Ultimate Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 4) (44 page)

She briefly thought about the effort him, Markus, and Gabriel had put into TarMor rather than their respective families, and it was only now that she could see they’d been fighting their nature.

“Markus knew that, too,” she said with more certainty. “And I believe he tried his hardest, but he could not cut his ties to who he was completely. He might have distanced himself from his brother’s reputation, but he was still a part of this life whether he felt he could admit that or not.”

She remembered Markus winking at her when Alekzander was dragging her to that secluded room in the convention center. Yes, he’d known Alekzander wasn’t bringing her back there to harm her, but the fact that he hadn’t found anything wrong with the behavior said a lot about the type of person Markus was. Essentially, he’d been very much like his bosses.

She looked up to see if she’d upset Alekzander with her opinion. Her lips parted on a soft breath when she saw moisture shimmering on his lashes. “Oh, Alekzander,” she whispered, hurting for him. “I am so sorry.”

“He did not deserve this.”

“No, of course, not.” The only one who deserved to be struck down was the man responsible for this pain. Sergei needed to pay for what he was doing, regardless the reasons behind it.

They grew silent, and as the singer’s melodic voice coming from behind them went on about innocent things like tattooed hearts and going steady, Sacha and her Russian stared at each other. When his head came down, she welcomed the feel of his lips meeting hers. He was in desperate need of comfort, and she would give that to him however she could. While she still could.

“How can I help you?” she asked, not sure what to do for him.

He said nothing. He simply took her hands and placed them together so he could press them over his heart as he’d always done. His arm slid around her waist again to pull her tight against his big body, and as his tears fell, his emotion over the loss of his friend uncontainable, he danced with her.

♦ ♦ ♦

After another sleepless night, this one so much worse than the ones of late, Vasily inhaled the comforting scent of candles and wood polish and left Dmitri just inside the doors to walk down the center aisle at St. Luke’s. Father Michael was seated in the front pew, his face turned up, shoulders square. His head came around when Vasily was a few feet away.

“Mr. Tarasov.” The kid who’d grown up with the boys and had been known as Mikey rose with a peaceful air about him only a man of God was lucky enough to have. “How are you?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid. And it’s Vasily. Please.”

He nodded. “Vasily.” He invited him to sit. “I heard what happened. Lucian came to see me last night.” They exchanged a look that said it all.

“I won’t keep you. Aside from wanting to know about the visitation and service, I was curious if Sergei Pivchenko had been to see you?”

This was a shot in the dark, but remembering the religious man Sergei used to be when he and Renee had first come from Russia, Vasily had to try. If his sister’s son was attempting to ease his guilt through Lorenzo’s brother, then all they had to do was remain in the neighborhood and intercept him the next time he dared show his face.

“The visitation is tonight at seven; the funeral tomorrow at eleven. And, no, I’m afraid your nephew has not been here.”

Vasily frowned. “Tonight and tomorrow. Lucian didn’t want the day?”

Father Michael shook his head. “No. He definitely did not want the day.”

Vasily put off thinking about that. “If Sergei turns up, and you feel the need to let someone know, I would very much appreciate if that someone was not your brother. Forgive me for coming to you with this and putting you in an awkward position, but there are exceptional circumstances that force me to disregard courtesy and invade your sanctuary.”

Vasily couldn’t imagine what secrets were revealed behind the wall in the confession chamber to their left, but the handsome kid just continued to observe him with that calm demeanor, nodding every few seconds. “You haven’t made things awkward, Vasily,” he assured.

“Thank you. And just so we’re clear,” he felt obligated to add. “I am implying no threat. I would simply like to deal with—”

“Vasily?”

He turned to find the elusive Dr. Tegan Mancuso coming up the aisle with Detective Russo at her side. Lorenzo looked as he always did; serious. Tegan looked like a different girl; troubled. Her blue eyes were no longer bright with mischief but shadowed with anxiety.

Vasily stood and came around. “Tegan. How are you?” He dropped a kiss to her forehead in the same way he’d always done even though he wasn’t sure what the protocol was for assault victims. She didn’t slug him, so he supposed the sign of affection was acceptable.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” Little flashes of alarm were going off in the back of her eyes. She assumed he was here about one of the boys.

He let her worry for a moment and greeted the priest’s brother. “Lorenzo. How are you, son?” They shook as Tegan moved around them to give Father Michael a hug.

“Getting by,” Lore said, his features tight. “You here about Markus?”

“Markus,” Tegan said, looking between them. “What about Markus?”

“He was killed yesterday. Shot in the parking garage at TarMor.” Vasily’s delivery of the news was deliberately harsh in the hopes that he would rattle her cage. She didn’t have to come to her senses today. But the sooner she realized the boys she loved could be taken from her at the drop of a hat, the better. They needed her in their lives, and she needed them.

She grasped the side of the pew, squeezing the fragrant wood. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. Then looked contritely at Father Michael. “Sorry. Oh, my gosh,” she corrected before shooting a disbelieving stare at Lore. “You knew? Why didn’t you
tell
me?” She didn’t wait for an answer before she was asking Vasily, “How is Lucian? Oh, my gosh…Gabriel and Alek. They must be devastated. And Eva? She and Markus were growing so close. Oh, no…”

“They’re all having a tough time. Alek especially since the police think the shooter might have been targeting him but got Markus instead.” For once, he was glad the authorities were involved, if only so he could speak freely of the incident in front of Lorenzo.

Tegan lowered herself to the bench and Lore glared at Vasily as he brushed by to sit next to her.

Vasily went a little further. “The visitation is tonight at seven. If you can make it, I know your presence would help tremendously.”

“Yes,” Tegan murmured, her eyes unfocused. “Of course, I’ll be there.”

“T.”

She looked at Lorenzo. “Yeah?”

“Maybe you should give this one a miss.”

“Why? Markus was killed, Lorenzo. It’s his visitation and funeral. Why would I give that a miss?”

Her disbelieving tone had Father Michael nodding his goodbyes and moving off down the aisle toward the back of the church.

Vasily stayed right the fuck where he was. He wanted to hear this.

“You don’t need to be around…that kind of thing right now,” the detective said, his tone kind but a touch impatient.

“Oh? Hmm. What kind of thing is that, Lore? Death? Grief? My friends who need me?”

“Your friends.” He didn’t scoff, but then, he didn’t have to. It was implied.

Tegan’s shoulder’s bowed, and she hesitated slightly before confirming, “Yes. My friends,” she said tiredly. “Yours, too, at one time. Remember? Those men? They’re men, Lore, just like you.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“There really isn’t anything to talk about.”

They looked at each other as if neither understood where the other was coming from.

“Tegan understands something better than many others, Lorenzo,” Vasily offered, explaining something the kid should already be well aware of. “Because she feels it. She’s invested, right from her heart. She can’t turn her back on them because she loves them, and is loyal to them. There is no halfway when that word comes into it. It’s all or nothing. You’re either loyal. Or you are not. How can that be confused?” He wasn’t thinking of the young doctor anymore. “You cannot adopt the practise only when it suits your purpose. Would you like to know why? Because it
lives
in those of us lucky enough to grasp the concept. It’s alive. It’s a part of who we are. Tegan will forgive her friends because they’re a large part of who she is. She knows that, and I think your nose is out of joint because you know it, too, and nothing you say to her will change it.”

He clapped his hand on the detective’s hard shoulder to end the lecture, then reached out and gave Tegan’s hand a squeeze. “Seeing you there will give everyone a boost they all desperately need right now. They’ve been grieving your absence from their lives just as they’re now grieving Markus’s.”

Tears filled the girl’s eyes as Vasily walked away.

♦ ♦ ♦

Lucian sat in the front row at a funeral home on the Upper West Side, his cousin Gheorghe next to him, Gheorghe’s sister Daria further down. Claude was on Lucian’s right, acting as security. Lucian had asked him if he would prefer to be acknowledged as Markus’s partner but the man had given one shake of his head.

“Markus wouldn’t do that to you in life. He certainly wouldn’t appreciate me doing it to you in death.”

“To me?” He’d wanted to vomit. “I would be proud to show people who my brother was.”

Claude had looked pained. “I wish he could have heard that.”

Lucian looked up from the crease in the pant leg of his Kiton. It wasn’t his favorite suit, which was why he’d worn it. He would dispose of it when he took it off later. The shoes, too. Those he would miss. Berluti. His favorites.

A presence entering the room had his head slowly coming up. The feeling was one he couldn’t put a name to but had felt before. Once. In an art gallery in Queens. He wanted to look at the entrance but didn’t. He would give her yet another chance. To escape him. If she didn’t take it, then she was fair game.

He continued to nod as the people passed by, and found his gaze moving down the line.

He caught himself and faced forward again.

Give her the chance she deserves,
that soothing voice he now knew was Markus’s whispered.

Lucian closed his eyes and savored it for a moment. When he opened them again, the faces in front of him were not the ones he’d been avoiding looking into a moment ago.

Down the line he looked…

His attention was fully engaged from one heartbeat to the next.

Yasmeen Michaels.

His prey.

An enchanting, classy, incredibly charming art gallery assistant…whose first hours in life had been spent in a cardboard box on the stoop of an orphanage in the Bronx. The file Lucian had read—without Yasmeen’s knowledge—stated a worker had found the unidentified infant lying quietly on a cloud of dirty blankets.

Lucian had had her for one night two years ago.

One night hadn’t been nearly enough.

He watched her wait in the queue, those mysterious eyes of hers that were as dark as night remaining downcast so he couldn’t get his fill. He waited until she was four people away before motioning Gheorghe to slide down the bench. His cousin didn’t hesitate but did shoot him a questioning look that Lucian ignored.

Yasmeen still hadn’t looked at him, but she was aware of him because a small wrinkle marred her high brow when she saw the space appear next to him.

“So sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fane.”

“Sorry for the loss of your brother, Lucian.”

“So sorry.”

And then she was close enough to touch. Her eyes clashed with his and moved with him as he stood for her.

“Yasmeen.”

“Lucian.” She raised her cheeks when he bent to touch his lips to her silky skin that was the same light bronze color he’d admired in the middle of summer. “I have no words for you,” she murmured.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” More than she would ever know. “You should have worn your hair down.” Her scent was the same he enjoyed when his yacht was anchored off the coast of Portofino.

For the first time since Dr. Singh’s phone call, images of brutality and murder left his head and were replaced by stills of how this woman had looked while she climaxed, her long raven hair spread all around them, her flawless body open and willing. Magnificent.

She blinked up at him in confusion and brought her fingers to her bared nape. “I’m sorry. I, um, I was at work.”

The lineup behind her was growing, as was her discomfit.

“Sit.”

“Pardon?”

“Sit.” He showed her how and drew her down to his side.

“I should really move on.”

“No, you should not.”

He took one of her hands and placed it on the top of his thigh, straightening her fingers and separating them until they were perfectly spaced. She wore two silver rings. An infinity symbol on her pinkie, and what looked to be the outline of a cat’s head on her forefinger. The bracelets on her fragile wrist were also cheap but pretty. Her nails were long, tapered, and real. Unpainted.