your cell. I can pretend I’m a kidnapper or something and she’ll totally freak!”

  “No, don’t do that!” Panic lit up Evan’s eyes. “She really will freak. More than you know.”

  So… from Evan’s reaction, and Misha’s lack of understanding of her prank’s potential consequences, Misha knew nothing about Evan being Envy. If she did, she’d know pulling a stunt like that with their family wouldn’t go down well.

  “Oh, you’re such a party-pooper. I can see how you two are related now.” She smirked. “Okay, well, you guys obviously need to talk, so I’ll leave you to it. I’ll call Lilo from my phone.” She handed Evan’s cell back to him and left.

  Wyatt watched her saunter away, waggling her hips as though she knew he watched. When he turned back to Evan, his brother’s eyes were laced with humor.

  “You and Misha Minski, hey? Lilo’s going to be stoked.”

  Cut the bullshit, is what Wyatt would have said. Why are you here? Instead, he stared, unsure what to do. Actually nervous.

  “Okay. So.” Evan averted his gaze. “I know you want to be left alone, but we can’t humor you for much longer. We need you back, and I see we’re just in time.”

  Wyatt frowned. In time for what?

  Evan had no clue what Wyatt was thinking. Feeling frustrated and seriously considering learning more sign language from Alek, Wyatt caved and picked up Evan’s phone to type his question out, but the damned thing crushed in his hands like sand.

  Fuck. Not here. Not now.

  “Shit,” Evan breathed, awed. “Did you just Hulk-smash my phone?”

  Hadn’t meant to, honestly.

  When Evan reached for the steak knife next to his plate, Wyatt tensed. Maybe he wasn’t over the whole accusing him of being in love with his fiancée thing. But if he wanted to stab him, sure, why the fuck not? Wyatt could take it. Maybe it would cut out a little of the guilt weighing him down.

  Evan took Wyatt’s wrist in one hand, took note of his balanced Yin-Yang tattoo.

  “I knew it,” Evan said, waving the knife in the direction Misha went. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  Wyatt frowned and shrugged.

  “Don’t know what I’m talking about? How about the phone?”

  Wyatt blinked.

  “How about this?” Evan stabbed Wyatt through the hand with the steak knife.

  Damn
. He shut his eyes to ride out the pain. He guessed he deserved that after the way he’d treated Evan over the past few years. Wyatt expected more violence, but… no. There was no wrath emanating from him. It was…

  Evan laughed, eyes wide with mirth as he looked down at Wyatt’s palm. “You fucking broke the knife, bro.”

  What?

  Wyatt tugged his hand from his brother. His flesh was a little pink where the knife had hit, but otherwise picture perfect. Evan huffed another laugh and threw the broken knife at Wyatt. It bounced off his chest and slid to the table.

  “Look what your skin did to my knife.”

  Wyatt darted a worried glance around. A few patrons scowled at him but, thankfully, the dining room was virtually empty now lunch was over. An old woman sat in the corner playing suduko, and a family of four paid for their meal at the cash register. The two young children pretended to be ninjas between their parents’ legs, and the parents couldn’t be happier. For a moment, Wyatt forgot about Evan’s outburst and got caught on the happy family. Rosy cheeks. Chubby hands. Laughter. Not a care in the world.

  Not for someone like him.

  He turned back to Evan and made a waving down motion with his hand. Keep it down.

  Evan snorted, still laughing.

  Wyatt stood, but Evan stopped him. “Wait. Wait, I’m sorry. Hell”—he scrubbed his face—“It wasn’t meant to go like this. Fuck, I had a speech rehearsed and everything.”

  You did?

  Wyatt eased himself back into the chair.

  “Yeah, I was going to come in and ask how you’ve been, maybe shoot the shit for a bit, ease into it, you know? But the truth is, we miss you, bro. It’s not right that you’re not home. I mean, I can see what might be tempting you to stay, but… When are you coming back?”

  Wyatt’s heart clenched. He stood, crossed to the serving counter and retrieved a pen and notebook, then went back to Evan.

  How did you find me? He wrote and turned the pad to Evan.

  “You serious?” Evan fidgeted in his seat, then lowered his voice. “You left a trail of bodies across the country. Weren’t exactly incognito.”

  Nah. That’s not it.

  “Fine. I had a few dreams, okay?”

  Dreams?

  Part of the reason Evan knew Sara had been lying to them was that he dreamed seeing her in another life. At the time it was a crazy idea. Sara was dead, or so they’d thought.

  “How’s your throat?” Evan asked.

  How the fuck do you think it is? he wanted to say. Instead, he shrugged.

  “Can you speak?”

  Wyatt shook his head.

  “Have you tried?”

  A pause, then… another shake.

  Evan pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jeans pocket. He unfolded it and peeled a few sheets apart to reveal a group of sketches. On the top of the pile was a picture of Wyatt in the Pierogi Palace kitchen. Alek was there, and so was Roksana. Even Vooyek in the corner.

  And there it was, staring Wyatt in the face—black and white evidence of how he’d been so wrong about Evan. His psychic dreams were obviously real, there was no denying it.

  I’m a dickhead.

  Evan tapped the kitchen picture. “I drew that a few months ago. We thought to give you space, but then last night I drew this.” He pulled out a sheet from underneath the sketch. This drawing had a completely different tone. Dark, scratchy lines that covered the entire page. It took a while for Wyatt to understand. When it came to him, his blood cooled. That wasn’t right. Fuck, no.

  “Fire. Here,” Evan said in a hushed voice, eyes darting around the dining room. “Had to warn you.”

  When? Wyatt wrote on his notepad.

  “Don’t know. But if you can put a time on the picture in the kitchen, and I drew that a few months ago—it might give you an idea of the time frame between sketch and eventuality. Then again, nothing about these dreams are predicable. It might not mean anything at all. Plus, there’s this…” Evan’s voice trailed off as he pulled out yet another sketch.

  Wyatt wasn’t sure he wanted to look, but forced himself. The picture was of a tall woman with long white hair talking to a man who looked remarkably like the golden man in the suit. They stood together in a what looked like a nightclub, Misha was in the background. It was all connected.

  “The Syndicate is involved.” Evan stabbed the white-haired woman.

  Wyatt’s finger trailed her familiar face. She was the one who’d shot Sara, cleaning up the Syndicate’s mess, execution style. Wyatt’s heart clenched. Sara had confessed everything in her final moments. She’d wanted forgiveness. She’d told Wyatt she’d held back vital information from the Syndicate. As far as he could tell, they knew nothing about their powers being triggered by a person embodying their sin’s opposing virtue, and in a twisted way, they had Sara to thank for that. That was months ago. Who knew what the enemy knew about them now?

  Wyatt looked wistfully out the window. All he needed to do was stop fucking around with excuses, get his bike fixed and piss off. No pressure, no expectations, no regrets. No fucking Syndicate dominating his world.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and you should stay,” Evan said, tone somber. “You’ve got the chance for something good here, Wyatt. Don’t throw it away.”

  Wyatt scrunched up the papers. If Misha was involved with the Syndicate, he wanted nothing to do with her.

  “I’m serious, bro. You haven’t been around, but both Griff and I are fucking sitting sweet. I’m in love, he’s in love. I know it sounds sappy, but we can go out every night and be who we’re meant to be. Hell, it feels fucking amazing. Liberating. We’ve never been happier. You can have it too if you just stop and think about it for a minute.”

  He unfolded the paper he’d scrunched and wrote on the back. You just said M is involved with the Syndicate.

  “What? No. That’s not… shit, I’m fucking this all up again, aren’t I?” Evan slipped out another piece of paper from between the scrunched lot. “See here?”

  It was a sketch of Misha being threatened by the golden man, his hand around her throat. Such a brutal picture, so similar to how he’d attacked her only hours ago.

  “She needs your help, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt wasn’t ready for this. Too much had happened today. He needed to get out, clear his head.

  As he walked out the front door, he caught Evan’s shouted words over his shoulder. “A Lazarus never quits.”

  Too bad he already had.

  Nine

  Still coated in a layer of fury, Dimitri entered his office and stood before the snake terrarium. The mesmerizing flick of the forked tongue calmed his mind.

  Misha was becoming harder to handle, and she was a threat to everything he’d built since high school. Her performance that morning was the last and final straw.

  Filthy whore defied me, again.

  He roared and swiped the contents of his desk to the floor.

  Their meeting hadn’t gone as planned. His staff noticed her disregard for his orders and rules. She was his weakness, and for what? His insistent need to savor his revenge? Her incessantly bubbly outlook on life threw his ridged rules back in his face. Enough!

  If she didn’t come up with the money her family owed by the end of the week—no, a week was too soft—in forty-eight hours. Yes, that was more like it.

  Dimitri picked up his fallen intercom from the floor and buzzed his assistant.

  “Notify Misha Minski the terms of our arrangement have changed. She now has forty-eight hours to pay her debt. Make sure she understands.”

  Without waiting for a response from his man, he let go of the intercom button. Initially, he’d sought to keep Misha’s defiance between the two of them. That was why he’d attended her in person. But after she claimed her family was not responsible for his men’s medical bills, he was done with her. The way she put their needs before his made him sick. No filthy Minksi whore would put anyone before him. Restitution was required—nyet,
demanded!

  He pushed his intercom button. “Send someone in to clean this gryaznyy mess.”

  A knock at the door almost immediately.

  “Voydite.” Dimitri smoothed his hair and sat down at his desk.

  But it wasn’t his assistant who came in. It was someone else.

  A masked woman dressed in white leather entered the room like she owned it. Dimitri reached for the drawer that held his pistol, but before his fingers closed around the handle, she was on him. His hands were shoved to his lap and pinned ruthlessly by her knee. Razor sharp nails stroked his neck in warning—one push, one wrong twitch, and he was done. Long white hair floated around her head, still moving from her lightning fast approach. Two soulless eyes blinked at him from beyond the bird mask and she cocked her head, studying him.

  “I sense despair in you,” she said, words cold as ice. “It is dripping like blood from your pores.”

  He bucked in resistance. “The only thing I despair is you.”

  “Nyet.” She mocked him and it only served to kindle his fury. “You are sad because your people are losing faith in their fearless leader. Your followers are leaving—starting their own businesses and stealing from you. Your play thing is playing back. Your family does not want you.”

  He growled. “How did you get past my guards, Falcon?”

  Beneath the mask, her eyes narrowed and turned hard. Clearly not a fan of the name she had been given by the masses, but there was no other way to address her. She was an enforcer for an organization Dimitri knew little about, except they had deep pockets. A loan shark, perhaps, but Dimitri sensed there was more. With her money, he was able to build The Kremlin and finance his rise to the top of the Bratva in Cardinal City. All she wanted in return was a cut of the takings. It seemed negligent at first, but lately, she’d been asking for more favors. Sending his men to the Pierogi Palace to collect extra protection payments had been her idea and look where that had ended.

  Her delicate jaw tightened, and she pushed off to stand before him, finger stroking the coiled white leather bullwhip attached to her hip.