The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

I continued my trek to the car, unable to glance at the kennel where I’d returned Khaos this morning, but I knew he was sitting outside watching me. I’d break down if I had to say goodbye to him. I wished I could take him with me, but I didn’t have a clue where I was even going, let alone if I’d be able to take care of him properly.

A single tear slipped down my cheek then and now, while I watched snow turn to mud through the car window. I wiped it away knowing if I let the tears fall, they’d never stop.

Ronan was unnaturally quiet, running a thumb across his bottom lip and watching the scenery pass by. I wondered if he cared he was devastating my life by murdering my father. My papa’s actions may be unconscionable—and unforgivable—but Ronan wasn’t his judge and jury. I wondered if Ronan cared at all that this would be the last time he’d ever see me. By his indifference, I couldn’t believe I was even in his thoughts.

Maybe I was just a fleeting amusement that had already passed. So many insecurities and fears wreaked havoc on my mind. Nothing made sense in this state—with my chest squeezed tight in terror of what would happen when this car came to a standstill.

To find some relief from my thoughts, I asked, “Is my papa still married?”

“Da.”

“What’s she like?”

“As far as I can remember, she’s agoraphobic and addicted to coke,” Ronan answered without looking at me.

Oh. She sounded nice. Though maybe she had some trauma from my papa’s lifestyle as well.

“How many siblings do I have?” I continued.

“Three brothers.”

“Will they be there today?”

“Adrian and Dimitri probably. Dima’s in prison.”

When I imagined having a family, it never occurred to me they’d be mobsters. I guessed I should have lowered my expectations when I thought of magical family Christmases. I’d jinxed myself.

Ronan traded Russ

ian words with Albert. I only caught the smallest pieces of the conversation, but by their serious tones, it was clear they were discussing details of the trade. It should be fairly simple, I thought. Swap me for my papa. Though the more they spoke, as if they were preparing for the worst, the colder my blood grew.

We took a turn off the road and into an empty plot of land occupied by a couple of worn silos. Two black cars were parked on the far side of the area, their windshield wipers flicking back and forth. My heart ricocheted in my chest as mud sloshed beneath tires.

When we pulled to a stop, Ronan finally turned to me. He unzipped my coat and slipped a roll of cash into the inside pocket. Turning on my phone, he handed it to me. I watched him with a serene feeling as he zipped my coat back up like I was a child.

He didn’t say anything to me, and the pain splitting my chest overrode my fear of anything else. Before he could open the door, the heartache escaped my lips with a desperate breath.

“Proshchay.” The word sounded soft, but its meaning held a poignant note. It meant goodbye forever.

Fingers on the door handle, Ronan watched me for a long second. I could practically see D’yavol rising to the surface of his eyes. Soulless sophistication.

When he didn’t respond, my throat tightened. He had to say something. He had to let me know this—I—meant something to him. I deserved the words, or I knew they would haunt me forever.

“Aren’t you going to say it too?”

“Nyet.” The reply was so cold, its ice burned the backs of my eyes, sending a single tear down my cheek. It wasn’t until he watched it fall that I noticed the tightness in his shoulders; the turmoil he hid so well behind Giovanni.

A rough thumb wiped the tear away. “Ya ne govoryu togo, chego ne imeyu v vidu.”

Then he opened the door and stepped out, gesturing for me to follow. I did without a word, my thoughts too chaotic to muse on what he said.

I stayed close to Ronan as doors slammed shut and men filed out. I knew Victor drove another car that had followed us here. I’d hoped it was just a precaution and not because we were going to war. I’d be a sitting duck in my bright yellow coat.

Six men stood across from us, my papa and Ivan taking the center. My papa wore a gray tweed suit I’d bought for him last year. The silver in his hair was more pronounced than I remembered, but nothing else seemed to have changed. He still looked like the papa I’d always known and loved.

Though when my eyes met his, pictures of the child he’d tortured flipped through my mind. Then the faceless girls he’d trafficked. And the memory of my mother lying dead on our library floor.

“Papa, your friend . . . is she my mother?”