Page 30 of Thorns of Lust
And I was still clueless on what Adrian was up to - except that he started to work against our… no,myfamily. He couldn’t possibly have thought of us as his family if he’d stored blackmail-worthy videos against my brothers, Aurora’s brothers. I’d have to assume he had more material somewhere else. Who knew how many, probably countless, others - friends or not - he had videos on! Maybe they were stored on other laptops. He used to have many more than just what was left in that room.
The creak of the iron gate of the cemetery sounded like the screech of crows. Dark and threatening.
Walking down the rows of graves seemed surreal, too cheery with tourists and their guides who preached New Orleans’ history. Carnival had begun and it wouldn’t be long before Fat Tuesday arrived, which meant Mardi Gras was in full swing, inviting even more visitors into the already crowded city.
I made my way towards the above-ground tomb that became Adrian’s final resting place. My black Chanel heels clicked against the stone. My tailored dress felt loose on my body.
For the first time ever, the color black no longer flattered me at all. It made me look washed out. I’d lost weight over the last four months. Alcohol wasn’t helping, but somehow I found myself constantly going back to it.
It turns out it was easier to form an addiction than shake it off. Who knew, huh?
The dull ache between my temples throbbed in that familiar way. Like I should remember something, but my mind recoiled each time I tried. The therapist said not to force it. He labeled it memory suppression. He told me that my memories would come back when I was ready to handle them or when something triggered them. I shuddered, not wanting to think about whatthatcould be.
Still, I couldn’t wait. I had to remember. It felt like a matter of life and death. Hopefully, not mine.
The cool breeze swept through the air, sending a shiver down my spine. Temperatures in February weren’t freezing, but they felt colder than usual with the wind blowing.
I found his niche plate. For a long moment, I just stood there and stared at the words, unable to read them. Unable to process them. Never in a million years would I have thought our story would end like this.
With trembling fingers, I reached out to trace the engraved letters.
Born in the shadows. Sworn in blood.
A vow broken and betrayed.
Judgment delivered.
I hadn’t seen it before. The words were ludicrous. Why would anyone put that shit on my husband’s final resting place? I read the words again, my lips moving as if reading them out loud would give it meaning.
It didn’t.
I had no idea what it meant, nor who came up with the ludicrous engraving. Maybe some fucked up mafia funeral, although my own father had a simple, normal engraving on his plate.
Not this.
Besides, Adrian wasn’t really part of the mafia. Although he seemed to have gotten on their bad side. Still he didn't deserve to die so young. Our life together had barely started. I could still smell him in our penthouse. I could still hear his laughter in my sleep.
Except, he didn’t laugh a lot those last few months. I feared things had changed. I didn’t know if it was my constant demands to have a baby or something else.
But none of what happened could diminish that Adrian died to protect me. He died because he loved me. That was what my brothers told me. That he got me out of the car somehow.
It didn’t make me feel better. His sacrifice had left so many holes — in my mind and soul.
“I wish you hadn’t left me behind,” I croaked through a broken voice. It hurt to breathe. My eyes stung, but no tears came. I didn’t think I had any tears left.
“I wished you told me.” Whatever it was that was going on. Maybe I could have helped him. Maybe my brothers would have helped. After all, Vasili brought him to our family. The image of Adrian the first time we locked eyes flashed through my mind.
“I hate the cold,” I grumbled, my breath fogging the window. Pressing my finger against it, I drew a sun. I needed hot weather and a pool. Russians didn’t mind winter. Papa always said that. Well, I minded it. “I’m not Russian. I’m American.”
The dark sky promised another winter storm, wind beating against the windows as I stared longingly out of it. I hated being in Russia. It was always cold and dark during the winter months. But Vasili insisted. So we’d been here for two weeks. It wasn’t so bad when he was home all day with us.
He’d do my hair. Play chess with me. Read to me. Sometimes he’d teach me Russian. Even though I already knew it. He and Sasha argued too much in Russian for me not to pick it up.
I stood on the windowsill in the old library, my face planted against the cold window, my nose flattened against the glass.
My pigtails hurt my scalp. Sasha attempted it and nearly ripped my scalp off, but now I was scared to pull them out. He might attempt to fix them. My five-year-old head couldn’t handle his hands styling my hair again.
I scratched my scalp, hoping to relieve some of the tightness.
