Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles 6)

“Go to bed,” Dinara urged. She too looked exhausted. I was beyond that point. My head felt as if it was filled with cotton candy.

With a wave, Aurora disappeared in the motorhome and after a few minutes the lights went out.

“I wish we could sleep in our bed,” Dinara mumbled.

“Yeah.” I stroked Roman’s unruly head. We’d chosen his name because it worked in Russia and Italy, so we didn’t offend either of our families. “But the rules are the rules.”

Dinara rolled her eyes. “I get it. We all have to sleep uncomfortably to have the same conditions.” Fifteen minutes later, the three of us huddled together in our shared tent. Roman hadn’t woken. I admired him for his ability to fall asleep in a heartbeat and continue to sleep no matter what happened around him. With him between us, Dinara and I fell asleep. This had become a tradition for us. One of us always gave in and drove a bit slower so the other could catch up and we could have family time in the evening. Dinara and I were competitive but we didn’t really race to win. We raced because it was our life.

Dinara’s breathing evened out. She’d fallen asleep with her chin resting against Roman’s head and a peaceful expression on her face. Having Roman had really turned us into our own little family. We’d worried if it would be a problem to keep up our nomad life with a child but Roman never knew another way of living. He loved being fawned over by all the pit girls and getting to ride in all the cool race cars. And since we had him, my brothers and their families occasionally visited camp, even if Dinara and I tried to visit them as often as our tight racing schedule allowed.

Late the next morning, during our second breakfast, Aurora, Roman, Dinara and I sat around our kitchen table in the motorhome together and ate the khachapuri that Dinara had made.

“My father bought a new lodge near Aspen, a bigger one,” Dinara said as she checked her messages on her cellphone. Our main contact to our families during the season was via phone. Dinara saw her father and half-brothers even less frequently than my family. And her contact with Dima was limited to occasional text altogether. She showed me the screen with several photos of a splendid timber lodge.

“The last one was already too big for us. You told him that we won’t add more kids to our family, right?”

“I did, but I think he prefers to ignore it. Once Jurij and Artur start giving him grandkids we’ll be off the hook.”

“That can take a decade.”

“With so much space, we could all celebrate together. A big Falcone-Mikhailov Christmas,” I joked. The Bratva and the Camorra still only tolerated each other. There was no cooperation. Dinara’s and my marriage hadn’t changed that, not that we’d advertised our union. We didn’t want to stir up trouble in Chicago. Over the last decade, we’d established a routine. We celebrated Christmas with my family in December and then we celebrated again with Dinara’s family. Because her father didn’t want me to set foot in Chicago, he’d bought a lodge in Aspen where we could celebrate together and enjoy a ski and snowboarding holiday. It was a compromise that worked well and Roman was ecstatic over getting presents twice.

“I think it’s really cool that you celebrate Christmas twice,” Aurora said. “What do you say, Roman?”

“Yes!” he agreed enthusiastically.

Dinara and I exchanged an amused look. She took my hand under the table, pressing our tattoos together.

Roman clapped enthusiastically as he watched the awards ceremony. Aurora had to hold his hand tightly to stop him from running around.

It was only the second time that I’d managed to win the seven-day-circuit. In the past my constant pee breaks had destroyed any chance at winning, not to mention that Adamo and I often waited for each other in the first few days to spend the night together.

When I stepped on the winner’s rostrum, Roman clapped even harder, beaming all over his face.

Adamo climbed up on the rostrum beside me. He’d finished in third position. I gave him a coy look. So far he was still in the lead when it came to total wins, but I had every intention to catch up with him eventually.

After the ceremony, Roman rushed over to us and threw himself into my arms. I swung him up and he thrust his arms up over his head, as if he too had won. Adamo smiled broadly at me. Despite our competitiveness losing against each other never stung, even if we teased each other mercilessly in the days that followed. The winner always got the bragging rights and the loser promised retribution.

“You beat Dad, Mom,” Roman reminded me, before he turned to Adamo to say in a gravelly voice. “Sorry, Dad.”