Midnight Lies (Tasarov Bratva 2)

ADRIK

Curtis Montague is—was, rather—a piece of fucking work.

“Ice sculptures at a funeral?” I mutter to myself as we enter the memorial. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding.”

Emery snorts. “It would be just like him to demand ice sculptures of himself in the shape of a lion. Too bad he was more of a snake.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me close as a cluster of old people admiring the floral arrangements passes by. “Have I told you how glad I am that you’re here?”

“Four or five times.”

“Oh. Well, I’m still glad you’re here,” she says again. “I couldn’t do it without you.”

“You’ll never do anything without me again, kiska,” I murmur.

She smiles up at me, but the smile fades when she catches sight of the life-size oil portrait of her father hanging on invisible wires from the ceiling. “Oh, for crying out loud! He wasn’t royalty. This is absurd.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s understated… distinguished.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t toy with me.”

“I can’t resist,” I reply. “Toying with you is my favorite thing to do.”

She swats at my shoulder, but her other hand is still gripping tightly to mine. It’s been like that since we arrived for the service.

The church is old, gothic. Narrow aisles and uncushioned pews. It was impossible to slip in the back unnoticed. Every footstep and breath echoed off the cold floors and reverberated off the high ceilings.

As soon as we walked in—a few minutes late, on Emery’s request—every eye in the place was on us.

They still are, though Emery doesn’t seem to notice. I refrain from pointing it out to her.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

She shakes her head, but when a server walks past with a tray of tartlets, I practically see saliva spill out of her mouth.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“No,” I say, “you need to eat. Come on.”

“Adrik, no… Let’s stay here. I’m fine. I don’t need—”

I spin around and press my lips to her ear. “Fuck these people. You’re better than all of them. If you’re hungry, we’re going to eat. Come with me or I’ll carry you out kicking and screaming.”

Her breath hitches. For one second, I don't know if she's going to come with me or shove me away.

Then she sighs. “Fine. You win, as per usual.”

“Music to my ears.”

We slip into the food line, and for the first time since we walked into the church, someone approaches us.

"My cousin Racquel. Twelve o'clock," Emery hisses under her breath.

I've already spotted the redhead sashaying in our direction. She's wearing a black wool suit and pearls. She's Emery's age, give or take, but she's dressed like she's seventy.

"Emery," she croons as she approaches. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry about your daddy."

Emery raises her brows, and I know exactly what she's thinking. I’ve never called him “Daddy” a day in my fucking life.

"What a saint," Racquel continues, oblivious. "He'd be so happy you're here. Especially with your…" She glances at me. "Uh, partner."

"My husband," Emery corrects. She loops her arm through mine. "Adrik is my husband."

"Adrik Tasarov. That's right. Well, you sure don't look like a murderer on the run." Racquel laughs almost maniacally. "The rumor mill can be so ridiculous, can't it? Last month, they thought my Randall was cheating on me with Ashlee DuVry. Absurd!" She laughs again, as grating as the first time, and then keeps right on going with her irritating monologue. "Anyway, I don't remember receiving an invitation to the wedding."

"That's because there were no invites," Emery says in a curt, clipped voice.

Racquel's lip curls. "How… original. Was your dad able to be there? He always said how much he missed you. How he hoped you two could reconcile. Which reminds me…” She makes a big show of looking over and around and beneath us before finishing, “Where is your baby?"

"She's six now," Emery answers. "And she's at home."

“Shame. I would have loved to meet her. No one has seen you in years. Six years, I guess.” She laughs, but it’s clear no one else finds it very funny. She looks to me. “Are you the father?”

Emery looks horrified by the question, which makes sense. It’s a disgusting thing to ask someone.

But I’ve stopped being surprised by the impropriety of the so-called “upper class.” When I told Emery we are all monsters, I meant it. The gold and jewels of the wealthy just cover up the rot beneath.

“I am now,” I say before Emery can speak.

“Oh.” Racquel frowns. “So… you are or are not the biological—?”

“Biology doesn’t factor into our relationship.”

Racquel smirks like she’s won some stupid prize. “That must mean you aren’t blood-related, then.”

Emery tenses next to me, but she doesn’t need to worry. This won’t go how she’s anticipating.

“I’ve never understood the importance of bloodlines. I mean, look at the two of you,” I say, gesturing from Emery to Racquel. “You two are blood-related and you’d never know it.”

Racquel frowns, suspicion clouding her face. Some part of her knows that this won’t end well for her. But she can’t help herself—she has to ask. “How do you mean?”

I smile pleasantly, the Tasarov charm dialed up to full effect. “Well,” I explain, “Emery has poise and grace and restraint. And you’re a vile, repulsive bitch.”

Racquel gasps, drawing the attention of a few people nearby. But I just keep smiling. “An absolute delight to meet you, Racquel,” I drawl. I grab Emery’s hand. “Come on, darling.”

As soon as we’re out of earshot, Emery huffs out an amazed laugh. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“You watched me murder a man yesterday morning,” I whisper in her ear. “You shouldn’t be surprised by anything I do anymore.”

“Honestly, that was more ruthless,” she says, hitching a thumb over her shoulder to where Racquel is still fuming. Her face is tomato-red and she’s talking animatedly with an older woman with the exact same shade of auburn hair. Her mother, I’m sure.

“It won’t do much to make you more popular here. I think Racquel is already spreading the news. You married a barbarian.”

Emery rolls her eyes. “Let her. I could care less. Maybe it will distract everyone from the fact that her husband really is fucking the DuVry girl.”

“Is he?” I ask.

“Probably. Randall takes a Flavor of the Month approach to his affairs. The only reason Racquel lies to herself and everyone else about it is because he keeps her in gaudy pearls and sends her on ‘solo meditation retreats’ to resort beaches. Meanwhile, he fucks his way through the phone book in their bed.”

I smirk. “You’re pretty ruthless yourself when you put your mind to it, wife.”

Emery smiles, but doesn’t slow down. She’s purging feelings that have been festering in her for far too long.

“I mean, did you hear her call my dad a saint? Curtis Montague—a saint? The Patron Saint of Uncaring Fathers and Egotistical Bastards maybe,” she snorts. “And he may have told people he wanted to see me, but it was bullshit. The man only cared about himself. He probably secretly liked that I ran away. I’m sure it humanized him, made him a sympathetic character in people’s eyes. ‘Oh, poor Curtis and his wayward daughter.’ Him, everything he said, this godforsaken funeral… It’s all bullshit. Just like the rest of his cursed fucking life.”

She finishes with a heavy exhale.

Then someone nearby clears their throat.

I turn to a petite woman standing next to us—well within hearing range—and instantly know I’m staring at Emery’s mother.

She has the same golden blonde hair, though hers is shot through with white and gray, and the same bright green eyes. The similarities are remarkable.

Emery’s eyes widen. “Mom.”

Her mom lifts her chin. “I’m surprised you came, Emery.”

“Yeah. I mean, I wanted to… He was my dad,” she says meekly.

“That he was,” her mom agrees. “He was your father. No matter how—what did you just call it? Oh, yes—no matter how uncaring and egotistical he may have been.”

Emery winces. “Mom,” she breathes. “I’m sorry—”