Page 117 of Forsaking All Others

“M-maksim As-aslanov,” he groaned.

I stood up and moved away, making eye contact with Ciro, who slowly lifted one shoulder.

No.

I shook my head.

So many signs pointed to the Russians as our number-one enemy, and many in the Outfit believed it. In other cities the Bratva and Mafia were constantly at war, but in Chicago, for the past two decades, there had been a tentative peace.

Because Maksim Aslanov had taken over as Pakhan.

And Maksim would never do anything to hurt Dario.

It would have disrespected the memory of his sister too much.

The sister that had loved Dario enough to risk her life every time she went to him.

I hadn’t known her well, hadn’t cared to, but the way she lit up Dario from the inside out, as if spending time with her was like swallowing sunlight, had left a lasting impact. I had never seen my twin like that, before or since.

I wasn’t inclined to trust anyone, but it just seemed too neat, all the arrows pointing to Bratva.

It would be so easy to plant them, even easier to think we would take the bait given the infamous tension between our two syndicates.

But very few people knew about the history between Dario, Maksim, and Ksenia.

They couldn’t know Dario and I trusted Maksim more than we trusted almost anyone else, even in our own Outfit.

The loss of a loved one was a powerful bonding agent.

And both men had never gotten over Ksenia’s.

Love to the grave was tattooed on Dario’s back, and so it was tattooed on mine. We traded ink but always matched without qualm. I also had the leaping rabbit tattooed on my wrist, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant.

All I knew was that Dario had called her coniglietta.

Little rabbit.

I’d often wondered since Fiammetta came into our lives if Dario’s dead heart would reanimate under the shock of his wife’s loveliness as days passed and turned into weeks and months and years. I detected a softening, only when I watched them together, never one he would have admitted, indirectly or out loud.

If he could love anyone again, I thought it would be Fia.

I wasn’t capable of such a thing. I had been born without the essential programming. There was no one in my life I loved. I felt duty and loyalty to my parents, something deeper but still honor bound for Dario.

What was love? I’d always thought, if not an infection of the heart, a delusional madness that made you think one person could make your life worth living.

I thought of the many hours I’d watched Fiammetta, like an astronomer mapping stars, who knew she would never be his to hold.

If that was love, maybe I understood it better than I’d ever thought I could.

The idea slid like ice through my veins.

“Why don’t we try that once more?” I suggested to Joey as I flicked on the torch again and approached. “I think you are a terrible liar, Joey, and your pants are about to catch fire.”

The sound of his screams pierced the entire basement, and I was grateful it was soundproofed because Fia should be sleeping by now. It had been hours since the shooting, and I expected the adrenaline crash to take her out.

But maybe the basement door had been left open and the bloodcurdling screams and sobbing cries for mercy led her into the basement like a macabre siren’s song.

I sensed her presence the way I always did, an animal recognition that made my heart beat faster in my throat and my skin grow tight.