Refrain

by Lana Sky

  “We watched,” he croaks. “While they pummeled the shit out of that sick fuck. He should have been begging for mercy, but he…he was laughing. At me. He said, ‘That Italian fucker bragged at how fucking easy it was. You didn’t even look for her. You didn’t even try…’” He breaks off, his hands clenching into fists. One of them strikes the surface of the table, knocking it off-balance. Again. “You should have seen him. Laughing even with a busted fucking jaw and a fucked-up eye. Just laughing. ‘You never gave a shit about her,’ he said. ‘She’s better…she’s better off without you.’”

  “He was lying.” I try to make my voice soft, the way Dante did when he told me that Santa wasn’t real. Soft but firm like a good slap to the face. “Parish is gone, Arno.”

  “You didn’t see him,” Arno says, shaking his head. “You didn’t see the fucking look on his face. I know Mack. I know that look.”

  “This is why you’ve been so out of it.” Underneath everything, it was always her. “She’s dead, Arno.”

  “You think I don’t fucking know that?” He lifts the bottle and starts to take a sip. Halfway to his mouth, he turns and hurtles it against the wall, sending broken glass flying in every direction. “You think I don’t fucking know that?”

  “You saw her—”

  “I didn’t.” Admitting that makes him brace both hands flat against the table, his knuckles white. “I… Fuck, I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I sent in someone else. They said her face was t-too—fuck!”

  “Mack got inside your head,” I say as gently as I can. “He wanted to fuck around—”

  “I tried to let it go. But too many fucking things made sense. That’s how Stacatto operated, you know? Those fucking Italians. They loved keeping things around for ‘insurance.’ If she’s alive, the Russians would know where. Hell, she could be in any fucking one of their bars—”

  “Arno, don’t do this.”

  “Don’t fucking lecture me, Espisido. If it were Dante, you’d be doing the same fucking thing.”

  I don’t have a comeback for that. The sick, ironic thing is that Arno has a better shot of finding his dead sister alive than I do of finding Dante when he doesn’t want to be found. The joke’s on me.

  “I just wanted you to know,” he says, hauling himself upright. He has to take a few steps before he can balance on both feet.

  “Okay.” I stand and turn for the door.

  “Wait,” Arno says before I am halfway there. “There’s something else. I got a little message from Jose today. It’s not much, but it’s something that’s for sure.”

  I can tell from his tone that I won’t like to hear whatever it is. “What?”

  “Apparently, there’s word about a new gang in town. They’re recruiting, but get this—not the usual criminals and punks. They’re targeting ex-police. Informants. People who’ve been fucked over by the Cartel, or the Mob, or the Syndicate.”

  “And the Gardai?” I say, taking a shot in the dark.

  Arno just chuckles. “It seems like someone wants a war, little brother. You better keep your fucking head down. Got it?”

  I leave him there to hunt for another bottle, but I can’t shake what he said. Maybe I don’t want to shake it. It gives my brain something real to focus on. Something important.

  After all, a war just means more business for me. I even manage to laugh at the bitter irony. Business. If only I could afford to keep my fucking kit stocked in the meantime.

  I hunt for the current cause of my low supplies, but I don’t find her sweeping at the corners of the bar. It’s only later that night when the girls take the stage that I realize she’s gone. I know without even having to go up and check that she took the gun.

  I tilt my head back to eye the ceiling while I fish my final cig from my pocket and light it up. One hit and I don’t feel anything, just a burning taste in my mouth. Two drags don’t help, either.

  I’ve gotten hooked on something harsher than nicotine. The funny thing is that I can’t go five minutes without a cigarette, but without her?

  My feet twitch against the pavement. I could go after her. But the key question is, does she want to be found? A woman like that, with so many damn secrets. She could have a lover out there. Someone who doesn’t hesitate to touch her—or more.

  Someone she wouldn’t leave in the middle of the night.

  I try not to let the fact sting. I’m a big boy. She’s a big girl. I’ll get over it.

  But finishing the pack doesn’t make me feel any better. Despite the acrid taste of ash in my throat, her flavor remains, stubborn as hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chloe

  Piotr left me a single white envelope with my name written on the front. It looks so clean, so harmless. No one would ever guess that it has my soul inside it.

  I put off opening it until after I’ve left Grey, when no one is else around to witness my reaction. When no one is around to see me break. He kept the message simple this time, Piotr, scribbling only the name of a hotel, the room number, and a time.

  It’s an amusing game to convince myself that he couldn’t possibly have been there, watching through the windows of the bar. With each attempt, I lose. How soon could I forget his favorite pastime when he wasn’t lording over his club—haunting me. He’s not here now. I take the gun from my pocket and scan the alley I’m in just to be sure, searching for him behind an old dumpster or a car parked on the side of the road.

  But no. Stealth was never his style—and, apparently, he has a more upscale setting in mind for our reunion—a hotel on the north side of the city. But it’s not just any destination. My heart tightens at the sight of the gleaming, silver façade towering against the skyline like a castle formed entirely of steel. Once again, nostalgia forms a noose around my soul. He chose well. Outside of the club, it was our special place, a venue that caters almost exclusively to Piotr’s branch of the Russian Mob.

  I clear my mind of everything before I step through the glass doors lined in gold. I’m a blank slate when I cut across the lobby and ride the elevator to the top floor, guided by memory alone.

  It’s suicide; I know that. I’m oddly resigned to my fate as I travel down a hallway lined in ebony carpet and ruby-red walls. The memories… They’re harder to bite back here. I can feel him, that harsh, bitter sting of him inside me. In my soul. My head. My body.

  That old impulse to escape rears its head once I approach the last door at the end of the hallway. I can practically feel the word hammering against my skull. Escape. I can taste it, poised at the back of my throat like a scream. Run, Ksei. You don’t have to face him now. You need to be stronger. Faster. Quicker. Braver.

  At the moment, I’m just tired, and exhaustion makes me bolder than any bravery.

  I don’t bother knocking. I try the handle and find it unlocked. It opens easily, and I step inside while drawing the gun. My eyes instantly hone in on a shadow flung against the wall—someone approaching the entryway from down a dimly lit hall.

  My finger finds the trigger. I don’t even bother closing the door behind me. There’s no point in wondering why he’s without some protective thug or bodyguard. Maybe the bastard is ready to die.

  The shadow grows larger, gradually taking on the shape of a human figure. But they’re smaller than they should be. Thinner. When they finally appear at the mouth of the hall, it still takes nearly a minute for me to process that the stern-faced blonde in a modest, gray dress isn’t Piotr.

  “Welcome,” she says, her accent thick. “He is expecting you. You dress first.” She starts back down the hallway, leaving me to follow. The rest of her words reach me from over her shoulder. “He said you can keep the gun.”

  I don’t move, still aiming the gun at the wall. The woman never calls me or beckons me in farther. It’s like she knows without a doubt that I’ll follow.

  And I do, closing the door behind me.

  He picked his favorite suite, and I know it well. This scent. These dark, innocuous colors
. It’s barely changed in all these years. The walls are still gray. The furniture sleek and modern with a slightly old-fashioned twist, just how he likes it.

  The woman is waiting for me in a modest guest room, where a black dress lies in wait on the bed. It’s satin, tailored in his favorite style—a tight shape and a low neckline.

  I gesture toward it with a flick of the pistol. “I’m not wearing that—”

  “You change first,” the woman insists. She steps back expectantly, refusing to bat so much as an eyelash when the gun is aimed over her chest. The stern set to her jaw reveals all—She’s used to it. “He’s waiting.”

  “You can take me to him like this.” I thumb the trigger once, twice. The unsteady sound undercuts the threat. With every second that passes, I might wind up shooting her by accident.

  Despite the danger, she just stares back. God, I know the cold, empty look on her face. I recognize the role she’s been forced to play. The slight twitch of her eyes to the doorway gives her away—I stall, she dies.

  Maybe I’ve grown since my old days, but Piotr is the only one whose blood I want on my hands.

  As if sensing the moment I break, the woman lifts the gown from the bed and approaches me. I stand there woodenly as she strips Espisido’s jacket from my shoulders and tosses it aside like it’s trash. She slips the dress over my head without being hindered at all by the gun I’m still pointing at her. Sighing, she steps back and observes me with a sweep of her gaze.

  “Your hair.” She says it almost mournfully, as if merely pointing its state out. Then she retreats back the way we came without another word and turns down another hallway that opens onto an expansive dining room. There, a lone man is sitting at a table set for two.

  Unlike the ageless revenant of him haunting my nightmares, he’s grown older in real life. Gray streaks his hair, catching the light while he scans my body from head to toe. Every nerve prickles with recognition. It’s that slow, perusing look I used to live for. The one I almost died for.

  The one that threatens to kill me again.

  My hand shakes, fighting to keep the gun trained on him as I will myself to pull the trigger. Kill him. Run! I hold my breath, but my nostrils flare to breathe him in anyway. Wolf Blood. My blood. God, he smells the same.

  “It’s been a long time,” he says, his accent catching over the syllables in every word. It’s the gentle tone he rarely used, only when at his most content to lull me into a dangerous sense of security. “You still look so beautiful.”

  He should look dead. My finger twitches, but for some reason, it won’t bear down. Yet. My heart beats with more conviction, straining against my rib cage. Pounding. It hurts. It’s greedy. Only with him so close can it ignore the shackles my brain has strapped around it for all these damn years. Moya lyubov.

  “I knew it would be like this,” Piotr says, his tongue lingering over each twisted syllable. “When I saw you again. I thought maybe…” He shakes his head sadly. “I was wrong. This moment. This makes it all worth it.”

  He folds his hands and pushes back from the table. I flinch when he stands. He’s just as tall, wearing the same brand of black suit he always did. Everything is tailored, down to the black loafers on his feet. He takes a step toward me.

  I finally squeeze the trigger. The deafening roar of the gunshot slams into my eardrums, but Piotr doesn’t collapse in pain like he should, and something made of glass shatters over his shoulder. He doesn’t even blink. He merely sighs. My protector, my lover, my tormentor.

  “Put the gun down, Ksei.”

  “No.” I grip it tighter. My hand trembles. I can’t keep it steady. I can’t pull on the trigger again, either.

  I can’t obey him.

  I can’t resist.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. “I just want to talk.”

  I want to laugh. I try to, but the only sound that trickles out is weak. A moan. A gasp. “Talk. You want to talk.”

  “And you want to hear.” He pauses as if waiting for me to argue. When I don’t, he smiles. That cold, icy smile that used to serve as a focal point of my nightmares. And the highlight of my day. “You came to me for a reason.”

  “A good one,” I echo. “I…I came to kill you.”

  “Did you?”

  My grip on the pistol slips in my sweaty palms. I have to grip it tighter. “I will kill you.”

  “Have a seat, Ksenia, and I will tell you the real reason why you came to me.”

  I laugh again. The sound echoes off the walls, violent and unsteady. I sound like Arno right before he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Pow. Maybe he had the right idea all along.

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

  “You’ve always had a choice.” Something in his voice warns me to back away from him. He steps forward.

  I scramble back another step. My shoulders strike the wall—there’s nowhere farther to go.

  “Put the gun down, Ksei.”

  “No.”

  He reaches out and I will my finger to pull the trigger. I scream the command inside my head. Kill him!

  His palm settles over my hand, the touch electrifying my skin. He gently lowers the weapon until I’m aiming it at the floor. There’s no ounce of fear in him. Just a look I know well—possession. He exudes it in everything he does, from the way he appraises me to how he breathes me in, leaning close so that I can hear each ragged intake of air.

  “You fixed your hair for me.” He fingers a tangled lock of it.

  I see it happen from the corner of my eye. He still wears the thick, silver ring on the thumb of that hand. I have scars from how deeply the insignia bit into my skin whenever he struck me with it.

  “I didn’t even have to ask—”

  “Get away from me.”

  He doesn’t let go of my hair. If anything, his grip tightens, forcing my head to tilt in his direction. Burning pain creeps across my scalp like an old, forgotten friend.

  He inhales me again, and I know what he’ll find—cigarette smoke, spray paint, and Espisido. “You remember how much I loved this color on you.”

  This color. “It came out of a box,” I tell him, but the words fall flat. My hair has been blonde for years.

  With every salon appointment, maybe I forgot the original shade of it a little more. I see my reflection in the glass window—a girl I last saw ten years ago, her dirty, brown hair limply framing her face while she cowered beneath Piotr Petrov’s scrutiny.

  I raise the gun again, aiming the barrel somewhere over his chest. “I didn’t do it for you.”

  Yes, you did. I don’t know if he murmurs those words to me or if I just imagine them. Like roaming fingers, they trickle over unseen parts of me. Only he can do this—violate my body without even trying. I hate it. I crave it…

  “You don’t know how beautiful you are like this.” He lets my hair fall and steps back. Just an inch, but it’s like the difference between touching the sun and being near it. I’m still broiling beneath the heat. It’s still lethal.

  “Get away from me—”

  “You came to me.” He almost sounds surprised. As if I magically arrived on his doorstep unannounced. Surprised, but not alarmed. “Just like I knew—hoped—you would.”

  “So that I can kill you?”

  It’s a laughable concept. Piotr’s been waiting patiently for me to put a bullet in his head. So why the hell can’t I pull the trigger?

  He chuckles darkly. The tone of his voice alone used to control me like a puppet on a string. I studied every cadence. How soft he could sound when I pleased him. How utterly brutal when he was angry.

  Now? I can’t tell. His voice wavers when it should be steady. He’s soft when he should be terse. My heart picks up speed, sending my pulse surging through my skin. The flavor of fear is a lot more familiar. My body knows how to react to it.

  I raise the gun.

  Piotr smiles. “You love me,” he says, his voice a gruff rasp against my skin. “Tha
t is what this means. Of your own volition. You came back to me, Ksei. And, when you are ready, I will reward you.”

  “Bullshit.” I have to choke out another laugh. This time, the sound gets stuck in my throat. Now, it strikes me—Piotr isn’t worried because the bastard’s gone insane.

  “Oh?” He releases his own chuckle and strokes his chin with his thumb. “You could have run. You know it. I know it.”

  “And you would have had me arrested for murder—”

  “And you could have had Ivan erase that video, had you told him about it. But you didn’t. Oh. You thought I didn’t know about your little friend.”

  This is the point when I really should kill him. Concern for Ivan is like a living thing wrapped around my throat. One wrong move and I’ll suffocate.

  “H-how?”

  “He never was good at hiding his loyalty for your father. Even when he signed off on the order to have him killed. Good old Ivan could never shake that guilt. I always knew that he would do anything for Milo’s daughter—just as long as he could still slither within the shadows like the snake he is.”

  “You knew,” I say thickly. “So why—”

  “Who did you think alerted Ivan’s men that night, Ksei?” He poses the question in that commanding tone that warns me he wants a direct answer.

  I’m punished by him advancing another step. When I don’t respond, his voice deepens.

  “Who do you think lessened the guard patrol to allow them into my territory?”

  It’s a dangerous picture he paints. It’s a maddening one. I still remember the pounding rush of clinging to life as Ivan’s men hustled me through the streets. Was he really watching them, laughing as my blood painted the earth behind me?

  “You’re lying.”

  “It was a gamble,” he admits coldly. “Had the bastard been even a second later, you would have died. I was too…thorough.”

  I cringe when he reaches out for me. I dodge his first touch, but he comes again, trailing his thumb along the top of my forehead.

  “My little beauty. Still unmatched, even while flawed.”