Page 16 of Heritage of Fire

Fear, rage, bitterness, another healthy dose of fear. It’s a carousel I can’t get off. My heart squeezes with every glimpse of myself I catch in the mirror, and each mention about starting soon from my mother.

“I’m stationing two guards in here and there will be two in front of the door,” my father says. As if on cue, the door opens, and two men with guns strut in, offering a respectful nod to my mother.

Voices boom in the hallway, and I can’t help but wonder if one of them ishis. I swallow the knot in my throat and reach for a glass of water, my hands shaking so hard the liquid splashes over the side. Giulia takes pity on me and grasps my hands in hers.

“Deep breaths, Luna. You will be okay, sweet girl.”

Tears prickle behind my eyes at her words and I want to ask how she can be so sure.

Uncertainty whittles its way into my churning gut. What if he kills me? What if this is all a way to get to my family and my father? I resent my father for what he’s making me do, for what he’s done to my soul. Keeping me hidden away for the sole purpose of serving the Cosa Nostra. But regardless of my family’s twisted motives, I don’t wish them dead.

Setting down the water, I take one last peek in the mirror. Glassy eyes stare back at me. I stiffen and squeeze my eyes shut, taking deep breaths—shoot, I’m going to throw up. Moving the back of my hand to cover my mouth, I press hard against my lips, dizziness causing my body to sway.

“It’s time,” my mother barks.

Chapter 8

Nik

This church looks like a flower garden vomited all over it. It’s sickening, and I want this wedding done and over with.

I’m in one of the back rooms with Igor and Dimitry, doing the last of my cufflinks, my mind reeling over the events of today and it isn’t even noon yet.

My father called me early this morning from Russia. After Vladimir Morozov died of a heart attack, he went back there, claiming it was time for retirement. Not that one can retire from the Bratva, but Luka was generous enough to let him go. I hadn’t told him I’m getting married, and since that day is today, I let the words tumble out of my mouth.

“What the hell, Nikolai!” he yelled over the phone.

“It was last minute …” I answered. Honestly, I’m surprised the news hadn’t reached him yet. Most of the Bratva know and are attending today. Luka made it mandatory.

“Who is it?”

“The eldest daughter of the new underboss of the Cosa Nostra.”

I flinched when his voice went loud, and Russian words deafened my ears. I had to pull the phone farther away for each curse word he flung at me. Practically went through them all.

“Nyet. I cannot allow this. I need to call Luka. You will not be marrying Italian scum.”

Indignation flared within me. I don’t even know her, but I doubt she deserves to be labeled as scum.

“I do what my pakhan needs. I do what the Bratva needs. If anyone should understand, it would be you,” I barked back.

That seemed to shut him up.

Thinking about it now, I wonder if he was right. Who the hell treats this kind of arrangement like an actual wedding? My fists tighten at my sides—I will not be baited into thinking this is anything but a contract.

Dimitry opens the door and Luka enters, leaning in to say something to him before approaching me, a somber expression on his face. Over his shoulder, I watch Dimitry leave the room.

“What, no vodka?” I jest, trying to ease the pain on his face. I hate it when he’s like this. Even more so when it involves me. His mouth contorts into a semi-smile. That will have to do.

“Nyet, no vodka. I do have a ring, though.”

I scowl at the words.

“It’s not yours. It’s for her.”

He takes out a large, gaudy looking ring. A sizable orange gemstone sits in an extravagantly designed gold setting. It’s ugly.

“Apparently, the ring is a family heirloom. Don’t lose it,” Luka says, holding it out to me.

---