Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva), Nicole Fox [love letters to the dead txt] 📗

it. When I bought it, I told myself it was a pillar of my love for her—nothing less than the best for my dead wife. But under all the bullshit and pretense, I knew it would become a symbol of what I’d do to avenge her murder. It’s a pillar of hatred, built over an innocent woman’s grave.

With whiskey warming up my veins and scattering my thoughts, I shouldn’t have driven here. “Nat,” I say, her name tasting unfamiliar on my tongue. “It’s been a bit of time. Sorry about that. It’s nothing personal. Nothing truly was personal between us.”

I touch the engraving of the chamomile flowers in her headstone. I should have given her something living instead of something cold. I’ve found that temporary can be better than eternal.

“Nat,” I repeat, louder now, like she’s going to hear me through six feet of dirt. “I got remarried. It’s fake. It’s not real. But it’s more real than what we had. Because our marriage was a sham. It was just a piece of paper. You were an idea and I was absent.”

I grab one of the flower petals on the headstone, trying to break it off, but it doesn’t budge.

“I knew better.” I fold my hand into a fist, hitting it against the top of the headstone. “I knew I didn’t feel that strongly about you. I just saw someone I wanted to possess. And Cassie started the same way. She was Gianluigi’s crown jewel and I wanted to take ownership. But it’s different from you. My relationship with Cassandra is so full of life. You were beautiful and you were good, but our relationship wasn’t either of those things. I realized the moment I saw Cassandra that what we had wasn’t real. I was just so determined to get revenge that I couldn’t see the truth with her.”

I turn away from her headstone. The city is getting louder, the insistent honking, the distant sound of a jackhammer rattling, the booming bass of a car passing by. I walk down the road that winds through the cemetery, leaving all my confessions and my worst secrets with my late wife. As I pass through the parking lot, I stop in the place that Ravil was killed. I walk up to the parking spot and crouch down to look at where the explosion scorched the asphalt.

There’s a tiny piece of metal, mangled near the white parking lines. I pick it up. There’s a smaller piece beside it. Remnants of the destroyed parts of the car. Any evidence of his blood has washed away, but this piece of the car remains—the permanency of what we build stands unmoved, but our bodies vanish easily.

Ravil was a good man. I should have been a better leader for him. If I’d been a better man, he’d still be around.

I drop the piece of metal. When I get into my truck, slamming the door shut, it cuts me off from the city’s noise. I start driving, intending to get farther away from the cemetery and closer to the chaos of the city, but it doesn’t bring tranquility. As I drive, I let the rage guide me.

I should carry plenty of blame, but Gianluigi killed Natalie and Ravil. He’s the one who tricked me and had Cassandra on the conference call. He’s the one who keeps killing my Bratva brothers.

I grit my teeth. I run through the dozens of scenarios where I have Gianluigi’s life in my hands and I crush it into a million pieces.

I get on the phone.

“Boss,” Nail answers. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going to retaliate,” I say. “They won’t be expecting a counterattack so soon. Their storehouse on Amity Street always has some men around. We’ll take them out, get the high ground, and wipe out their reinforcements.”

“I’ll get our men. When do you want to do this?”

“Now. I’m going to be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

There’s a short pause. “I’ll arrange it. How many men do you want?”

“At least fifteen, preferably twenty.”

“Some of them are at a memorial—”

“Tell them to put their mourning to good use,” I cut him off.

“Yes, boss. I’ll get right on it.”

I hang up and stomp down on the gas pedal. Violence will help me forget the wreckage I’ve made. Once I’ve taken back all the power Gianluigi stole from me, I have some hope of moving on without carrying all of this weight.

20

Cassandra

Talking to Sarah Ray about Jenny planted the smallest idea in my mind. Jenny’s teenage disappearing acts usually wouldn’t have been possible for her as a sixteen- and seventeen-year-old. But she was the daughter of a wealthy, distant father and a wealthy workaholic mother. During her more rebellious years, she figured out how to get cars without a paper trail. She learned how to run away without her parents being able to find her for months. She also had a habit of stashing cash, which could be useful to me now.

My father thought she was a bad influence and he was right, but she wasn’t malicious. She just liked to reinvent herself into someone who didn’t mind that her parents were never around and couldn’t be bothered with raising or nurturing a child.

“I was surprised you called,” Jenny says. Her apartment is smaller than I thought it would be, but it’s filled with expensive furniture and decorations. Jenny sits on an upholstered brown leather chair, her head resting on her hand as she gazes at me. She’s cut her honey-blonde hair into a pixie cut, which fits with her angular face.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I had a lot going on in my life.”

She waves my apology away. “Not because of that. I understand that. What I don’t understand is how you have time to visit after your article about the Akimov Bratva blew up.”

I flush. “I didn’t know you’d read it.”

“Everyone has read it, Cass,” she says. “I thought you’d be overwhelmed by people trying to pry more information out of you.”

“My life wasn’t