Taken By the Bratva Boss by Sarina Hart

Chapter Fourteen

Olivia

Ididn’t know Maxim. I only ever saw him once, but he died for me, and I can’t not go to watch him be laid to rest.

The cemetery is guarded by men with big, visible guns. It’s not often every family in the Bratva is at the same place at the same time. It happens at weddings and funerals. And that makes these events the most dangerous, a prime target for enemies.

I’ve never met most of these people, but I know who they are. They are the prominent and less Russian families, some scary with their scars and their shoulder holsters that bulge from under their suit jackets. The women are veiled with hats and gloves. The children are miniature outfitted versions of their parents.

The little boys standing on either side of their mother are stoic, quiet, as she dabs her eyes then drops her hands on a shoulder each. Her fatigue is like a layer of her, one the world can see, much like her eye shadow and her lipstick.

Leon is beside me, and Anna is at home with another new nanny. She’s seen enough death in her short life. There just wasn’t a need to force her to sit through a long church service and burial at the cemetery.

He’s quiet, maybe praying, but also tense. Almost angry, and I want to ease it for him. I want him to know someone understands what it’s like to lose a friend, what it feels like to watch a priest bless a coffin where his friend is lying.

Instead of speaking, I brush the back of his hand with the back of mine and then wait. It takes a couple seconds before he curls his little finger into mine and hangs on long enough for me to absorb a bit of his heat before he moves away.

When the service is over, he stays long enough to speak to a few men from the families, then he walks in the opposite direction of the car. I don’t know whether or not to follow or to give him a minute. He walks a few rows down, turns, and continues on.

His head stays up, and his shoulders stay back, but his gait is without its usual confident stride. The curiosity draws me, and I follow him to the minute he stops. I move to stand beside him.

Ekaterina Krilova. Sergei Krilov. United in love for Eternity and beyond.

His parents. This time, I take his hand, hold it, give it a squeeze, and he looks down at me.

“My father was killed in an explosion.”

“I’m so sorry.” For a second, he is a lost little boy, his eyes dark with sadness, his frown deep. I want to make him feel better. I want to hold him and let him get it all out. I’ll probably just stand here and listen, but I want… so much more.

“It was… he was… I don’t know.” He shakes his head and looks down but squeezes my hand.

I know about words and how hard they are to find when sorrow and anguish are fresh and so painful that it’s a trial to even breathe. Been there. Some days it’s still hard.

“And your mom?” I still know words. I just don’t know the right ones. We’re standing in a cemetery, and he was a boy when his mother died. A little boy. And I’m asking like I have a right to the details of his life, of his mother’s death and how he lost her.

But he looks down at me. “She was killed when I was young. Like Max’s boys.” His sigh is labored but soft, shuddering. “We saw it happen.”

Now, I don’t have words. I’ll never have words for that.

“There are nine distinct memories I have of my mother. I fell when I was six. She put mercurochrome—it was a horrible pink color—on the cut, and it burned. So, she sang to me.” He doesn’t look at me as he continues. “We went to dinner for Mother’s Day, and Igor spit soda at the waiter. While my father dealt with him, my mother and I ate ice cream sundaes.”

“Sounds nice.”

He nods. “Once when the cat got out, and Igor was out with my father searching, Mom and I made posters to hang in the neighborhood, just in case. I drew the cat—horribly and she told me it was beautiful—then she filled in the information. While they were out, we made twenty fliers.”

“Did you find the cat?”

His chuckle is soft as he shakes his head. “No. She got ran over at the end of our street.”

“I’m sorry.” So much death in his life. Like Anna, but it’s more Leon’s legacy than something that’s happened to him. “That’s only three.”

He clears his throat and there isn’t much chance I’m ever going to hear his other memories.

“The one that I can’t get past…” He looks up and blows out a breath. “Igor and I hid. We didn’t help her. They raped her, and they killed her, and we hid.”

There’s no comfort I can give for that. Nothing I can say to take his pain away or even lessen it. He drops my hand, shoves his into his pocket and moves on. Igor Krilov. Lyubimyy syn, brat, drug.

“What does it mean?”

“Son, brother, friend.” I stand close and give him a minute. “Beloved.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know what else to say.”

If ever a man needed a hug, it’s Leon. I ignore the closed off posture, the get-away-from-me groan, and hug him like I’m the one who needs it. Maybe I do. Maybe I need to be held as much as I need to hold him. For now, touching him without explanation or examination is enough.

“When my father died, I became Pakhan. I was young but powerful. We always knew it would be me because Igor never recovered from our mother’s death.” His pain was so real I could almost touch it. “My father chose me. All the families chose me, and Igor…” He shook his head. Didn’t finish. “He was dealing with people who didn’t care who he was or who I was. He died that way. Hard. There’s just an empty box down there because his body was…burned so badly.”

This time I hugged him, and he turned into me, into the hug, and pressed me closer with his arms. “This much loss in one life can’t be normal.” He scoffed at my overly sentimental observation. “Okay, smart guy. It shouldn’t be normal.”

“It’s the way of my life.” He’s quiet. Resigned to the difficulties of his life.

“I know.” He’s a man who has everything and nothing, standing in a cemetery wishing for the people he loves to come back to him.

“Did they find the men who killed your mother?”

Never have I regretted a question more than when he shakes his head. “No. They’re out there. But…” He smiles down at me, and I am captured in the beauty of it. “But you inspire me, Olivia. You make me…” He brushes my hair behind my ear. “When I saw you, how strongly you needed to avenge your friend, I started looking again for those bastards.”

“I hope you find them.”

We lapse into silence. It’s not comfortable. It’s the kind where we both need to say things—feel things. We need to—I need to put the words out there so we can deal with them. With the feelings.

I close my mouth and gather the courage, because telling a man how I feel in the middle of a cemetery while we look at his family’s gravesites is obviously appropriate. “Leon.”

He sighs. “Once we find who hurt Denice, you have to go, Olivia. You have to leave.”

“What?”

“People around me die. You’ll never be safe as long as you’re with me.” The words come like he’s reading them from a sheet in very broken English, robotic.

I want to protest. I want to tell him I’m strong enough to handle his lifestyle. I want to. But I can’t.

“I know.” Pain shoots through me. Through my stomach. I could double over from the intensity and be well within non-dramatic standards. It’s real.

But nothing is going to change the truths. His world is different than mine. I’m a teacher of little children. It’s what I do. And he’s a murderer. A criminal. His morals are very different than mine. His lifestyle is very different than mine.

And God help me, I think I’m falling for him.