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Then I think about how he waved his hand when I gave my condolences. It was like he didn’t even want to think about his dad. Maybe it’s too painful? Yet if that’s the case, why would he want to see the painting?
CHAPTER 3
DIMITRI
“Who the fuck called you?” I snap down the phone.
Angelo, one of our many police allies, sighs. “It was a gunshot, Dimitri. There’s protocol.”
“The press doesn’t know it was suicide.”
“No, we’re blocking the case files.”
“Good,” I tell him. “We can’t let the truth get out. It will make us look like prime pickings for any bastards who want to move in.”
Whether you loved or hated him, my father was good at using fear to keep our illegitimate businesses secret, keep Sokolov Securities running smoothly, and keep other organizations at bay.
“I can’t promise anything,” Angelo says, “but we’ll do our best.”
My father would probably have threatened Angelo at this point, but I don’t see the use of doing that just yet. It’s better to keep the police sweet during whatever comes next. After hanging up, I drum my fingers against the wheel, driving through the deserttoward the family home. The compound is the most natural place to stay while we deal with this instability.
As I drive, getting Lia out of my head is difficult. I was standing at my window when I saw her hurrying across the lot toward the office building, which was currently under construction. Something about the swaying in her hips ignited something inside, ignited a piece of me I never thought I’d feel. But, no, this is the time for duty. My body protests, stirring, heating up, but I ignore the hunger. Still, Lia stares at me from my mind’s eye.
With her brown hair tied up in a messy bun, a pencil stuck through it to keep it in place, her black skirt hugging her thick hips, her juicy legs, and her large breasts barely contained within her shirt, the base of my manhood aches. I have to stop. I’m going to drive myself insane.
Twenty minutes later, my cell rings. It’s an unknown number. I answer since our men often call from burners or payphones when they can find one.
“Hello?”
“Dimitri,” Nikolai Petrov says, father to my new bride. I recognize his voice from its gravelly edge and the Russian accent. “My condolences.”
“Nikolai,” I reply since we’ve always been on friendly terms when the families meet for parties or functions, basically peacekeeping events. That’s because I hide my real feelings about the drug-pushing bastard. “Thank you.”
“I wanted to call you personally,” he continues, “and express my sincerest wishes to continue with the business your father started.”
Translation means marrying his daughter, or he will move into the city and flood it with his filth.
“I’m assuming Mila is still good to arrive tomorrow?” He asks it like it really is a question when we both know it’s not.
I stare at the road, the emptiness of it, part of me thinking about just continuing to drive. I could continue until I never had to think about the business, my family, or my responsibility again. Yet I couldn’t do that to Mikhail or the countless people who rely on Sokolov Securities to pay their mortgages and feed their families.
Wildly, I think of Lia, notMila, butLia. It’s like fate is playing some fucked-up games with me, making their names somewhat similar.
“Dimitri?” he goes on. “I know this is a very, very difficult time for you, but your father informed me that everything was sorted just in case his illness worsened.”
Typical of my father, telling business associates before his own children.
“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” I tell him to buy myself some time.
However, that’s a load of crap. After saying our goodbyes, Lia watches me from my mind, that spark in her eyes, the pencil in her messy bun. I can’t let myself care about the fact her life is miserable. She’s forced to hide her paintings in her workplace. She doesn’t deserve that, but she’s not my problem. So why does she keep popping up in my thoughts?
I finally reach the compound, two houses inside a property surrounded by tall concrete walls. Between the two houses arelong, well-tended lawns, a tennis court, and a small, concreted basketball area. Each home also has its own pool.
The metal doors open as I press my thumb against the thumb pad. As I pass, every guard holds their fist to their chest, a sign of support, condolences, and respect for their new leader. It could all be for show. Who could I trust to protect our city if I didn’t marry Mila? Who would stab me in the back if I didn’t follow my father’s wishes?
Before I can reach the front door of the main house—my childhood home—my little half-sister, Ania, throws it open and runs down the steps. Ania is a very slight eighteen-year-old. She wants to be a ballerina one day, which is probably why she stays here. It has a dance studio in the basement and anything else a young girl could need. She’s got straight black hair, wide, sometimes unnerving blue-green eyes, and a skittish way of moving from foot to foot, her hands constantly fidgeting.
She throws her arms around me, letting out a shuddering noise. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
