Chapter 5 Krissy

Kostya Roman was intense. And probably slightly unhinged. I could still feel the heat of his fingers clutching my wrist. There'd been a darkness swirling in his eyes that had scared me. I saw right through him; whatever dark thoughts he had, they were neatly locked up inside a bottle, like a genie. He held a tornado inside. I could tell, because I'd felt the same for ages. When your 'home' was divided between your house and a hospital room, any joy, or spontaneity wilted away like a flower exposed to the sun for too long without water. There was one difference between us though.

I had smashed my bottle. My spirit was finally free, ready to rejoice, enjoy, and experience life. There was no putting the genie back into its glass prison.

I stayed rooted to the spot after the white rose incident for a minute until I decided that he could go screw himself. I wasn't putting up with it. Whatever his deal was, it was just that, his deal, not mine. The gloom and doom that hung over this mansion wasn't mine either, nor did I want to experience it any longer. I went in search of my mom.

She was in the living room, standing before the French doors.

"Krissy, there you are."

I hurried to my mom. "I can't wait to leave this place. This Kostya guy you've pinned your hopes on? He's crazy."

Her eyes widened. "Has he hurt you?"

I could practically see the mother bear in her rise to the surface. "No," I admitted and showed her my scarred palm. "But he freaked out just because I cut some roses for his dog's grave."

"White roses?" she asked softly.

"Yeah. How did you know?"

Her eyes took on a sad look. "It's not my story to share. Maybe one day he'll tell you himself."

One day? How long exactly were we going to stay here? "You're not leaving me behind, right?" I joked.

My mom gestured to the uncomfortable-looking leather couch. When we both sat, she grabbed my hand. "I'm leaving in an hour."

"Where are we going?" Wasn't the whole point of us coming here to ask for Kostya's help?

"I'm going to the police."

I frowned. "I thought you said Ted had friends at-"

"He does," she interrupted me. "That's why I'm going to a friend who can help me." She took a deep breath. "You're staying here."

I jumped up. "No, I'm not."

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to her. "Listen to me carefully. You need to stay here. Stay strong for me."

"But..."

She cradled my face. "Nothing can scare my girl," she boasted in typical mom fashion. "Remember that poster beside your bed of that rock star? The one with the quote on it? It started something like 'Be yourself, don't take anyone's shit.'"

"And never let them take you alive," I finished for her.

"That's my girl."

As my mother made plans to leave, I tried to stay tough for her. She went on telling me not to leave my bedroom the following night. I nodded, though I didn't agree. After all, I swore to myself that I would never be a prisoner to an illness-or anything else-again.

I was never much for following the rules. The advantage of being sick and everyone treating me like I was dying was that when I broke the rules, I got away with it, most of the time. Perhaps I should have felt bad about that. Then again, life was short and had seemed even shorter for me, not all that long ago.

No one had visited me since my mother had left a few hours ago, aside from the housekeeper who'd brought me dinner. After that, I was ignored. It probably had something to do with the industrious way people were working downstairs to prepare for whatever was going down tomorrow night.

The walls of my room came at me. I needed some fresh air, so I put on my sneakers, opened the door, and peered outside. The coast was clear. I stepped out of my room and took the hallway to the right. I was just going to look around and take a peek. Okay, so I was snooping around.

I ended up in a large room that looked like a study or a library. The mahogany bookshelves were filled with books; most of them being classics, from Sun Tzu's Art of War to the Odyssey.

The sound of clicking heels approaching outside the door startled me. Instinct made me dive underneath the huge desk. I yanked the rolling chair away and squeezed myself into the vacated nook. With a pounding heart, I waited. The door creaked open. The clack of the pumps on the stone floor was muffled as soon as they hit the Turkish carpet. The person sat in the leather chair on the other side of the desk, and the heels started tapping impatiently. Dare I take a peek? How could I not?

Holding my breath, I peered around the corner of the desk. All I could see were red soles and spiked heels. Louis Vuitton. Sigh. I'd give my right arm for those heels. Well, not really, but almost. Sadly, it would take me six months of saving up my allowance to get anywhere near those shoes. Who was wearing them?

When I heard the door open and the woman called out Kostya's name, I realized my mistake. It didn't matter who she was. All that mattered was that I needed to get the hell out of that room. What if they found me? My heart did a thud when another thought occurred to me. What if they started making out? Or, worse, what if they discovered me while making out?

***

Kostya

Selen loved to make surprise visits. Usually, she popped up at an upscale hotel downtown under the guise of traveling on business with her father. Today, since she was already in the States for the gathering, she popped up in my house.

I found her exactly as I expected. Sprawled over my leather chair, legs crossed, arms draped along the back of the sofa. She was like a beautiful marble statue. Perfection was too mundane of a word to describe Svetlana. Until she opened her mouth.

"You haven't returned my calls." The icy Bratva princess was miffed.

I concealed my annoyance as I sat down next to her. "I haven't."

She seemed taken aback by my candid response, though I couldn't understand why. I'd always been honest with her. Unlike most men in her life, I never made excuses for my actions.

She placed a finger on my arm, reminding me of how we'd met. That day, years ago, when I'd rescued her from her kidnappers. Selenahad inadvertently been one of the reasons I'd been promoted to pakhan. It had been the reason her father had voted for me, even though I hadn't climbed the ranks regularly. I'd always forged my path and made my crew, who were loyal to only me.

"Father wants me to marry Maxim," she said, sounding sour.

It was one of the things I liked about her. She didn't do small talk. We either fucked or talked shop. She was a valuable source of information. The Bratva's attitude toward women was much like the Italian families; they were to be seen, not heard. They were also meant to be married off to forge new alliances.

"I guess congratulations are in order."

She huffed but didn't negate my words. We both knew the deal. So why was she here?

"I was wondering how you feel about that."

Ah, feelings. "Since when do they matter?"

"We could maybe..." She fell silent. "If you'd just be a bit more...I could maybe...and your past wouldn't matter." For a second, her puffy lips looked as if she'd swallowed a lemon.

Finally, she got to the point of her visit. Her soon-to-be husband was an asshole. I was the lesser of two evils, even though I was the son of a whore.

"He'll be good to you." If by good you mean he'll forget your existence as soon as he has a male heir so he can continue fucking his mistresses.

Her lips pursed once more. "He's an ape with the manners of an ape."

"And lo, the beast looked upon the face of beauty. And it stayed its hand from killing," I quoted from the most famous of all ape movies, King Kong.

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Love is the one thing that makes people go crazy. It makes them do anything for anyone, no matter what." My mother was the perfect example of this madness. She'd fallen for a married man who'd kicked her out of his life the second she told him she was pregnant.

Her eyes lit up. "Of course! You're telling me I should make that mongrel fall in love with me."

I was telling her I knew she wasn't the kind of woman to go crazy over a man, let alone over me. She'd never lower herself to marry a whore's son. Yet I said, "Isn't it obvious?"

She climbed on top of me and started kissing me. Right as her hand went to my crotch, I grabbed her wrist. Gently, I pulled her off the couch and pushed her out of the door. I didn't envy Maxim. The poor bastard was in way over his head. My eyes went to my desk. "You can come out now." There was no movement from my little spy. I sighed. "Don't make me come and drag you out of there."

Finally, huffing and puffing, Krissy's head popped up from behind the desk. She smoothed her hair and straightened her clothes.

Her mouth opened, then closed. I would wait until she came with an explanation.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, "You know she wanted you to fight for her, right?"

"Really? That's what you have to say for yourself?"

Her cheeks flamed, but she held her ground. "The woman practically begged you for it."

The girl was bold. I admired that so I decided to let the issue of her hiding underneath my desk go. For now.

"You are mistaken. Selenadoesn't beg. She also doesn't love."

Disbelief washed over her face. "But she said that you could maybe...if you'd be a bit more. And um, your past wouldn't matter." She cleared her throat. "I suppose by 'past' she meant your day job."

"I'm Bratva," I provided for her, so there would be no misunderstanding about it.

"I kind of figured, but was trying to be subtle."

"I don't do subtle."

"I'm starting to get that," she grumbled.

I walked over to my desk, noticed one of my books was open, and flipped it closed. The girl was nowhere near ready to begin reading Machiavelli.

"Either way, you're wrong. Selena doesn't care about my job, subtle or not. It's my rank she has problems with."

Her frown deepened. "Rank, as in like a soldier or a lieutenant?"

"No, as in brigadier, prince, or king."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, Selena was a duchess until her father got promoted to king. Now she believes herself to be a princess, and wants to land a king."

A sparkle entered her eyes. "I'm guessing you're not wearing a crown yet. So, what are you?"

I figured she'd understand. "I'm what some people would consider a prince."

"Well...that means you're bound to become a king, right? Or at least, you might one day?"

"I would never become such a mundane thing as a king. I'm going to become the emperor." That's what it would take to tear down the puppet master. I was going to destroy his life just as he'd destroyed mine.

She shook her head, clearly no longer interested in Bratva politics. "But what about love? Don't you love her?"

Love had nothing to do with it. Despite her ageless eyes, I was reminded that Krissy was only seventeen. A very grown-up teen, but still a teenager. How to make this clear to her? Perhaps my mother had once explained it best.

"Some men carry a grenade underneath the left side of their chest. When a woman steps on it, the grenade explodes. The man shatters. It doesn't matter who visits that side of his chest ever again. No other will have the same effect. A grenade only blows up once. A man only loves once."

She frowned. "You have already loved once?"

"Selena never stepped on the grenade."

Love is only love when you are prepared to die for it.