Fractured Souls (Perfectly Imperfect #6)

“Good. I’ll go get my phone so you can make that list for me, but first, let’s have some breakfast. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I follow him around the kitchen as he puts the kettle on to boil and takes out the bread. He spreads the marmalade methodically, making sure it’s evenly distributed over the whole slice.

There is a multitude of small scars that cover his knuckles. His hands and fully inked arms seem at odds with the posh, almost clinically impeccable surroundings. I take the opportunity to inspect his face a bit better, including his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, noticing a few scars on his forehead and several more on his chin, too. Finally, I peer at his eyes. I can’t make out their color, however, since he towers over me by at least a foot.

Pasha stops what he’s doing and looks down at me. Why are his eyes so sad? I let go of his T-shirt and place my palm over his forearm. The muscles under my fingers tense, and I expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t.

I tighten my hold on him and lean into his side to get closer to the warmth of his big body. The faint sound of music reaches me. Someone, a neighbor probably, must have turned the TV too loud, and without thinking about it, I hum along to the tune.

Asya is bundled under the covers. I gave her an extra blanket when she wouldn’t stop shivering earlier. She is asleep now, while I’m still awake, listening to her breathing.

She was okay this morning, but after lunch she got sick, and we barely managed to get to the bathroom in time. I held her hair while she emptied her stomach into the toilet, then helped her brush her teeth and carried her to the bed. Her fever spiked again, but it wasn’t as bad as it was the first time. I don’t have a thermometer, so I kept pressing the back of my hand to her forehead every five minutes, but it seemed like her temperature was only slightly elevated. The fever broke an hour ago, and she finally stopped tossing in bed.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand and type a message to Kostya, asking about the situation at the clubs. A minute later, I receive the reply—a bunch of Russian curses and wishes for my slow and painful demise. Apparently, he’s not happy about having to fill in for me.

When I called the pakhan earlier today and asked for a few days off, I suggested having Ivan take over. Roman laughed and said he’d give the clubs to Kostya because it was time for him to start doing actual work instead of only chasing women and burning rubber on a regular basis.

Kostya started working alongside his brother, helping with the Bratva finances when he was barely twenty, but he’s always been a problem child. Roman has a soft spot for him, though, since Kostya’s the youngest in the inner circle. I guess we all do. Kostya is like everyone’s little brother, and he shamelessly uses that to his advantage, constantly getting off the hook because of his age. Hopefully, he won’t get any crazy ideas while he’s filling in for me. If he decides to transform my clubs into strip clubs, I’m going to strangle him.

Asya stirs next to me, and I quickly feel her forehead. No fever, thank fuck. When I pull my fingers away, she grabs my hand and lays it on her chest. It looks like I’ll be sleeping in the same bed with her again. I sprawl out next to her and watch her face. I kind of understand her reasoning for not letting me call her brother, but then again, I don’t understand it at all. Wouldn’t it be easier for her to be back home with her family? I’ve never experienced family dynamics, but I’m sure her brother and sister would do a much better job than me.

I reach out and turn off the lamp, closing my eyes. But sleep evades me. How did Asya end up in Chicago? Who are the people who took and kept her? Is there a connection to Fyodor’s daughter? I have so many questions and zero answers.

Tilting my head to the side, I watch Asya’s sleeping form. She’s still clutching my hand in her own. I need to buy groceries first thing in the morning. I can’t have her eat bread and marmalade three days in a row. I need to get some toiletries for her, as well. And clothes. But I kinda like her in my T-shirts.

A brown strand of hair has fallen over her face, so I reach out and carefully move it. Why did I let her stay?

Chapter 4

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Gray jeans and a black T-shirt are lying folded on the counter next to the sink. They disgust me. I don’t recall how long it’s been since I’ve worn jeans, probably more than a decade.

It’s not the garments themselves that are the problem, but rather the memories of digging through heaps of discarded clothes, mostly jeans, trying to find something that fit. Everything was always torn and dirty, and I didn’t have the money for laundry before putting them on. People avoided me when I took the subway, making my shame nearly palpable.

The moment I started earning serious money through underground fights, I traded in my entire secondhand wardrobe for slacks and dress shirts. Eventually, I switched to suits. As time went on, I switched to more upscale clothes and added expensive watches and other accessories. It was all a means to forgetting what I had been for the first twenty years of my life. Trash. Someone from whom people would quickly turn away, ignoring my presence. The funny thing is, even though it has been nearly fifteen years, I can still smell the stench, whether from the clothes or the half-rotten food I dug out of the dumpsters in alleys behind restaurants, that always surrounded me.

I look at my face in the mirror, regarding the small scars scattered across my temples, the bridge of my nose, and my chin. They are faded now, barely noticeable, but I can still recall the fights that left me with each mark. I’m not even sure how many times my nose has been broken. Seven? Probably more.

I was barely eighteen when I started fighting for money. At first, it was a way to put food in my mouth, but as time passed, it transformed into something else. The people who came to watch, who chanted my name . . . they fed the deep yearning I’ve always felt in my soul. The need to belong. Somewhere. Anywhere. The excitement of the crowd as it cheered for me, made me feel less alone.

I’m not exactly sure why I said yes when Yuri approached me after one of my fights and offered me a position in the Bratva. Maybe I wanted to feel closer to my heritage. There weren’t any Russian kids in the foster homes when I was growing up. By the time I aged out of the system, I had almost forgotten my mother tongue. Years with the Bratva helped me regain it, so I have no trouble with the language anymore. But it’s not the same. It no longer feels like my first language, but neither does English.

I trace the more prominent scar on the left side of my jaw with my index finger. No matter how hard I try to hide the past, some reminders, visible or not, will always remain.

Is that why I let Asya stay? Maybe, I recognized a kindred spirit trying to outrun the past and wanted to help. After all, I know how it feels to not have anyone to turn to. But I’m afraid that it’s only part of the reason. My true motivation is much, much more selfish. I’ve been alone all my life and have gotten used to it. It’s the way I function. But after Asya stumbled onto my path, I realized how lonely I’d been and how much I enjoy having her here, in my home. I relish the comfort her presence brings me. Crave it, in fact, so much so that I agreed to hide the reality that she’s alive from her family.

I reach out and pick up the jeans. It’s one of five pairs I ordered online yesterday after I realized the effect suits had on Asya. I can’t keep walking around in my pajamas all day, and I definitely can’t wear them out to the store.

Taking a deep breath, I put on the jeans.

At least fifteen bags line the counter in a perfect row. Pasha bought way too much stuff.

When he returned from the store an hour ago, he had to go back to the car twice to bring everything up. After he placed the last bag at the end of the long line, he asked me to put away the groceries he brought and to make lunch. Then, he took his laptop and, saying he has some work to do, disappeared into his bedroom.

I unpack the groceries from the first bag, leaving the things I need for lasagna on the kitchen island and storing the rest. I should have been more specific with my grocery list. I assumed he’d get whatever brand of pasta or tomato sauce he comes across first, but instead, he must have purchased every kind available in the store. There are four different brands of lasagna noodles, three tomato sauces, six types of other pasta, and at least ten varieties of cheeses inside the first few bags.

I pull the cereal boxes from the next three bags and count them. There are twelve different kinds: oats, soya, wheat, some with dried fruit or raisins, one is with honey, others include chocolate, and a couple more with almonds.