Page 52 of Savage Beauty

When my father was young, he was nobody. He always told us kids that he’d clawed his way up from the gutter, and his father’s ruthless commitment to crime put the family on the map. I don’t remember my grandfather too well, but I do remember him encouraging our father to beat us harder. Papa believed in coldness and calculated pragmatism and thought love was for idiots. I can believe he would hurt a friend, even going as far as to murder an innocent kid.

Papa spoke of Igor sometimes. Said he lost his edge and became a mob lawyer instead of a pakhan. He never married but did enough favors in his long and ignoble legal career to be elected to lead ourkomissiya. It was believed he had no vested interests in any one family and would, therefore, adjudicate the bratva’s business fairly.

And maybe that was true. Until my father, spiteful coward that he was, made a deathbed confession not to ease his conscience but to drink in the pain of a man he’d known for many years. The grieving father who believed his boy had died in place of me by accident.

But why did Papa make Igor believe I’d helped kill my best friend? I would never—

The memory comes flooding back with painful clarity. My father shouting at me as I headed for the door.

“Sasha! Where are you going, boy?”

“To meet Rocco,” I replied, slowing down but not stopping. I never knew when I would need to make a run for it. “We’re just hanging on by the park.”

Papa put down his paper and glared at me. “Where exactly?”

I swallowed hard. “The south gate, near his house.”

“So if I come and check in ten minutes, that’s where I’ll find you?”

He used to do this sometimes. Demand to know where we’d be and threaten to test us by showing up. It was a pointless power play, as he’d never done it, but Vlad and I were too afraid to defy him. We’d only need to get it wrong once, and we’d be in hell.

I would need to stay in that area for at least an hour, just to be sure, but it would be okay. Rocco liked to laugh at my questionable soccer abilities, and we could kill a lot of time smoking and talking big.

“Yes, Papa,” I said, hating the shake in my voice. “That’s where we’ll be. Just on the street, kicking a ball.”

I left before my father could say anything more.

Papa knew where to find Rocco because he knew where to findme. But it wasn’t like that. I didn’t know what my bastard of a father planned to do or who Rocco really was.

I feel weak and stupid, just like I did as a kid when Papa intimidated me. I sit in the armchair and set my drink on the table, the painful reality of my life suddenly impossible to bear.

My dearest friend died because of me, but not in the way I always believed. The guilt I’ve carried for decades was nothing compared to this. If I’d walked out the door and never said a word, my father wouldn’t have known where to find us that day.

Rationally, I know it wouldn’t have mattered. There would have been other chances to get to Rocco. But onthatday, it was me who made it happen.

Those I love are at risk of destruction, and it’s all my fault. I recklessly revealed my weakness and gave Igor his chance at vengeance.

One way or another, I have to make my beloved family leave. I must convince Vlad to abandon everything he’s worked for and run away. He’s not the kind of man to do that—he won’t let me be anyone’s lackey.

Love set this whole ugly business in motion. My love for Josie and my family is on one side, and Igor’s love for his son is on the other. How could something so beautiful be responsible for such savage chaos?

The maelstrom of agony in my mind suddenly settles, and the solution, elegant yet horrific, becomes all too clear. But I have to lose myself in Josie for a little longer before everything goes to hell.

Just one more night.

36

Josie

When Sasha comes to our room, the concern I’ve spent the whole day trying to deny threatens to engulf me. He looks suddenly exhausted, as though every lousy night’s sleep he ever had caught up with him all at once.

We stood side by side today, shaking people’s hands, accepting blessings, and being gracious hosts. But something has shifted beneath the surface of our lives, and I can’t put my finger on it. After Sasha appeased Tosca, I thought we would be free and could finally embrace a future that had felt like a pipe dream. But now, as Sasha slumps heavily onto the mattress, I’m beginning to doubt everything.

“Sasha.” I roll over to face him. “Is everything okay?”

He turns to me, and there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a shadow that wasn’t there before.

“Of course,zolotse. Everything’s fine.”

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