Wreckless Intentions

  Wreckless Intentions

  The Russian Engagement Series

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  Copyright © 2018 by K. Marie

  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Cover Design and Book Formatting by Yellow Prelude Design, LLC

  www.yellowpreludedesign.com

  Dedication

  First, I’d like to start by saying there are several extraordinary people in which dedication is much deserved. I have received so much support from so many unexpected places since the release of my first book. Alas, I thought it only appropriate that I dedicate this book to the two people who have consumed all of my waking thoughts the past three years. Also, who have managed to forge their way permanently into my heart and make me believe in magic.

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  So, to Camry and Garland, I dedicate this book to you.

  Acknowledgments

  If anyone has ever said writing a book is easy, they’ve never written a book. Being able to create a story in your head, make it come alive on the pages; and then get to share it with others, is such a joy and a blessing. But, it is not necessarily a solo endeavor. Since the release of my first book, Wreckless Engagement, I’ve been honored to have met some truly wonderful people. This book couldn’t have happened without their continued support.

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  First, I’d like to say a special thank you to my husband, for always being so supportive in everything that I do, and for being so tolerant and patient of all the time spent apart when I’m locked away in my writing cave. To Amanda Cuevas, I’d like to extend a special thank you for all of your positivity and encouragement along the way. Also, for your eagle eye, colorful language, and outstanding grasp of proper grammar; you are such a Godsend. To Sandra Hearn, who has offered her continued support from all the way across the pond, thank you, for all that you do. You’ve helped to make both my books a success, you’ve taught me the indie author ropes on Facebook, and you always make me laugh uproariously during our chats. To Stephanie Sobchak of Yellow Prelude Design, LLC, thank you for your creativity in making such awesome book covers, and for helping me to get my labor of love in front of the eyes of readers. Last, but not at all least, I’d like to send a very special, very loud shout-out to my readers, for without you, my stories would fall on deaf ears.

  Contents

  Wreckless Intentions

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon!

  1. The Hitmom

  About the Author

  Connect with K. Marie

  Wreckless Intentions

  The Russian Engagement Series

  “Strong reasons make strong actions.”

  - william shakespeare

  One

  G A R L A N D

  * * *

  Moscow…two weeks earlier

  “Who put the Boy Band back together?” Sergei cracked, as soon as I’d stepped off the plane at Vnukovo Airport. I was followed by Viktor and five more of my men, hence the Boy Band joke.

  “I thought you’d be in a wheelchair by now, those old decrepit bones still holding you up?” I replied in Russian, walking the short distance across the tarmac to where he and the cars were waiting.

  When I reached him, I embraced the wiseass who was my father’s oldest and most trusted comrade—his right hand for as long as I could remember. Sergei Novikov was also my Krestnyy otets. My godfather.

  “The two of you shouldn’t stay away so long, us old guys won’t be around forever,” he complained while clapping me on the back. After he’d repeated the same with Viktor, we piled into the cars and were on our way.

  It did in fact, seem forever since I’d last touched down on this very tarmac, I hadn’t been to Russia—my home, in almost a year. Not necessarily by choice, but by circumstance. Everything had changed drastically for me since I’d last visited, yet, everything here remained the same.

  As we traveled down the highway, I soaked in everything with my eyes—familiar sights that I had seen countless times before and was struck with an instant sense of nostalgia. Home. The place I’d lived most of my life. I naturally felt a sense of belonging, yet, I quickly realized home wasn’t really a place at all, but more of a feeling. And I’d left all of those feelings back in Miami about twelve hours ago. That was my home, wherever my wife, daughter, and newborn son were.

  The wife who barely spoke to me nowadays. I reminded myself.

  Even still, Camry hadn’t been happy with me leaving. It was unavoidable, but if everything went according to plan, I’d be back home in a couple of days.

  After traveling about ten miles north of the airport and fifteen miles west of Central Moscow, we entered the suburban District of Odintsovsky. Surrounded by a zone of pine forest on the south bank of the Moscow River, the small affluent village where I’d spent many of my summers as a boy looked unchanged. When I was younger, the village had served as second homes to many of its residents; known as Dachas. Though, due to their ever-increasing massive sizes, these particular homes would later be termed cottages. Not to get them confused with the American concept of a cottage. These cottages—many of them, were nearly mansions owned by some of Moscow’s wealthiest residents and ranged anywhere from four-thousand to twelve-thousand square feet in size and were situated on large plots of forested land. Many of them, contained such luxuries as indoor swimming pools, saunas, theatres, bowling alleys, basketball courts, and much, much more.

  As with most residents, apartments near Central Moscow was home. With the perpetually gridlocked highways and streets, making the trek from the suburbs to the city for work or anything else would require hours spent in traffic. In that way, it was much like New York. Many New Yorkers who worked in the city but lived in the suburbs also maintained apartments in Manhattan if they could afford them. My parents had lived in the apartment located on Ostozhenka Street for as long as I could remember—nowadays, though, they seemed to be spending more time in the suburbs.

  The sizeable yellow-brick house in which I’d grown up in, hid behind a stand of trees as we approached but gradually came into view as the car made its journey up the long, curving driveway. By the time the car had stopped, and everyone climbed out, my mother stood waiting on the brick-pavered walkway.

  “You’re finally here!�
�� she greeted joyfully, eyes shining with unshed tears. A surprised squeak left her mouth a second later when I lifted her in my arms and twirled her around, before smacking a sound kiss on her soft cheek. It was our tradition.

  “Mi corazón, still strong and handsome,” my mother sang in delight, once I’d set her back on her feet.

  My heart. It’s what my mother always called me in Spanish. Even after nearly thirty years in Russia, my mother still hadn’t fully adopted the language. She knew it fluently, of course, but had stubbornly refused to let go of her Spanish-American roots completely.

  “Mi príncipe,” she sang next, moving to embrace Viktor. He was her prince; neither of us had outgrown the childhood names in which we’d been given.

  “Come, your father is in his study on a business call, so you can go ahead and get settled in first,” my mother told us, leading the way inside the house.

  All of us would be staying here tonight—as the house had five bedrooms and there was a guest cottage out back. It was my mother’s dream to fill the house with more children eventually, but sadly, it wasn’t to be.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I stood out on the terrace at the back of the house, having come out here to escape the boisterous atmosphere inside. Happy to have her son home—as well as a house full of people, my mother had prepared a feast. She’d never fully adopted the traditional Russian recipes, which meant the American’s sitting around the table were unquestionably thankful for the prime rib, salmon, lamb, and chicken that was laid out in plentiful supply. Contrary to common belief, not all Russians served nor consumed Borscht; I personally hated it.

  Descending the few stairs that put me at ground level, I followed the stone path across the vast stretch of the yard that led to the maze of spruce trees towards the rear of the property. My father had always valued both space and privacy; and in that, we were both the same. He’d purchased the two tiny cottages that sat on these three acres of land, demolished them, and had the current one built. I reflected fondly on the many games of football—America’s soccer, and other sports that I, Viktor and some of my childhood friends had played here. Glaringly absent from those games was my father. Romanovich wasn’t the kind of father to coach his son’s football or ice hockey teams. He was a businessman and therefore always too busy for such things. Though, I’d give him credit for showing up to over half the games.

  When I reached the stand of spruce trees, I veered left, walking another hundred feet before stopping in front of the brick guest cottage with white painted trim. It was a small two-bedroom house and more in keeping with a traditional American cottage. The lights were already on inside because a couple of the guys would be sleeping there tonight, but, I made no move to enter. The small cottage held a lot of memories for me, some good, some bad. I had no idea why I’d come here.

  Turning my head to the right, my eyes landed on one of the birch trees that bracketed the cottage on both sides. Its thin white trunks stood out starkly against the dense green backdrop of spruce trees surrounding them, but one stood out in particular. My feet briefly hesitated before trudging over to it. Lifting my hand, I ran fingers across the cold, rough surface, tracing the irregular but defined shape of a heart. G & Z 4 Ever. It was carved there eighteen years ago. Zina and I met as teens and had an on-again-off-again relationship. I was home for a holiday from university when the heart got carved, but recall we'd broken-up two months after. Both of us were young, and for a young man on a university campus full of willing, pretty girls, I’ll admit I wasn’t ready to commit myself to just one.

  Closing my eyes, I inhaled a deep breath of the breezy, night air that carried the scents of pine and early spring. Finally, I forced myself to remember what I had spent years trying to forget. I remembered the many stolen moments, the laughter, the fights, and the anger. I remembered the days spent in agony as I grieved; shutting myself out from the world, wishing I were dead as well. So many memories from so long ago assaulted me one-by-one, but when I finally opened my eyes to stare at the tree—at that heart with its inscription, I felt mildly puzzled.

  I didn’t feel the same sharp, agonizing pain that I did before—that I’d expected. The pain was there, but it felt further out of reach; like a dull, hollow thrum that floated just underneath the surface. Like a locked away memory.

  Had I locked it away so effectively or was the adage true? Did time truly heal all wounds?

  The memories were still there; of course, those would never leave. However, they were fainter now.

  At the sound of earth crunching underneath shoes behind me, I turned to see my mother; her petite frame wrapped in a long red sweater that fell almost to her knees. She came to stand next to me and wrapped her arm around my waist, leaning her head against my ribcage.

  “I knew I’d find you here,” she said softly.

  We remained in silence a moment; a comfortable, quiet settling around us as each of us steeped ourselves in memories of a tragic past.

  “Not a day goes by I don’t think of them,” she murmured, turning her head to look up at me. “But, I know that they are both in a better place; it is you I now worry over. You still haven’t forgiven yourself; you must do that if you ever intend to find peace.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible. Perhaps I don’t deserve ever to have peace.”

  My mother dropped her arm from around my waist and turned to glare at me. “If God did not want you to have peace, he wouldn’t have blessed you with another wife and child!” she scolded fiercely. “As much as you’d like to accept blame, what happened was not your fault—it was the work of evil, you had no control over it. You’ve been given another chance to be happy; take it—it’s what God wants,” she stubbornly insisted.

  My mother was raised as a devout Catholic, she believed God to be the answer for everything. I stopped believing in God nine years ago.

  “I am happy,” I told her, meaning every word. “And though I no longer believe in your God, I do recognize that I’ve been given a second chance…I don’t intend to squander it.”

  My mother studied me quietly, woefully, before giving a nod of acceptance. “That you were finally able to move on means you’re healing. It’ll take some time, but I know in my heart, you will one day be whole again with God. He is forgiving and won’t hold it against you,” she stated as fact.

  No matter the level of adversity, Florencia Vidov’s faith never wavered. And with her marrying a man like my father, that was saying something. They came from two completely different worlds; that the two of them ended up together spoke of fate.

  “We’d better get back to the house, your father is looking for you,” she said on a sigh. “However, you can use the walk back to tell me what my handsome grandson’s been up to since you sent the last video,” she added with a beaming smile, threading her arm through mine.

  Now, that’s a topic we could both smile over.

  Though Sergei was my godfather and we’d always had a good relationship, I never really cared much for his son, Anatoly. Simply put, he was an asshole with a self-important sense of entitlement that he’d not earned. He was five years younger than I, so we’d never really hung-out growing up—I mostly saw him at family functions and on holidays. Which, was more than plenty. Why he had been included in this meeting today was beyond me. The man’s a moron.

  “I can go in there and handle the buy; I’ve got experience--I’ve done it several times before, and they have no idea who I am,” the idiot was saying. Well, more like blustering.

  “We’re not dealing with the variety of common thugs you’re used to doing business with, Anatoly, these men are ex-military; experienced hardened criminals,” his father objected.

  “I can handle myself; I’ve dealt with many dangerous men, I’m considered a dangerous man myself,” the fool bristled in insult.

  I had to stop myself from snorting a laugh, though, nothing about this was funny. Anatoly reminded me of Fredo from “The Godfather”; he was undoubtedly m
aking a damn good impression of him. He was dangerous alright, stupid, reckless men always were

  “We’ll stick with the original plan to send Griegor in as the sole negotiator. We don’t make a move until the target is confirmed as present; otherwise, we play our hand and risk losing him again. His contact, Sam, changed the meeting place once already, which signals they're cautious,” Romanovich stated decisively.

  Fredo’s mouth turned down with displeasure, a sullen look washing over his face. Tough shit, he wasn’t calling the shots here.

  Though his and my father had been friends and had worked together for over thirty years, Romanovich was the boss of the organization. The Pakhan, though no one ever used that term anymore. After taking over for his former mentor, my father had built the organization into what it is today. Sergei was his acting second in command—a sort of jack of all trades when necessary; his Sovietnik, the Italian mafia’s equivalent to a Consigliere. However, I was officially my father’s second in command; even when not here I hold that title, that’s never in dispute.