Page 138 of Fallen Rook

Chapter Forty

Enzo

It was the longest day of my entire fucking life, and I was running on caffeine, heartbreak, and vengeance.

Spoiler alert—the two last components? Terrible stimulants.

After I’d almost thrown a punch in the face of Tom’s lapdog, a.k.a. Sully, I was finally ushered to Rikers to be properly arrested, met my lawyer, saw a judge, posted bail, and ejected myself back into the world. By then, it was eight thirty in the evening, and even though my brothers were eagerly waiting for me at Lila and Tiernan’s to hear about my clusterfuck of a day, I had one more thing I needed to do beforehand.

I was in love with Thomas Rothwell. I was never going to be with him for a million obvious reasons, but the fact remained that I was never getting over him, either.

I couldn’t marry Katya.

Not only could I not offer her friendship and companionship, but I would not be able to bring myself to put a child in her, something she’d made clear she wanted. It appeared as though only Luca had managed to follow through with a marriage of convenience out of us brothers. And, seeing the state of his marriage, I was hardly eager for a repeat.

We were several months away from the wedding. It was fully paid for, and our families were both clinging to the occasion to fix the impending war like it was the last hit of pure oxygen in an airless space.

And I was going to take it away from them.

I was going to ruin everything, Katya included.

But for once in my life, I was going to put myself first.

The elevator ride to my apartment lasted a lifetime, but by the time I stood in front of the door, I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Katya was on the other side. And, beyond her, the future I’d claimed for myself. I could get locked up tomorrow for all I knew. Forever, this time. And though I didn’t have Tom anymore, and could hardly ever see myself going on queer apps to find someone to hook up with, on a deeper, more fundamental level, I was tired of lying. Of hiding.

Who I was.

Whom I loved.

What I craved.

None of this was by design, by choice, by fault.

Like all humans, I’d been born against my will, into a family not of my choosing, to the burden of a last name I did not know. And, like all humans, I was born with desires, passions, and loves I could not select nor contain.

But these past few weeks, I finally realized who I truly was. And you know what?

I liked that person in the mirror.

I wanted to do right by him.

Exhaling briskly, I pushed the door open.

The lights were off. Katya was sprawled on the couch, the blue hues of dusk highlighting her feminine curves and endless legs. She wore nothing but a sheer white babydoll, the soft fabric pulling at the junction between her thighs.

A hard task had just become impossible.

She was here to seduce me.

Gently, I closed the door behind me, ambling into the room. She held a soft paperback to her face, flicking a page slowly. I didn’t know if she’d heard me. I sank onto the end of the couch, watching this beautiful specimen of a human—cold and regal under the silvery moonlight—and my already battered heart shattered once more. She deserved better than the Ferrante or Rasputin families could ever offer her. Tossed between brothers like a hot potato, forced to negotiate affection, and babies, and fucking ice swan sculptures. She’d done nothing wrong. And yet, once again, she was about to pay the price of being born into the Bratva.

“I do not like love stories.”

Her words startled me. I hadn’t realized she knew I was in the room. Her face was still hidden by the softcover, which I now recognized as a Penguin Classics edition of Wuthering Heights.

“I like romance books well enough, but love stories? Oh, no. Those do not always have happy endings. I can’t bear them, Enzo.” Her voice cracked. “It is bad enough that life is full of heartbreak. Why must literature insist on hurting us, too?”

I’d never met contemplative, melancholy Katya before. Only the sexy vixen version who was playful, daring, and endlessly flirtatious. I wondered who she really was under the babydoll, under the smiling college girl, and all the different facades the pakhan insisted she wore.