Page 33 of Thorns of Lust
Smoothing my hand down my black Valentino dress, I ensured nothing was out of place. There was no need for strangers to know what a mess I’d been since Adrian’s death. Or that I’d turned to alcohol.
I blew a breath into my palm to ensure I didn’t reek of alcohol. I only smelled mouthwash.
Knock. Knock.
“Enter.”
I pushed the door open and entered, then stopped and glanced over my shoulder. “I’ll be okay in here, Yan.”
A terse nod and I shut the door. An elderly lady with soft features and white hair done in a bun met my gaze as I approached her desk. She recognized me; I could tell by the flicker of awareness that filled her green eyes.
Taking a seat across the desk from her, I crossed my legs.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Morozov?” she asked, confirming my suspicion that she knew who I was. “Or do you prefer Ms. Nikolaev?”
I ignored her question.
“I want to know who ordered my husband’s niche plate engraving,” I retorted, not wasting time. There was no need for unnecessary pleasantries. “And I want to fire whoever put that shit on it.”
Her expression never faltered, the same smile curving her lips.
“Let’s see,” she said, reaching for a folder on her desk. She shuffled through some papers, but somehow I got the impression it was just busy work and she already had an answer.As if she was expecting this visit.What the fuck?
“Aha,” she exclaimed. She pulled out a piece of paper, her eyes roaming the page, then lifting to me. I watched her mask, the expression on her face untelling but something in her eyes kept tickling the back of my mind. A feeling in the pit of my stomach warned, but I couldn’t pinpoint what was bothering me about her. “The engraving was ordered by you, Ms. Nikolaev.”
She dropped the bomb and my mind blanked. I stared at her, repeating her words in my mind slowly. Maybe I misunderstood her? Maybe my English and Russian were mixed up. After all, I did sustain a concussion from the accident.
“Excuse me.” My voice sounded distant. A rush of noise swept through my brain. Whispers. Warnings.
“The engraving on the plate was ordered by you,” she repeated slowly, like she was talking to an imbecile.
“That’s impossible.” I’d never write something so morbid. So fucking mafia. “Do you have a copy of the order?”
Her lips curved into a cold half-smile.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Holding the paper, she extended her hand across the desk. Warning alarms shot through me, but I ignored them as I grabbed the paper. I read through it, each word more confusing than the last one.
Until the last line.
My signature on the dotted line stared back at me, questioning my sanity.
THIRTEEN
TATIANA
Time didn’t bring more answers. Only more questions.
Frustration gripped me. Anger boiled my blood. Melancholy swallowed me.
Maybe I reverted to stage two. Or maybe I was on stage four. Depression. Was there a stage for losing your mind?
Last night I swore I heard a radio playing. The song that Adrian and I danced to. While the moon lingered high in the sky, I heard those words repeating ‘walking in the shadows’ by Jillian Edwards. Except, the whole song didn’t play. The same words played over and over again.I go on. I go on. Standing in the shadows.
Too terrified to get out of bed, I covered my ears with the palms of my hands and hunched into a ball while hot tears burned my skin. I was scared of ghosts. Of turning into my mother. Of going crazy.
Yes, the stage for losing your mind was probably dedicated only to the Nikolaev members. Jesus Christ!
