Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Strange. Why would he be talking to Ashland? He killed a man last night for disrespecting me, and Ashland’s been the absolute worst.
I keep walking, refusing to linger. This isn’t my business. Is it? But either way, I don’t want to know. I don't want to have to know. Seamus turns then, catching sight of me from across the lawn. Our eyes lock for a second. But he doesn’t come after me. Doesn’t explain. Just nods. A single, dismissive nod.
Like that’s enough.
It’s not.
I head toward the kitchen. Caitlin and I had made plans. Well, I promised her I'd show her how to make pirozhki this morning. Something simple, sweet and familiar.
She’s already busy when I walk in, humming softly to herself, her hands moving with the kind of ease only years of practice bring. She looks up, sees me, and offers a warm, easy smile.
“Good morning, lovely,” she says, placing a mug in front of me, steam curling into the air. “How are you today?”
“I’m good,” I answer automatically. But there’s weight at the end of that sentence, a silent question hanging in the space between us.
She sits beside me. “Here’s your tea. Just like you like it.” Her smile is soft, maternal.
“You know, at home I was always the one who put the kettle on for everyone else.”
She smiles. “Helps, doesn’t it? Listen, I know we don’t know each other very well,” she begins, “but when I moved here, Keenan’s mam, Maeve, was an absolute joy to me. She’s been gone a couple of years now. God, I loved her. She made me feel like I belonged.”
She glances down for a beat, her fingers tightening around her mug. “She was like a mother to me, you know.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I lost mine young,” I manage, my throat tightening with the memory.
“And your sister’s… far, yes? Complicated history?”
“She’s in South Africa,” I reply softly. “We haven’t been close for a while. There’s no problem between us, we’re just distant.”
She nods, gentle, but doesn’t pry. “I don’t want to overstep, love. I just want you to know, I’m here. For whatever you need. You don’t have to do it alone.”
I smile at her, small but genuine. “Thank you. I mean it. I appreciate it.”
I glance away, uncomfortable with how kind she is. “I just… I don’t like that our families are feuding. I don’t like the fighting. I like peace. I hate conflict.”
She raises a brow, grinning. “Yet here you are. Russian Bratva, married into the Irish mob. Sounds like conflict might be our middle names, huh?”
I laugh, in spite of myself. “Apparently.”
She winks and takes a long sip of her tea. “I find it helps if you add a splash of Jack Daniels to the tea. Calms the nerves.”
“For breakfast?”
“Oh, what they don’t know won’t kill them, eh?”
I shake my head, laughing. I sigh. Now it’s my turn to tread carefully. “I don’t want to overstep, but… I think your husband doesn’t like me?”
“Oh, love, no. Keenan and I talk about everything. He keeps nothing from me after all these years. Been married for decades now. Raised all these kids together. And I can promise you, it’s nothing personal. Give him time, love.”
She sighs, nostalgic. “Though it was different for us at first. His dad died the same day we got married. So he took the reins while grieving. He’s been through it, believe me. And it’s worn on him. His health, his mind… it takes a toll running a crew like this.”
I nod. “I imagine it does. Rafail had gray hair before he hit thirty.”
“Rafail’s your oldest brother, aye?”
“Yes,” I say. “He became my guardian when my parents died. He was eighteen.”
She leans in slightly, her voice softer. “If I can tell you anything, Zoya, it’s this: Our pain and our loyalty, that’s what binds us. My husband, he doesn’t dislike you. He wants peace, too, just like you and I do. But he doesn’t agree with how Seamus went about all this.”
“I get that,” I murmur. “So does Rafail. I just wish I could make them talk. It’s like one of those romance novels, where you just scream at the pages, ‘Just talk to each other already!’ But they never do.”
“Romance novels?” she asks with a sparkle in her eye.
I shrug. “My sister-in-law’s obsessed. She gives me all her recommendations.”
“Oh, fascinating,” Caitlin says, grinning. “I read them too. My daughters got me into them.” She winks again. “Now. I’m starving. And I wish I could cook better because, let’s be honest, the way to a man’s heart is absolutely through his stomach, no?”
I laugh. “So they say.”
We pull the first round of pirozhki out of the oven, warm and fragrant. “Sometimes we fill them with sweetened cheese and vanilla, sometimes apple or berry jam, or a poppyseed paste.”