Tarnished Tyrant - A Mafia Romance

Chapter 51 Episode 51

“Easy,” I interrupt. “I’ve never turned down a challenge. I’mnot sure you’re ready for me to take you up on this one.”

Belle lets out a long yawn before her smile returns. “Youmight be right about that. I’m exhausted.”

“That’s because I, a real man and not a pastry, f****d youstupid in a hot spring,” I remind her.

Her face flushes again, and she hides it behind another bite.Once she swallows, she leans back on the couch with acontented sigh. “Thanks for the desserts. I don’t usually havesuch a crazy sweet tooth.”

“I find that hard to believe. You just ate an ice cream sundaeand three donuts.”

She narrows her eyes. “I thought we didn’t need to keep track,Mr. Owner? I had no idea you were taking inventory.”

“When someone is inhaling confections, it’s hard not to stopand take notice.”

Belle lunges across the sofa to slap me in the arm. “I’ll haveyou know that, most years for my birthday growing up, I

didn’t even want a cake. I usually asked for fried chicken oralfredo and breadsticks.”

“How fancy,” I say. “I thought white bread with butter andsugar was the normal birthday treat until the kids at schoolinformed me I was dirt-poor.”

Belle’s face falls. She reaches for me. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad you told me,” she adds softly. “I like learning moreabout you.”

Which is the exact f*****g reason I shouldn’t have saidanything. It’s the reason I usually don’t. People are afraid ofNikolai Zhukova, Don of the Zhukova Bratva and CEO ofZhukova Incorporated.

But poor little Niko who ate sugar sandwiches on his birthdayand moved out on his own at fourteen? That runt is pitiable.

And pity is the last f*****g thing I’m after.

“I want to know what made you who you are today,” shecontinues.

“I made me who I am,” I say sharply. “My experiences wereforced on me. But I overcame that shit.”

“What s**t?” she asks softly.

I shrug. “Find the word ‘dysfunctional’ in a dictionary andthere will be a picture of the Zhukova clan next to it.”

“Aren’t mafias—er, Bratvas, I mean,” she corrects, “aren’tthey usually family things? Wasn’t your dad in a Bratva, too?”

I nod. “Briefly. My grandfather was don, and my fatherwould’ve taken over. But they lost the Bratva before that couldhappen.”

“How do you lose something like that?”

“There are lots of ways. But in this case, their supply chainswere decimated, stash houses were burned to the ground, andhalf the men were killed, along with my grandfather.”

Belle gasps. “Oh, I’m sorry, Nikolai. That’s—”

“Life,” I finish. “That’s life in a Bratva. But my father couldn’thandle it. He didn’t adjust well to being poor. Especially oncemy mother got sick and he couldn’t afford the treatments.”

Belle’s eyes are locked on mine. I like the way her devotionfeels. I also like the way she keeps absently circling her fingerover my skin.

“Then my mother died, and my dad dove headfirst into abottle.” I jerk my chin towards her. “You know a thing or twoabout that.”

She nods sadly. “My mom fell apart after my dad died in thecar accident.”

“I didn’t have an older sibling to look out for me the way Elisehas you,” I tell her. “I had to figure out how to take care ofmyself so I didn’t end up like my dad. And that’s exactly whatI did.”

“You say that like it’s easy. But you set out on your own atfourteen. And… how did you save the Bratva? You said it waslost.”

“Loyalty runs deep in my world. There were plenty ofmembers willing to step up and help rebuild. They just neededa leader.”

I shake my head. “I chose me. No one was fighting for thehonor to lead a ruined Bratva, so I stepped up. I rebuilt theZhukova name brick by brick, bullet by bullet. And I did it onmy own.”

Belle murmurs, “Not everyone can do something like that. Noteveryone can overcome their past.”

She pulls her hand away, but I reach out and grab it back. Assoon as our fingers touch, her eyes lift to mine.

“Not everyone is meant to be a leader,” I say. “But there’ssomething to be said about knowing who to follow. And youfollowed me here.”

“You say that like it was a good thing.”

Her smile is tentative. “I’m still trying to decide.”

“I’m not. And that’s why I’m a good leader.”

I bring her hand to my lips and press a kiss there. “Because Iknow what’s good for you before you know it yourself.”

The moment my eyes open, I feel his absence.

I sit up and take stock of the plush white comforter wrappedaround me. That’s new. Nikolai must have brought it to meafter I fell asleep. The note sitting on the glass-topped coffeetable is new, too.

I reach for the folded piece of paper. I expect it to be fromNikolai, but then I recognize Elise’s cramped scrawl.

My heart clenches with morbid possibilities. She ran awayagain. This is her goodbye letter. I knew her attitude last nightwas too good to be true. It was a trick. A ruse so she could slipaway while I was in a sugar/Nikolai coma.

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself.

After a few deep inhales and exhales, I calm down enough toactually read what Elise wrote.

You were basically unconscious when we left (seriously, therewas drool), so we didn’t wake you. Nikolai is taking me to thefarm to work today. He said he’ll send a car for me thisafternoon. Smell you later!

Thank god. She’s safe. She’s taken care of.

For a moment, I luxuriate in the fact that someone else tookcare of Elise for me this morning. If I didn’t feel so relaxedright now, I’d feel guilty about how relaxed I feel.

Taking care of my sister was my choice, and I’d make it athousand times over again. But damn if it isn’t a hard job.

I swipe at my face and cringe when I feel a crust of drool. “Ohdear,” I mutter to myself, “that’s not cute.”

Wrapping the comforter around my shoulders, I shuffle awayfrom the couch and into my room. But the moment I walkthrough the door, I stop in my tracks.

“What the—” I creep slowly towards the bed, blinking like thepile of art supplies spread across the comforter mightdisappear. “Who did—”

Then I see a second note. This one has my name written on thefront in broad, angular print. Jesus, even his handwriting isconfident.

Deny it all you want, but you’re talented. I have the prooffolded up in my wallet. I have to work all day today. Relax andenjoy the art supplies.

By the time I finish reading, I have a goofy grin on my facethat I just can’t wipe off. If Nikolai was here to witness it, itwould definitely rank on my list of most embarrassingmoments. But thankfully, I’m alone.

I drop into the desk chair, crack the spine on my new leathersketchbook, and reach for the fineliner pens.

I’m so lost in my sketching that I don’t hear the knock on thedoor. Or maybe I do, but my brain is too busy to worry about itor figure out what the sound means. A much more pressingmatter is whether to build a balcony on the right side of thehouse coming off the second floor or add a four seasons roomoff the first floor.

Then the person knocks again, and I sit up.

“Ouch,” I groan, pressing a hand to my achy lower back.

How long has it been since I stood up? My stomach growls.Or since I ate?

I look at the clock over the stove in the kitchenette and myeyes almost bug out of my head. “How is it already almostfour in the afternoon?” I exclaim to no one.

I haven’t showered or eaten or changed. I just sat all day andsketched. I filled three pages of my sketchbook from margin tomargin.

On one hand, I can’t believe I wasted an entire day. On theother hand, I can’t remember the last time I had a day tomyself to do whatever I wanted. The last time I got so lost in atask that the world around me disappeared.

Even when Nikolai isn’t here, he’s able to help me turn mybrain off.

That goofy smile from before returns. At least until I pass bymy reflection in the entrance hall mirror.

“Yikes.” I quickly run my fingers through the bird’s nest onmy head and pinch my cheeks to give me a little color.

Convinced the person knocking on the other side of the doorwon’t run screaming, I finally pull it open.

“A delivery for you, Miss Belle.” A young blonde woman in apolo with the hotel’s logo on it holds out a stack of packages tome.

I frown. “For me? I didn’t order anything.”

“From Mr. Zhukova,” the girl explains. She practically shovesthe packages into my arms. “I swore I’d make sure they weredelivered exactly at four. So you’d have time to get ready.”

“Get ready?” I ask. “For what?”