Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1) (6 page)

He had never shunned her.

Not like this.

Violet took a deep breath, hoping it would calm her nerves.
She again smoothed out her hair and swiped her thumbs under her eyes. Stepping
forward, she raised her hand and knocked on the oak doors hard enough that she
knew it would be heard within.

Silence answered her knock.

She didn’t knock again. Instead, she waited like she knew
her father expected her to do. Her back straightened a little more as minutes
ticked by, and tears started to well in the corners of her eyes when yet
another couple minutes passed in total silence.

Alberto’s message was clear: she was not worthy of his time
or attention, not yet.

Her father’s lesson was being learned, if the shame
compounding in her heart was any indication.

By the time the doors finally opened to expose her mother,
Andrea, standing behind them, Violet had been left waiting for fifteen long
minutes.

Yeah, she had counted.

“Ma,” she greeted quietly.

Andrea raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow as she took in
her daughter’s appearance. Wearing one of her signature blue dresses that she
personally designed, her mother was the picture of beauty and grace. If only
Andrea’s inner self reflected what she portrayed on the outside. Violet refused
to let her mother’s silent disapproval add to the shame she was already
feeling.

“Violet,” Andrea said smoothly. “Your father is waiting
inside.”

Not saying anything else, Andrea moved gracefully out of
the office, leaving the doors opened behind her. She didn’t even glance over
her shoulder back at Violet as she glided down the hallway toward her own
private office.

Violet hesitated at the entrance of her father’s office,
unsure and wary in her heart.

Alberto quickly remedied that when he boomed, “Do not keep
me waiting a second longer, Violet.”

She took the three steps needed to enter the office, trying
to hold her head high at the same time. Inside, she found her father sitting
behind the large, cherry oak desk that dominated the room. He sat in his
high-back, black leather office chair. Behind him, a painting of her
grandfather rested proudly. In the painting, Alberto Sr. drank from a glass of
cognac, barely an emotion on his face, as he stared the person painting him
down.

He looked exactly like her father did at that very moment
while Alberto stared her down.

Alberto’s spacious office was decorated in warm, earthy
tones with bookshelves lining one entire wall from floor to ceiling. A sitting
area with a leather loveseat and matching chairs sat in front of a floor to
ceiling window that nearly covered another wall and overlooked the entire front
of the property.

As a child, her father’s office had always been a safe
place for Violet. She would hide under his desk as he made phone calls or
shuffled through papers. She remembered being about six and finding him
counting stacks of money; he gave her one so she could count, too.

The office did not feel like that safe place today.

Sitting on the loveseat were her brother and her father’s
consigliere, Christian. While her brother was looking over his phone in his
hand, Christian was scowling into his glass of whiskey.

“How do you feel?” her father asked.

Violet found her father’s brown stare to be cold and hard
as he looked her up and down, taking in the mess she clearly was. Swallowing
hard, she felt the wetness prickle at her eyes again, and she dropped her
father’s stare.

“Awful,” she admitted.

“Fifteen minutes was long enough, I suspect,” Alberto
noted. “You have another five to explain exactly what happened last night that
led you, Nicole, and Amelia down to Coney Island where you are well aware you
are not permitted to go.”

Violet didn’t even hesitate to start talking like her
father wanted. Alberto’s tone brokered no room for argument, and when he was in
that sort of mood, it was not time to start testing her father’s limits. As it
was, she had pushed them enough.

“After we had dinner here for my birthday, we went back to
my place,” Violet said.

“And?” her father pressed.

“Amelia—”

Alberto held up a hand, stopping her.

“What?” she dared to ask.

“Do not put blame on one of those girls, Violet. Do not
tell me that they convinced you to do something you already knew was wrong.
Years,
ragazza
. I have explicitly forbade you for
years
from
entering the lower part of Brooklyn. And if, for one second, you say it was
someone else’s fault that you went down there—knowing that you could have
refused and chosen a venue I approved of—then we’re going to have a problem.”

Violet corrected herself immediately. This was not the man
she was used to. Only a handful of times in her life had she come face to face
with this man.

He wasn’t Alberto Gallucci, her father.

No, he was Alberto Gallucci, Cosa Nostra Don.

“We decided to go to the club in Coney,” Violet said
quietly. “It’s a new place. Everyone is talking about it. We didn’t know it was
owned by the Russians. I swear, Daddy—”

Again, Alberto held up a hand. This time, he stood slowly
from his desk, keeping his sharp, cold brown eyes on her all the while. Violet
flinched away from her father when he walked around his desk and came a little
closer to her. Even when she was an unruly child, he never raised a hand to
her.

She shouldn’t be afraid of him.

But right then? Yeah, she was.

“Violet,” Alberto said harshly, coming close enough to grab
her chin and force her head up. “You will look at me right now while we’re
speaking. Do you understand that?”

She nodded.

“Continue,” he ordered.

“We took a cab because we knew we were going to be
drinking. And after we had been there a while, something happened with Amelia.
Like, somebody spiked her drink and we were trying to get out to come home.”

Alberto pursed his lips, clearly unhappy. He released her
chin, and Violet immediately put her head back down. “I already know what came
after that, thanks to both Nicole and Amelia.”

“She’s okay?” Violet asked.

She hadn’t even gotten the chance to call her friend that
morning, and all of her calls from the night before had gone completely
unanswered.

“Do you care?” Alberto asked, seemingly calm. “Because when
you allowed your friends to be toted off by strange men—”

“I wasn’t exactly given a choice,” she interrupted softly.

Alberto scowled. “Get out of my office right now.”

Violet’s head snapped up. “What?”

Her father wasn’t looking at her. He was waving at the two
men sitting on the loveseat. “Out, I said!
Adesso, stoltos
!”

Carmine and Christian discarded their glasses on the black
coffee table and left the office without needing to be told again. Once Violet
was alone with her father, the sickness in her stomach only seemed to increase
even more.

“I am so sorry, Daddy,” she said.

“You are a mess,” Alberto murmured.

Violet cringed. “I know.”

“I have never been so disappointed or more embarrassed by
you than I am today, Violet.”

“I’m sorry. We didn’t know, Daddy.”

Alberto tipped her chin up again with a softer touch than
the first time. “You didn’t need to know,
dolcezza
. You shouldn’t have
been down there in the first place. As you already know.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Alberto sighed, eyeing her smeared
makeup. His thumb swept the corner of her mouth like he wanted to will the
smudge of lipstick there away. “And now, because of your actions, I have to
answer to men who are beneath me for their daughters’ injuries and other
problems.”

Violet’s brow furrowed. “But Nicole and Amelia wanted to
go. I didn’t force them.”

Alberto shrugged. “You seem to forget your place in my
life, Violet. You’re my daughter, and when you are with other daughters of made
men, their behavior is reflected from yours. Not the other way around. You will
always be the one responsible because you, above anyone else, were raised far
better.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I don’t doubt that.” Alberto let go of her, taking a step
back. “The Russian just dropped you off and nothing else, right?”

“
Sì
.”

“Such a shame,” he muttered low.

Violet blinked away more prickling tears caused by the
disappointment she knew her father felt.

“It won’t happen again,” she said.

“I should hope not.” Alberto flicked a wrist at the oak
doors. “Go to your old room and find something suitable to wear. Fix your face
and your hair before you leave this house again. Apologize to your mother for
your appearance and behavior.”

“Okay.”

Was he finally done?

While it might not seem like her father had done a lot to
punish her, it was the emotional impact that hurt Violet the most.

“You’re forgiven,” Alberto murmured softly. “But I won’t
forget this,
topina
.”

Violet sucked in a hard breath, not knowing what to say.

“You have never given me a reason to distrust you before,”
her father continued sadly. “And this was not a good way to start testing my
limits with you. I overlook your weekends at the clubs, and your sometimes
boyfriends that I don’t approve of because I knew you are too smart to end up
in a bad situation or one that might shame our family and my legacy.”

God.

“It won’t happen again,” Violet repeated, stronger the
second time.

Her voice was still fucking weak.

“You’ve never given me a reason,” Alberto said, “until last
night.”

“A
re you out of your
fucking mind?” Vasily demanded.

Kaz had barely had the phone to his ear before his father’s
voice was raging in his ear. Groaning as he rolled over, he rubbed his tired
eyes, casting his mind back to the day before to remember what he had done to
warrant a pissed off phone call this early in the morning.

There was Marcus—no one gave a shit about Marcus—and he’d
already told Vasily about that, then there was the club, his chat with Ruslan,
and then …

Shit, right.

Violet Gallucci.

He hadn’t forgotten her. How could he when the smell of her
had lingered in his car even after he’d dropped her off? But he had put it out
of his mind.

It was inevitable that Vasily was going to find out,
nothing stayed hidden forever, but he hadn’t thought he’d learn—Kaz glanced
over at the clock on his bedside table, reading the time—before nine in the
damn morning.

“Is this where I pretend like I don’t know what you’re
talking about?”

Kaz almost laughed as Vasily spat curses, but even as he
found humor in a situation that really wasn’t funny at all, a part of him knew
that there was a problem. This wouldn’t be the first time he had done something
his father hadn’t approved of, not even the second, but those times had never
warranted a phone call. His silent displeasure, sure.

“My house, one hour.”

With that parting demand, Vasily hung up—he never was good
with the proper way in ending a conversation.

Throwing the covers off, Kaz swung his legs off the bed,
getting up to his feet as he headed toward the en suite bathroom on the other
side of his room. With a flick of his wrist, he had the multiple showerheads
turned on, raining water from the tiled ceiling.

He didn’t bother waiting for the water to heat before
stripping out of his boxer-briefs and climbing in, letting the coldness wake
him up further as he scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling the whiskers
covering his jaw.

Grabbing the soap, he bathed quickly, deciding that it was
probably best not to keep Vasily waiting. If he had to guess, the man was a
little more than pissed off, and his tardiness would only make it worse.

It wasn’t like Kaz hadn’t known that by taking the Gallucci
girl home—fuck, even just talking to her—there would be a problem. He knew
better. But that hadn’t stopped him from getting her in his car and taking off.
Sure, it was innocent, definitely not something worth starting a war over, but
even he could see the implications of his actions.

Like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

Back out again, Kaz toweled off, next rubbing it through
his hair before he tossed it on the counter and headed into his closet. And
despite his lackluster attitude in terms of everything else in his life, there
was one thing that Kaz definitely cared about.

His attire.

A lot could be said about a man that broke the law for a
living, but more could be said about one that made sure he looked good while
doing it.

He chose a black-on-black ensemble—seemed
appropriate—before he dressed and ran his fingers through his hair to push it
back out of his face. Heading back into his bedroom, he grabbed the Beretta M9
he kept beneath his pillow, holstering it at his back, then smoothing his
jacket over it.

Grabbing his keys, he was out of his place and heading down
Oceana Drive in no time. The drive to Vasily’s beachfront mansion was only a
fifteen-minute drive away, twenty-five if there was traffic, a distance that
felt far too short for Kaz most days.

The house he was driving to hadn’t been the only residence
in Little Odessa that Kaz lived in. Before, they—he, his parents, and
siblings—lived in a more modest two-story a little ways away. Vasily had moved
the family after Kaz’s eleventh birthday, and some months after Vasily had
become the new
Pakhan
.

As he turned onto 296 West End Avenue, typing in the code
to get through the gated entry, Kaz could already see the fleet of cars parked
in the driveway. Most were of his father’s collection—all luxury, but none as
bold as Kaz’s Porsche—and one, he knew, belonged to his father’s attorney,
Gerald Tansky. Since the man got paid even if he was only stopping by, Kaz had
to wonder why he was there.

Pulling around, he parked a good distance away from the
other vehicles, because family or not, if you scratched his car, he’d be
pissed. Exiting, he dug his hands into his pockets as he headed for the front
door, checking his surroundings as he always did before raising his fist to
knock. He took a step back, waiting, listening to the soft click of heels as
they neared the door. His smile, a genuine one this time, was already curling
his lips before she even had the door open.

Swathed in a peach-colored dress that ended at her knees,
Irina Markovic looked every bit of the housewife that she was. Never a hair out
of place, the brown strands were twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck,
showing off the simple diamond earrings adorning her ears.

“Kazimir,” she said warmly, already reaching to draw him
into her embrace.

When his father called him that, it annoyed him, but he
never minded from her. “
Privyet
, Mama,” he spoke softly, pressing a
quick kiss to her cheek. “How are you?”

“Very well. Your father is waiting for you in the kitchen.”

He could tell just by the look on her face that Vasily was
definitely angry with him and she was curious as to why, but she would never
come right out and ask. She followed the rules in that way.

Waiting at her side as she closed and turned the locks, he
figured since he was there, he didn’t have to rush. He was on time after all.

“How are you, Kazimir? You look tired,” she said looking up
at him, even in her heels, as they headed for the kitchen.

“Fine, Mama. It was just a long night.” And an early
morning, but he didn’t bother mentioning that. To say he was not a morning
person was an understatement. Thankfully, a lot of his business could be done
at night.

“And your brother, how is he?”

This question was asked softly, so low that Kaz knew the question
was meant only for him to hear, and that fact annoyed him. Not because she was
asking the question at all, but because she felt she had to sneak to do it.

“Good.”

“You’ll watch after him, yes?” she asked reaching for his
hand, squeezing it lightly.

Ruslan didn’t need looking after, plus he was the oldest,
but because she rarely saw him, she made this request whenever Kaz came around.
Since she couldn’t dote on Ruslan, she made sure at the very least, Kaz watched
out for him. Sometimes, Kaz felt like he was the oldest.

“Of course, I—”

“Kazimir, get in here!” Vasily called out, his voice
echoing.

The booming sound might have been enough to frighten a
lesser man, but Kaz merely rolled his eyes, looking back down to his mother,
who was smiling apologetically.

“Go on, you don’t want to keep him waiting.”

As he bent at the waist, giving her a chance to kiss his
cheek and wipe away the trace of lipstick before she disappeared around the
corner, she made herself scarce for their talk. Kaz hardened himself as he
always did, heading into the lion’s den.

The kitchen was a cavernous space, made that way after his
mother had made the request. Vasily, who loved to dote on his wife, gave her
exactly what she asked for. Bay windows made up one wall, allowing an unobstructed
view to the beach a mere walking distance from the house. The sunlight shining
in through them made the white cabinetry seem brighter, and the gray marbled
flooring stand out more.

Gerald was seated at the dining table, a newspaper in hand
as he read the front page, acting oblivious to Kaz’s appearance. Vasily, on the
other hand, was glaring at Kaz from his position behind the island, a tumbler
filled with amber liquid in his hand.

Unlike Kaz who was dressed in all black, Vasily was dressed
in a pin-striped suit, a blood-red shirt beneath it, with a matching
handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. His shirt was unbuttoned at
the collar, revealing a delicate gold chain that hung around his neck. His
once-dark hair was mostly gray now, and thinning in the middle, but he kept it
styled where one could hardly tell.

“A little early for spirits, no?” Kaz asked, careful to
keep his tone as respectful as possible.

“With the shit you pulled last night,” Vasily started. “I
could be drinking from a bottle.” Downing his drink, in one swallow, he set the
glass on the counter. “Tell me, what were you thinking?”

It was scary, how quickly Vasily went from angry to calm in
a couple of seconds. Kaz could still remember a time when that worried him,
when he had no idea what to expect, but now he was older, and his father’s
anger didn’t faze him as much.

“They—those girls—were in the wrong place.”

“You knew better,” Vasily said after a moment, already
reaching for the carafe of Brandy resting behind him on the marble countertop.
“You could have dropped that girl off the second you were out of our
territory.”

Kaz took a seat at the bar, unbuttoning his jacket as he
did. “I thought it best to make sure they got home safely, as opposed to
letting them leave Odessa where we couldn’t guarantee that.”

His father knew what he meant, and that he was right, even
if he didn’t voice it. Had they taken a cab home—as Violet was so adamant they
should have done—and something were to have happened to them on that trip home,
the Markovics would have been blamed. It was their territory after all, and
nothing happened without their knowledge.

And for whatever reason, the idea of Violet Gallucci
getting hurt didn’t sit well with him.

“Even so, you have created a problem for us.” Vasily poured
two fingers, and instead of throwing this one back as well, he sipped. “Alberto
Gallucci called me this morning.”

It had been a while since Vasily uttered that name. While
the two were more … neutral toward each other than Gavrill and Alberto had been,
that didn’t mean the two would ever do business together.

“Oh?”

“Apparently that car of yours was seen leaving a building
on Park Avenue.” Vasily gave him a dry look. “I don’t think I have to mention
whose
building it belonged to, no?”

“Like I said, I made sure the Gallucci girl got home
safely. Nothing more.”

“And the other two? Their fathers were not too pleased
either.”

Kaz tapped his index finger against the marble. “Ruslan
would—”

Vasily made a noise that could be described as a mix
between a grunt and a snort, a sneer working its way onto his face.

Kaz, who was doing his best to keep a level head, went from
zero to sixty in a moment, that familiar rage he welcomed like an old friend
coming to life inside of him. His hand clenched, his body grew tense. There
were some things he was willing to put up with from his father.

His need to dominate any room he walked in—Kaz gave him
that. He was the
Pakhan
after all, it was his due.

The snide comments made to and about Kaz—again, Vasily was
the boss—but more than anything, Kaz didn’t give a shit.

But one thing that he had never been able to stand was the
blatant disrespect Vasily always showed whenever Ruslan’s name was brought up.

“Careful,” Kaz said before he could check the impulse, and
even if he’d been able to, he didn’t think he would have restrained himself.

With the command resting between them, Vasily paused—the
glass he was bringing to his lips suspended in the air—his gaze moving to Kaz.
Even Gerald looked up from his reading, where he was acting as though he was
not listening to the conversation.

That was the thing about having one’s father as the boss as
well. The lines blurred as to which persona you got. It was one thing for Kaz
to speak out of turn to his father. Though still disrespectful, it could be
excused. But to speak to a
Pakhan
as though he were equal, that was an
offense not taken lightly. It didn’t matter that Vasily’s vocalized response
was one of a father’s feelings toward his son, the discussion at hand was
between a boss and his soldier.