Page 39 of Heritage of Fire

Who am I?

We board the private plane, and I show Luna to one of the four seats on the right. She plops down, not saying a word. Igorgives me a knowing smirk while standing at the bar near the rear of the plane. He raises his glass of liquor at me. Flipping him off, I move to the bar and grab a drink for myself, debating on whether I should offer one to Luna.

Luka sits down in one of the chairs surrounding the table and gestures for Igor and me to follow suit. We have security measures to go over before we land. Loyal guards will be waiting for us in Moscow to escort us to Luka’s family property where we stay during our visits. Splinter groups, in distinct opposition to the Bratva, have always been challenging, and they seem to especially love taking advantage when we’re in town.

Luka outlines our schedule. I nod and listen, but find my gaze keeps snagging on Luna, who has pulled out a book. The dust jacket is torn, but she smooths her hand over the front cover reverently.

My fascination continues to grow for this woman who has infiltrated my life and my thoughts so quickly and easily. What kind of life has she lived?

Luna’s fairly reserved, but every so often I get a glimpse of the ball of fire beneath the surface—like when she kissed me during our wedding. Her moments of silent rebellion tug at me. I want to tease and play with her; to know what makes her tick, or how to coax a genuine, gut-wrenching laugh from her.

Lev seems to have an idea. I sneer, toying with the idea of chopping off his hands so he can’t bring her coffee anymore.

After an hour in the air, Luna’s eyes flutter and blink closed. The book she only read a few chapters of, falls to her lap.

A piece of hair falls over her face as her head lulls to the side, and I ball my fist with the desire to sweep it away.

Gritting my teeth, I turn back to Luka and Igor.

Chapter 17

Luna

The decision to come on this trip with Nik was a poor one. I’m not sure what I was thinking. In fact, I wasn’t thinking at all. I wasfeeling.

The idea of being left alone in the warehouse with strange men around didn’t present itself as appealing. Going to my parents’ house to be milked for information about my first few weeks with Nik and the Bratva was even less so. Thinking of the critical remarks my mother would have no doubt made about my clothes and eating habits—I couldn’t do it. There was no way I could subject myself to that.

In the moment, when Nik asked if I wanted to come, a spark of hope had burned in my chest. Maybe hewasn’tburdened by me. Maybe he actuallywantedto spend time with me.

Those thoughts were murdered when he showed me to a seat on the plane and proceeded to ignore me for the entire eleven-hour flight.

When I step off the plane, the thrill of visiting a country I’ve never been to before pumps some much needed adrenaline into my system. I slept like crap, and there’s a terrible pain radiating from my neck down into my left shoulder blade. Any boost of energy feels like a win.

Three black SUVs are waiting for us off the tarmac. The front and back cars are surrounded by men in black uniforms that include bulletproof vests, each of them holding a large weapon. Igor leads us to the middle SUV, and we each load our bags into the trunk. Nik reaches out to take mine.

“I got it,” I say. My mouth tastes like sawdust and I’m pretty sure my breath stinks.

As I lift my bag, Nik’s arm brushes mine. My hair there prickles and goosebumps sting my arm where he touched me. He tosses his luggage in with everyone else’s before yanking mine from my grip. I stand there, mouth parted, unable to equate the gentle brush of my arm with the irritated way he grabbed my carry-on. Glaring at him, I watch as he shoves my bag on top of his.

“Get in the car, Luna.”

Goodness,heisgrumpy.

I nod, obeying the command, and march over to pull open a door. Igor is driving, and Nik gets into the passenger seat. Luka and I are in the back. Which isn’t awkward at all.

Leaving the airport, I lean closer to the window to take everything in.Moscow is vast, and the way the city’s modern infrastructure and rich history mesh together is breathtaking. Historic Russian architecture and modern skyscrapers blend together. A river runs along the highway, and I follow it with my eyes as we move through the city.

“The Moshva River.” Luka’s voice startles me. It’s gritty and rough. Full of authority. Oddly enough, it reminds me of my grandfather. Although, that old man is incapable of saying a single kind word. Everything is displeasing and everyone is out to get you. According to him, that is.

I nod at Luka’s piece of information, wishing I wasn’t so culturally inept. My family rarely traveled, and when my grandparents visited Italy, they only brought Antonio and myfather. The families were never allowed to come. They were too worried about someone snatching one of us in order to us to extort the Cosa Nostra.

Beautiful scenery continues to usher by as our caravan of cars heads out of the city. Nik’s voice cuts through the silence in the vehicle. The timbre ofhisvoice is softer, but not lacking dominance.

“The Morozov family property is located north of Moscow, in Sergiyev Posad.”

Nik doesn’t say anything else, and after three hours of driving, we finally pull onto an elaborate country estate. Large flower gardens, greenery, and trees surround a sprawling house with marvelous architecture, including gabled roofs and other stately ornamental details.

The cobblestone driveway leads to several large garage spaces, though our SUVs pull right up to the main entrance, undera porte cochere. Staff members come out to greet us and take our bags while security files out from the other two vehicles.

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