JACK OF DIAMONDS

iii

Chernetsov stood at the side of his wife’s bed looking down at her shattered body. They’d counted…what…he couldn’t even remember how many broken bones they’d told him she had. It was too many to wrap his head around at the moment. Her spleen was damaged, her large intestine perforated—he didn’t even know there was a smaller one—and they took out part of her liver; her kidneys were damaged and one of her lungs had collapsed. Her skull had been fractured when she’d hit the ground. The tears spilled down his rough cheeks unchecked as the doctor tried to explain the details, and the consequences of those details. He wasn’t listening though—not really—he couldn’t hear the man above the roar inside his own head. He wiped the tears off his face with a degree of anger, telling himself it couldn’t possibly have been an accident. He refused to believe it was an accident. In fact, you’d have to convince him that it wasn’t deliberate. Everything that happened over the past ten days and more, was more than he could wish upon any man.

It’s funny—in a strange sort of way—how the first thing that comes to mind is Anatoly being pushed from the balcony. That’s where it all started.

Or did it?

He had no idea who the woman was who pushed his son off the railing—or what her motive may have been. At least everyone agreed it was a woman. But Anatoly lost part of his leg because of the fall, and now they were telling him Anatoly would probably be condemned to a wheelchair. He doubted if he’d ever find out the identity of the woman who pushed Anatoly off the rail, and wondered if he should raise the reward?

Now someone tries to kill Bubbi.

And while his son’s attacker could quite possibly remain a mystery, it was more than obvious the Irish had made their first move against him—in retaliation for the loss of their guns, he reminded himself. He had to also remind himself it was business. He’d heard several of the witnesses say the lorry came around the corner too fast, or that the driver had lost control; and there were some who said he sped up as he came around the corner; and still others who said the driver had turned into her.

Intentionally.

He was grateful she was still alive of course, hopeful that she’d fight to hold on, but he knew her injuries were extensive. The doctor told him he should prepare himself for the worst—a just-in-case precaution, he’d added—and Chernetsov felt the chill of the statement cut through his heart as if it was a cold knife. He wondered if the doctor had given up on her? It sounded as though they’d all given up on her.

Prepare for the worst? How do you prepare for the worst?

And suddenly, out of nowhere, a part of him wondered how he’d feel if it was Colette laying here on the bed, instead of Bubbi. He chided himself for thinking about her at all—especially at a time like this. All the same, it was a hard question for any man to ask himself, and he knew it. It was a harsh presentiment of the future’s possibilities he told himself, but with everything that had been happening, would he be shocked to hear she’d also been attacked? Should he warn her? He wondered how she’d handle that sort of news? Would he feel compelled to rush over to her bedside as well—leaving his wife’s side to attend his mistress’s needs?

He told himself it wasn’t something that should be crossing a man’s mind at any time—and certainly not when he’s standing over what was probably his wife’s death bed. He wondered what kind of a man that made him? Was he any different from how his father had been? Was his behaviour a mirrored reflection of his own father’s? He thought he might have avoided his father’s influence because he’d been sent off to school here in England. But his father had a mistress—and probably had her until the day he died.

Charnetsov felt the fact he had a mistress at all was proof he was insensitive to his wife’s needs. And is the answer as simple as that, he wondered? But by God, he thought, to all outside appearances it gives the impression that he’s a man who can’t devote himself to one person. What made him think he needed a mistress in the first place? And where was the answer to that one, he wondered? Was it because friends had told him he’d need a little something to keep him occupied later in life? Their wives were no longer interested in them, they said, or else they’d lost interest in their wives. How long did he think it would be before Bubbi lost interest in him, they asked?

Bubbi had never shied away from that part of her duties, Chernetsov reminded himself—not in that respect. That’s what he loved about her. She’d never approached that part of her life as if it was a duty she had to perform—to have it over and done so she could leave the room and clean herself. If there was anything to be said about Bubbi, he thought, it was that she’d enjoyed their moments of intimacy; more than Colette, he seemed ready to admit.

Admit it, that might be me.

And while Colette was young and seemed eager to learn—God, how she was eager to learn—he’d spent half a lifetime with Bubbi. They’d learned the intimacies of each others’ bodies, together. He remembered teasing her nipple to life and how she never left his bed once he’d fucked her that first time. She made a habit of waking him in the morning sucking him off—something she’d lost interest in over the last five years of their marriage—and he wondered if that was why he’d so readily found himself attracted to Colette. She’d yet to master the art of fellatio, but she was eager to learn.

And was he willing to keep that part of his life a secret? He was no different from any other man caring for his mistress in the city. And not in Plymouth where it made sense, but London, with a second apartment in Paris he let out to an employee on the understanding the apartment would be available at a moment’s notice. He didn’t go to Paris enough to prove himself a nuisance; when he did, he brought Colette. It was never as good as when he brought Bubbi. And he had to ask himself, again, if he’d feel as bad if it was Colette laying in the bed?

Bubbi opened her eyes briefly—he was sure it had to hurt they were so swollen—and he found himself catching his breath. He’d been holding her hand without realizing it, and he felt her squeeze his hand and then sigh, seemingly falling back into her pillow and sinking down into unconsciousness like a swimmer drowning in the pool. He kissed her hand and surprised himself to find tears welling up in his eyes again. He let out a gasp, as if he’d realized for the first time that she might die.

Prepare for the worst…

He let out another gasp; a cry of anguish he tried choking back. He could feel the trail of tears rolling down his face. He wiped at them with his hands. Hard. He’d failed her. He knew there was little he could do to save her, now. It was all up to her and her will to live. He found himself sinking to his knees, as if praying to a God he didn't believe in anymore, holding her hand and sobbing. He’d wanted so much to give her a lifestyle that offered her a position in society. But while they weren’t blue bloods, his family’s wealth went back more than a hundred years; even to the Napoleonic Wars. The family was worth more than any failed Duke, or Earl.

And that was one thing that had never mattered to Bubbi.

How could he think he deserved her love when he’d betrayed her in the most intimate of ways? He’d crossed a line of betrayal he doubted he could never erase. In a forgiving world, it was the unforgivable. And if she knew that now, with death approaching, would she choose to live on? Would she give up? Was he worth living for?

He found himself propped up in an overstuffed leather chair with several blankets tucked around him. He vaguely remembered climbing into the chair, and thought he remembered a woman who helped him up off the floor. He felt devastated, and told her, just in case, and she told him everything would be fine. You have to believe it will, and it will, Bubbi always said. He wanted to believe that everything would work out fine.