Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(63)

“He killed himself,” Aleksio says. “I can’t tell for sure, but the angle…his piece…” He pauses, overcome. “They came to the door, and he knew they’d hurt him to get what he knows of Kiro, of us. He killed himself rather than give anything up.”

“He died protecting us.”

“I closed his eyes and his mouth,” Aleksio says. “He taught me that. An Albanian custom, done to stop death from coming again. He didn’t believe in the superstitions, but he wanted me to know our culture, to know the little things and the big things, like besa.”

Besa. Honor, it means. For the crazy Albanians, besa is everything.

I let go of Aleksio and bend down to kiss the old man’s forehead. “You believed, old man. You never stopped fighting. The strongest of us all.”

Aleksio stands over me with his fist shoved into his face, as though the pain is too much.

I rise and set a hand on my brother’s shoulder.

“Sometimes I would be scared as hell just to fall asleep,” Aleksio says. “Right after it happened, especially.”

He doesn’t have to say what “it” is. “It” is the night Aldo Nikolla and Bloody Lazarus slaughtered our parents.

“I was so full of f*cking terror. This shit that would take over my body, you know? We’d live in these shitty apartments with walls like paper, him doing whatever dangerous scams he had to do to get us by, keep us under the radar. We’d have to move every week, but no matter where we went, the first thing he’d do was set up a chair at the foot of my bed or sleeping bag.” He turns to Konstantin. “Remember?” He kneels and sets a hand lightly on the old man’s arm. “Remember all the nights you slept in a chair at the foot of my bed? Did you even sleep back then? I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” He scrubs a hand over his face.

I set a hand on his shoulder. “He was a father.”

“Sometimes when it was really bad, he’d touch my ankle. He’d just set a hand on my ankle, and it would break my fear. I’d fall asleep that way. Just him with his heavy old paw on my ankle.”

It’s then that the bad feeling comes over me. As if on cue, Pityr runs in, white as a sheet. He doesn’t have to say anything. I bound back through the place and out to the drive.

She’s gone with the car. With the weapons.

“No!”

He comes up beside me. “She didn’t have keys—she jacked it. I thought she couldn’t remember…”

“Blyad!”

“Where will she go?” he asks.

“Church.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. I put trackers on all her shoes after she tried to escape the first time.”

“Shoes. Exactly where everybody looks.”

I nod. Exactly where she’d look…if her memory has returned.





Chapter Twenty-Four




Tanechka


The Sacred River Church is hushed and beautiful. Colored light trails through stained-glass windows high above. A few faithful pray in the pews. They have no idea who has come into their midst.

I suppose I don’t, either.

I go to the front and fall to my knees, making the sign of the cross. I clasp my hands together so tightly I think I might break my own bones. I feel unworthy even of looking up at Jesus on the cross. He showed me his light, and I wasn’t good enough. I can’t remember killing the people I killed, but I remember begging for Viktor to f*ck me.

I shut my eyes tightly, trying to gather my other sins. How can I ask forgiveness if I don’t remember? How can I be washed clean?

Mother Olga said it was possible, but she didn’t know what I was.

I think of Viktor. A killer like me. Familiar as a glove on my hand. I feel bad for leaving him, but I had to get away. At the brothel they only threatened my body. Viktor threatens my very soul.

I take a spot in a pew in the front, and I whisper my prayers, bereft. Jesus showed me his beautiful light, and I turned away from it. The women languished in the brothel while I became drunk and made love with a killer. The vodka, the feel of Viktor’s skin under my touch, Viktor’s manhood filling me—these things I wanted.

I look up at Jesus, blurry though my tears. “Show me your light again.”

Nothing. Jesus tried once to help me. Why should he try again?

I clutch my hands together as if I could press away the feelings I bear for Viktor. As if I could bring back my memories so I could see those I killed, so I could see their faces and feel the stain of it. It’s wrong that I can’t remember. I need to find a priest. I need to tell him about the women in the brothel. I need to beg forgiveness.

I think of Viktor holding me. Lisichka. Even now I miss him. Here I am, finally having made it to the church, and all I want to do is flee back to Viktor.

A male voice at the end of the pew. “May I?”

My tears make his face look blurry, but I recognize the frock of the priest. “Please, Father,” I say.

He slides in. I feel instantly cold. Frightened. As though he is a threat. Is this how far I’ve strayed? That a priest should seem an enemy?

He says, “You are troubled.”

“More than you can imagine,” I say.

“Would confession help?”