Page 3 of Grave Secrets

After a while, Chris grunts as he comes and pulls out of me. I whimper when he grabs me by the hair and drags me up. My body tenses, and I squeeze my eyes shut when I feel the barrel of a gun press against my temple. Not just any gun; my gun.

“If you ever try to leave me again, I’ll fucking kill you,” Chris growls in my ear. “If you want those rings back, you’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you to do, or I’ll melt the fuckers down myself. Do you understand me, Ada?”

“Yes,” I say with a shaky voice.

“Go to your office. I don’t want to see your fucking face,” he says, shoving me toward the hallway. Under normal circumstances, I’d be able to keep myself up, but he hasn’t let me pull my pants back up yet. When I try to regain my footing, my leg catches, and I come crashing down to the floor with my wrist under me. A searing pain shoots up my arm, and I cry out in pain.

“Fucking fat bitch. Get off the goddamn floor,” Chris laughs. I use my other arm to help me get up before I pull my pants up. I have to hold my breath when I move my left wrist, because it hurts so badly. I hope it isn’t broken. I don’t even look up at Chris before I turn and go to the bathroom. I hurriedly clean up and get into my office so I can lock the door. That’s when I lie on my couch and curl up so I can bury my face in the throw pillow and cry.

Chapter Two

Viktor

I sit back in my office chair and stare at the ceiling. I am so annoyed, but there isn’t anything I can do about it now. Anger management? What a fucking joke. Kendra thought it was just fucking hilarious that she set me up for six days a week.

“Hey,” Carlo says as he walks into the room. I am in my home office because everyone knows I went to court today. I’ll have to explain that I am being forced into anger management, but it’s better than prison, I guess. It won’t stop the jokes about me being in therapy.

“Say one fucking word, and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out,” I warn him.

“Sounds like the anger management was a good call,” Carlo laughs. “Relax. It’s just therapy. Plus, the therapist is sexy, so that’s a bonus.”

I sit up and look at my computer screen, where the profile for the therapist is. Ada Pavlov is twenty-nine, with gorgeous blonde hair and intense blue eyes. She has a master’s in psychology and works with clients for anger management and sexual assault counseling. She takes on other clients, but that is her specialty. She is five feet five inches and the perfect definition of thick curves. God, she is stunning. I am going to have that woman bent over her desk in a week. Maybe this isn’t all bad if it means I get to be alone with her six days a week for the next year.

“Sir,” Ron says from the door. Ron is my keeper of sorts. He does a little of everything. His wife, Amy, is the housekeeper.

“Yeah?” I ask, glancing up at him.

“Andre DeLuca and Alan Barnes are here,” he says.

“Okay. Let them in,” I say.

“Awfully late for ol’ Alan to be out,” Carlo chuckles as he moves over to lean against the wall.

“I’ll say,” I agree. When Andre and Alan walk in, I stand and shake their hands.

“Gentlemen, what brings you here so late?” I ask as I motion for them to sit.

“I see you know about Ada,” Andre says, pointing to my screen.

“Mhmm. She is your son’s therapist, correct?” I ask Alan.

“Yeah,” Alan says. “That’s what we are actually here about.”

“Is she going to slit my throat or something?” I ask as I realize this isn’t for me. They’re protecting Ada. “Or are you?”

“Ada knew you were mafia right away,” Andre says. “She called me when she was notified of who her new client was.”

“Okay. Is she going to be an issue?”

“No, she cares about her clients. As long as you don’t hurt her, she doesn’t get involved,” Alan says. “Archer is able to speak freely with her, and we’ve never had an issue. Hell, I’ve been back six months, and I haven’t heard anyone say one bad thing about her.”

“Okay. So why are you here?” Carlo asks.

“I am going to be there tomorrow for her comfort. She knows your original charges and is hesitant about being alone with you. She will never admit or show that, though,” Andre says. “But understand, I don’t care if we are friends. If you hurt that girl…”

“I don’t hurt women,” I say with a frown.

“I don’t care,” Alan says. “She has no idea how her parents really died. She doesn’t know what she is connected to. There is no good way to explain it to her, so no one has. She has been and still is going through a lot.”