Death?
Murder.
I turn off the shower and dry off, then I take my things back to the locker room to get dressed. I pull on my suit since I’ve got a meeting with another bratva leader concerning a place of business he wishes to buy from Demyan. I’ve been given the green light, depending on what my instincts tell me.
I head out, getting in my car and then driving to the mansion. The highway is a time to relax because the drive’s against traffic, out of Chicago’s center while everyone else comes in.
Guilt eats at me over Alina, over Max.
I hadn’t been near to stop it, but maybe I should have been.
Seeing Alina pick up the pieces and retain her innocence, rebuild from her personal devastation to become stronger, is something to behold.
But the sadness still clings to her.
And I hate that.
I liked Max. He would have done right by her, and he worshiped her.
As long as Angel, as Demyan calls her, is happy, then I am too. And her bouts of sadness, the loss she still feels… It hurts me. Because it hurts her.
I don’t know how else to explain it.
I’m not Demyan. I’m not a man who has the walls that Demyan had before he met Erin. I’m not rigid in the ways hestill is. But while I understand feelings, I don’t know how to reach across and heal hers.
My own feelings for her are…complicated. Maybe they always have been, but she was too young, and then she met Max. Even with my crush, I had to acknowledge that he loved her.
Max is gone, but his ghost haunts her.
And I’d love to be the magic potion, the thing that lifts her free, gives her a taste of a new life, new love, new happiness.
Not with me, of course. I’m not a forever guy, not for a girl like Alina. But to be the one to help her transition would be an honor.
And a pipe dream.
Demyan trusts me to watch his sister, keep her safe. And he knows we have a bond and isn’t bothered by it because that bond is pure. It’s based on friendship.
Or so Demyan thinks.
And it is. To a point. As I said… the feelings are complicated, and if he thought for one second that sparks of lust existed inside me for his sister, that my feelings weren’t strictly platonic, then…
That would be a different story.
Fuck, Demyan probably wouldn’t let me near the mansion, not without ten armed guards watching Alina.
My phone rings, and I hit the button on the dashboard to answer.
“This is Belgrada, Belgrada, Smith Law firm. I’m Jordan Smith. Is this Mr. Ilya Belov?”
I frown. “If you’re calling my number, then you know who you’re talking to.”
The woman doesn’t laugh. “I’m an estate lawyer. I’m requesting a meeting with you, Mr. Belov. It’s of the utmost urgency.”
“Can it wait?” I flick a glance at the time.
My meeting isn’t for a while, but I’ve got a lot to do this morning, and an estate lawyer’s idea of urgent and mine are vastly different.
“When I say urgent, I mean urgent. I need you to come in now.”
