Page 16 of Savage Beauty

The man has stopped moaning, blood staining the ground beneath his prone body. Sasha rolls him onto his back and rummages in his pockets, producing a grubby wallet. “So,” he reads the man’s ID, “Carlos. You’re a procurement guy, I take it. Flesh for cash, with perks when you can get them?”

Carlos couldn’t answer if he wanted to. He lifts his head feebly, only to collapse to the ground again. Sasha gets to his feet, giving him a kick as he does so.

“This territory belongs to Tosca,” Sasha says to me, “so this guy does too.” He frowns at the blood on his shirt cuffs and rolls up his sleeves, revealing his tattoos. “It’s a shitty coincidence and one more thing for Sal to be mad about, but I can’t let this fucker live.”

“Because he’ll tell Tosca it was you who beat him?”

Sasha frowns. “No. Because he dared to put his dirty hands on my wife.” He reaches behind him and pulls a small pistol from the holster at his back, leveling it at Carlos’s head. “If you don’t wanna see this, Josie, look away.”

I stand my ground, and Sasha nods, impressed.

“That’s my girl.”

The shot rings out, and Carlos is silenced. Sasha holsters the gun and walks toward me, but as he draws near, my vision swims. My knees buckle, and Sasha darts forward, catching me as I fold to the ground.

“Steady, Josie. I got you.”

11

Sasha

Josie is asleep in bed.Ourbed.

When I got her to the car, she was barely conscious, her arms clutching onto my neck. I didn’t want to let her go, but I had no choice but to drive. So, I gently laid her across the back seat, my concern for her growing with every mile we covered. I checked her over, assuring myself that she was physically unharmed. Deep down, I suspected it was the adrenaline draining from her system that had caused her to collapse.

I sit in the chair beside her, watching as her body rises and falls evenly. She gave me a hell of a scare, running away like that, but I must admit she was doing an excellent job of fighting that fucker off when I got there. My wife has had a rough life, and I don’t want her ever to have to deal with that shit again. I’m not sure what led her to run away from me, but it seems everything caught up with her at once.

I wanted her for myself and didn’t care about the consequences. Now, she’s married to me, trapped in a world where people know about her past. There’s no room for pretense, lies, or hiding, not even from herself.

And for what? Marc Bonneville might have been a complete asshole, but I’m not much better. I hate that she got away from me the first time, so I’m determined to break down her defenses. After all, I’m not accustomed to being rejected. I also relish the challenge of bantering with her, the intellectual sparring she brings into my life. She’s smart and doesn’t back down from me, and that’s a refreshing change I’d love to get used to. Is that enough justification for keeping her in a forced marriage? No, it isn’t. But I can be a selfish bastard when I truly want something.

My wife will beg for my touch. I can keep myself in check until her pretty mouth quits the sass and starts with the pleading. I’ve done it before.

I check my watch.I’m late. Gotta go.

* * *

I leave the suite and stop by the kitchen, collecting a tray of lasagne from the refrigerator.

Josie is still fast asleep, and I’m not taking any chances. I place a quick call and pull one of our guys away from his poker game to keep watch over the house. Gustav isn’t thrilled about it, but he knows better than to protest, and I toss him some extra cash for his trouble. It’s a few blocks walk, so I pull on a heavy woolen overcoat, turning up the collar to keep the wind out.

Lilyana and her twin brother Avel weren’t born until I was eighteen, and Arman wasn’t around then either. Vlad and I were the only kids in the house for years, and my father was preoccupied with my brother. I got out of the house as much as possible, especially if Mama wasn’t around.

Rocco Ginelli became my friend during those times. He lived just a few streets away, an honest working-class kid with a single mom. Our mothers were friends who hailed from the same part of Tuscany, and they would share recipes, cook together, and occasionally go to the movies when they could carve out some free time.

Eventually, some lowlife had a run-in with my father and rashly decided to seek retribution by targeting a Kislev kid. One evening, Rocco and I were hanging near the park when a guy drove past in a loud sedan.

The whole thing happened so fast. In seconds, Rocco was dead on the ground from a bullet meant for me. I could do nothing but shout as the car sped away. Signora Ginelli, his mother, rushed out of her apartment, her apron flapping, and the image of her distraught face as she cradled her son’s lifeless body remains etched in my memory.

Rocco was only sixteen when he died—two years younger than me. That tragedy took place twenty years ago, and during all those years I looked after Signora G, she never once held me responsible for her son’s death.

Signora G never married, and she never said a word about Rocco’s father either. She’s an old woman now and getting kinda dotty, forgetting to do things, getting confused. She refuses to leave her apartment, so I do what I can to help.

I insert the key into the lock and let myself into her building. She’s asleep in her armchair, an electric blanket draped over her knees.

“Madonna!” I exclaim, rushing to flip the switch. “That’s dangerous, you’ll burn yourself!”

Signora G blinks sleepily at me. “Hello, Sasha,” she says. “How’s your mama?”

---