Page 7 of Heritage of Fire

Being tucked away on our private estate for much of my life, there wasn’t an opportunity to interact with boys. And, eventually, men. I never thought much about love, or prospect of marrying the love of my life. Especially after what happened—afterhehappened.

Looking back, it wasn’t love, but it was still my own choice, and choices aren’t something I have many of.

“I want flowers, endless flowers,” my mother says while pointing at the wedding planner. It’s been exactly one week since my father demanded my loyalty to the Cosa Nostra by way of marriage, and that’s all the time I’ve had to process everything.

“Yes, we can do whatever you’d like,” the wedding planner replies.

“Colors should be within the navy blue and gold color palettes. We need a full Italian menu, and a venue large enough for over a hundred people,” my mother continues.

I’m not even in the room. At least, that’s what it feels like.

Why they’re treating this wedding like such a party is beyond me. This isn’t about two peoplein love, wanting to share an event with beloved friends and family. It’s a legal show. An alliance. A boardroom would be a better place for it.

“And what about the groom?” the wedding planner asks, clearly trying to hint to my mother that she’s ignoring the fact there’s another person involved in this arrangement.

“It’s customary to have the bride’s family plan the wedding. Make sure there’s some vodka there and I’m sure he’ll be happy.”

The conversation turns to cake and invitations—which are pointless, because only people from our organizations will be there, no outsiders. My thoughts drift to Nikolai, and I wonder what he’s like. I’ve resisted the urge to look him up. Not that there would be anything to find, but still—I’m proud of myself.

This parlor has always felt stuffy, but as I stare past my mother and the wedding planner, the air becomes thick and uncomfortable. The banana leaf green walls along with the overdone oak wood offer no reassurance. The piano in the corner, topped with gold decor and a ticking clock, holds myattention. The conversation fades into the background, and the only sound I hear is that clock, ticking down time to the rhythm of my heartbeat. Everything is out of my control.

“Does that sound good, miss?” The wedding planner’s voice breaks through my spiraling. “If there’s anything you’d like to add?—”

“I think we’re all set. We’ll be in touch for our tastings,” my mother answers for me.

I don’t mind—it keeps me from breaking down. The wedding planner gives her a smile and then looks at me again, her upturned lips collapsing. She gives me a nod and scurries through the double doors of the parlor, leaving my mother and me behind.

My mother’s bright, red-stained lips purse into a thin line, and her eyes trace down my face. I look at her silently pleading, willing her to see the pain this is inflicting on me. We hold each other’s gazes for a few beats before she turns on her heel and walks out.

Chapter 4

Nik

My BMW looks out of place here.

The dark alleyway I’m parked near is weathered and unassuming, which leads me to wonder,what is he doing here?

I slide my hands up and down the leather steering wheel, always landing back at ten and two.

“This is where you tracked him to?” I ask Igor, certain he screwed up somehow. He fumbles with his phone, glancing up at the alleyway, then back down again.

“Da,” he replies. “Senator’s driver dropped him off right here. He’s been in there for over an hour.”

Selfish behavior doesn’t shock me anymore, not with what I’ve seen. In fact, destructive behavior—all that is morally wretched and depraved—is what I’ve come to expect.

However, I have to admit, I’m stumped by this.

Why did Senator Hope, with all his high-rolling money and powerful alliances, come here? To this run-down alley next to a pawn shop with a weeping exterior and an eerie green glow. The pulse of the shop’s sign illuminates the alley’s entrance for a moment longer until the AWN flickers out. I doubt Hope came here to sell a watch.

“What the hell is this place?” I ask, mainly to myself, but Igor answers anyway.

“I don’t know. Want me to go check it out first?”

I detect a hint of teasing from the asshole. I flick my eyes in his direction, annoyed. The joker has the audacity to laugh.

This ismymission; no way in hell I’m not going in there.

My sidearm is strapped to my chest holster. I take it out and release the magazine, checking the rounds before sliding it back in. Nodding in Igor’s direction, I push open the door. My nose wrinkles at the sulfur stench, the odor pungent and eye-watering. Igor tries to hide a cough and I smirk, heading over to the dark alleyway we’ve been watching for the past thirty minutes.

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