Page 71 of Bratva King's Secret Twins

With my bare hands, I dig into the damp soil, feeling the coolness and moisture of the earth on my skin. Mary has been by my side for the past two days as we carefully arrange a row of garden boxes on Nik's balcony, right off of his office, on the first floor of the penthouse. The air is filled with the soft hum of the city below, and the vibrant colors of pink, yellow, and white tulips make a beautiful mess in front of me.

These are the same types of flowers that Nik’s mother had throughout the club when it was calledVivi’sinstead ofJohanna’s. I tried to match the colors ofVivi’s,but I could only find limited photos of the club on Google, so most of the garden comes from my imagination.

I take a moment to lean back on my heels and wipe the dirt from my palms onto my jeans, admiring the neat rows of planted tulips. I can't help but imagine Nik's reaction when he sees them - perhaps a flicker of surprise, or even a rare genuine smile. Thinking about it warms me from within, even though I know it will be short-lived.

The garden still has some empty corners, but it's coming along nicely. I move over to the last corner, determined to fill it before tonight. I want to show Nik after dinner, hoping that in some small way it will bring him peace before I inevitably shatter his world even more than it already is.

The sharp ring of my phone cuts through the tranquility, snapping me back to reality. I quickly wipe the dirt from my hands, fumbling to pull my phone out of my pocket. The screen flashes with an unknown number, and for some reason, my skin turns cold.

“Hello?” I answer cautiously.

“Is this Gwendolyn Sharp?” The voice on the other end is cold and professional, with the clipped tone of someone delivering bad news.

“Yes, this is her.” I fix the phone to be in the crux of my neck and slide my bottom to the concrete to sit criss-cross in front of the garden. “How can I help you?”

“This is Officer Meyers from the Maryland Police Department.”

My mouth runs dry.

“We have a deceased individual we believe to be Rosalina Sharp.”

I can’t fucking breathe. I feel sick to my stomach.

“We’ve been unable to reach her son, Randolph Sharp, so you’re listed as the next of kin. We need you to come in and confirm her identity.”

I'm numb. The world around me blackens, and I swear there is nothing keeping me from jumping up and free falling offof this balcony.

“I—I can’t do that right now.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat, trying to regain some composure. “I’m not in Maryland.”

“I understand, but you have 72 hours to identify her. If not, we’ll have no choice but to bury her as a Jane Doe.”

“Jane Doe?” I whisper.

“Unidentified woman. She will be buried in the porterfield.”

“Oh,” I respond mindlessly. “How did she die?”

“Ma’am, I cannot disclose sensitive information over the phone.”

“Please,” I whisper so low I can barely hear myself.

“Homicide,” the officer whispers back.

My throat tightens, and I barely manage to whisper a thank you before the call ends. The weight of it hits me all at once, and I drop the phone into the dirt. Tears sting my eyes, and I bite down hard on my lip, willing myself not to break down.

No. No, this can't be happening. I refuse to fall apart right now, not when the weight of my world is crashing down on me. Nana Rose, my rock and constant source of strength, gone in an instant. If she's truly dead, then it must have been Mason's doing. The scream that rips from my throat is raw with pain and anger, threatening to consume me whole.

I can’t help it; my dirt filled nails scrape at my skin as another sob escapes me.

I can’t. I can’t fall apart right now. Nana Rose can’t be dead, she was as healthy as a horse. At 72, she barely broke a sweat during our weekly yoga sessions and I damn near passed out from exertion. She had years to live and if she’s dead, then itwas Mason. I can barely hold in the scream that escapes my lips.

My dirt-covered nails scrape against my skin as another sob escapes me. I can't stop myself from doing it; the action is involuntary, as I feel myself burning at the stake.

The guilt is overwhelming, because Nana's death is my fault. I should have let Nik protect her. If I had been honest from the start, I wouldn't be forced to go identify her remains now or risk her being buried in some unmarked grave on a disease-ridden island off the coast.

This can't be happening, it's impossible. I refuse to believe it until I see her lifeless body with my own eyes. But I can’t even do that.

Every step outside of this building, let alone New York, puts me, Nik, our children at risk. Nik's father is still out there, and Mason is relentlessly pursuing me.

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