Page 7 of Scarred Redemption

And six fucking days of memories.

Grief to this point was unacceptable in my world. And why? Because it lent itself to making hazardous decisions. I almost laughed at the thought.

The light breeze carried Isabel’s scent, or at least one she’d worn on the last night of passion we’d shared. Night-blooming jasmine, a fragrance that shouldn’t be as intoxicating as it was on a day meant for mourning.

I’d chosen burial as the thought of cremation had been unacceptable. I wasn’t and had never been a religious man, but the sentiment had vanished on the day my wife had been killed over five years before. My family had been Russian Orthodox, my mother very religious, which was the only reason I’d called on a local priest to perform the ritual.

His words hadn’t registered. Not a single one of them. Some would say I was still in a daze, incapable of functioning, but even with almost no sleep, I was still extremely observant. I had to be. Someone was watching, calculating how I’d react and when they could strike again.

Only there was nothing left that mattered to me.

Yes, I cared for my brother, but I knew better than to think my enemy would believe Roman’s death would be the final destructive blow.

The hit on the Dixie mafia over Christmas had sent ripples throughout the entire state. What struck me as fascinating was that the assassinations had been associated with the war the lowlife bikers had started with a powerful cartel out of Mexico and not to anything associated with the Bratva.

Still, the power the southern mafia had curated was a lesson in never underestimating the underdog. They maintained their own brands and strict club rules including the use of hierarchy separate from one another while working together to create a firm hold on the drug channel.

Which was the very reason they were interested in gaining control of the ports within Charleston. They were eager to expand their purchasing power.

I wasn’t certain whether to be incensed, surprised, or furious. What did it matter? I was no fool in that all I’d managed to accomplish was appeasing five minutes of my rage and nothing more.

There were still too many questions, including whether the bastards had been working alone. Or if the scattered rumors they were merely the thugs hired to do the dirty work was something I should pay closer attention to.

Right now, I couldn’t think straight.

“Grant rest eternal in blessed repose, O Lord, to Thy servants Isabel and Mina, who have fallen asleep, and make their memories to be eternal." As the priest closed his bible and lowered his head, I turned away from the caskets, walking toward the bank of trees.

I stopped under a large magnolia where I was able to see everyone who’d come to the funerals. My daughter would be buried alongside her mother, my beautiful Isabel only a few yards away. Maybe to some, my inclusion of another woman I’d loved near my first family was crass, but I knew my Anastasia would approve.

One ornate wooden box was so small, Mina’s tiny body nestled inside. I glanced at the captains who’d attended as required, their expressions stoic.

And Hope, Isabel’s best friend who was hiding her tears with a tissue covering her face. She was also constantly expressing her personal rage against me. With every toss of her head and with every intense eye contact, I could read her mind clearly, including the blame she’d leveled at me.

Then there were the men and women Isabel had worked with, her assistant just as upset.

What struck me was how the only person from Mina’s school in attendance was Sara, the teacher who’d called issuing the warning. Sergei followed my line of sight, moving beside me.

A few of those in power moved closer, some in a group. I stood my ground as expected, waiting for the typical bullshit condolences offered from people who were excited that I was the one suffering for a change.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Maxsim,” the chief of police told me while shaking my hand. Maybe I should consider him a friend as he’d often looked the other way when issues had arisen.

“Thank you. Am I to assume you’re working diligently on locating the persons responsible?”

His sheepish expression wasn’t lost on me. “We’re doing the best we can.”

I closed the distance, lowering my voice so only he could hear what I had to say. “I suggest you don’t forget where your loyalty lies, Nickolas. That wouldn’t bode well for collecting your pension after next year’s retirement.”

He nodded only once. “I’m well aware of my obligations, Mr. Aristov.”

As he walked away, another man approached, equally concerned at my obvious level of anger.

“Please accept my condolences, Mr. Aristov,” Franklin Abbott dared to tell me. “Isabel was such an incredible woman. I know how this hurts.”

“Yes, she was a very special woman. Woe to the people involved with her murder.”

I could smile inwardly seeing his cowardly expression.

As he walked away, Sergei laughed. “A little hard on him, weren’t you?”