Taken by the Bratva Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance by Sarina Hart

Author:Sarina Hart [Hart, Sarina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-08-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Olivia

I didn’t know Maxim. I only ever saw him once, but he died for me, and I can’t not go to watch him be laid to rest.

The cemetery is guarded by men with big, visible guns. It’s not often every family in the Bratva is at the same place at the same time. It happens at weddings and funerals. And that makes these events the most dangerous, a prime target for enemies.

I’ve never met most of these people, but I know who they are. They are the prominent and less Russian families, some scary with their scars and their shoulder holsters that bulge from under their suit jackets. The women are veiled with hats and gloves. The children are miniature outfitted versions of their parents.

The little boys standing on either side of their mother are stoic, quiet, as she dabs her eyes then drops her hands on a shoulder each. Her fatigue is like a layer of her, one the world can see, much like her eye shadow and her lipstick.

Leon is beside me, and Anna is at home with another new nanny. She’s seen enough death in her short life. There just wasn’t a need to force her to sit through a long church service and burial at the cemetery.

He’s quiet, maybe praying, but also tense. Almost angry, and I want to ease it for him. I want him to know someone understands what it’s like to lose a friend, what it feels like to watch a priest bless a coffin where his friend is lying.

Instead of speaking, I brush the back of his hand with the back of mine and then wait. It takes a couple seconds before he curls his little finger into mine and hangs on long enough for me to absorb a bit of his heat before he moves away.

When the service is over, he stays long enough to speak to a few men from the families, then he walks in the opposite direction of the car. I don’t know whether or not to follow or to give him a minute. He walks a few rows down, turns, and continues on.

His head stays up, and his shoulders stay back, but his gait is without its usual confident stride. The curiosity draws me, and I follow him to the minute he stops. I move to stand beside him.

Ekaterina Krilova. Sergei Krilov. United in love for Eternity and beyond.

His parents. This time, I take his hand, hold it, give it a squeeze, and he looks down at me.

“My father was killed in an explosion.”

“I’m so sorry.” For a second, he is a lost little boy, his eyes dark with sadness, his frown deep. I want to make him feel better. I want to hold him and let him get it all out. I’ll probably just stand here and listen, but I want… so much more.

“It was… he was… I don’t know.” He shakes his head and looks down but squeezes my hand.

I know about words and

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