Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(87)

“I’m not being dismissed,” she argues.

“Just… back.”

She must hear the catch in my voice, because she frowns and obeys. She moves towards Gaiman as Jax comes into view from the other side. He doesn’t bother climbing the porch steps. He just stands in the snow, waiting solemnly.

I pull out the knife I keep in my right boot and slice the edges of the package open. With every second, I’m frowning more confident I know what’s inside.

There’s only one thing that smells like that: rotting flesh.

I pull open the lid and then stand back. There’s something that happens to the body when you die. Especially the face. Every muscle relaxes, sags with the weight of gravity. The person looks almost unrecognizable. Almost.

“Leo…”

“Willow,” I say firmly. “Get inside. Now.”

“What is it? I can’t see…” She grabs my arm and pushes past me.

But she stops short once the box comes into view. She goes ramrod straight for a moment as she tries to make sense of what her eyes are seeing.

The cut at the base of the neck is sharp and clean. Belov knew what he was doing. He was careful. It’s almost surgical.

Everything else looks the same as the last time I saw her. The long blond hair, as vibrant as ever, even in death. The chipped front tooth, broken from where it hit the table.

The fantasy we had withers on the vine.

No more hoping. No more pretending.

Willow claps a hand over her mouth. “Ariel…”

Then she collapses.





34





WILLOW





I keep seeing her face.

Both of them. The one from when she was breathing and walking and living, and the one from after.

I can’t quite believe that what I saw in the box was real. It looked more like doll parts, like a prop from a cheesy horror movie. Stripped to something inhuman. Disassembled like plastic.

I haven’t eaten for two days. I haven’t slept, either.

Every time I try, I see Ariel’s head in that box. Then I either throw up or wake up screaming.

Leo holds me as often as he can. He whispers things to me that I don’t hear. Things I can’t hear. Because all I hear is the thrumming of my pulse telling me I’m still alive.

And Ariel is dead.

This is the third day now. I’m getting better at avoiding that image of the bloodstained box in my mind. I’m getting better at dealing with the insurmountable weight that’s settled on my chest. God knows if I’ll ever be free of it again.

“Willow?”

Leo walks to the bed in the darkness. But I know it’s morning. Flickers of light come through the blinds every time they move in the breeze of the fan.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and I turn to him. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“Bread,” I lie.

He raises a disbelieving brow.

“Fine. Nothing. I can’t eat,” I tell him. “I’ll just throw up.”

“The funeral is today.”

“Funeral?” I ask, sitting up. “You’re having a funeral for her?”

“Of course. She deserves a proper burial.”

“But you don’t have… all that’s left is…” The image rises up like bile, and I swallow it back down.

“It’s something,” he says. “And she needs to be honored. She earned a warrior’s send-off.”

I press my forehead against the back of his hand. He’s warm to the touch, and comforting. “We need to kill him, Leo. He claimed to love her, but he…” I clap a palm to my mouth to keep in a sob. “He has our son.”

“He’s not going to touch Pasha,” Leo says confidently. “I won’t let him.”

And even though I know he can’t make those kinds of promises, it feels good to just believe him. His strength, his confidence, his unassailable self-assurance… it’s all easy to cling to.

Matter of fact, it’s the only thing I have left to cling to.

“There’s no one on the inside to protect him,” I whisper. “There’s—”

He grabs my hand and pulls it to his heart. “Listen to me: we cannot afford to crumble now. Pasha needs our best.”

“How can you be so calm?”

“I’m the don, Willow. I don’t have the luxury of breaking down. I have to keep it together. All the fucking time. No matter what.”

He knew Ariel better than I did. If either of us should be falling apart, it should be Leo.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t be—I should be here. With you. For you. I should be able to keep it together, like you are.”

He pats my hand. “You don’t have to keep it together. That’s why you have me.”

I give him a shaky smile, but it falls off my face almost immediately. “I don’t know if I can make it to the funeral,” I admit. “I… I won’t be able to hold it together.”

He squeezes my hand. “Willow, this is what we do.”

“I’m not Bratva.”

“Ariel wasn’t Bratva either,” he tells me. “Until the day she was.”