Nightfall

by Nicole Fox

  My father asks details about what I’m eating, where I’m sleeping, and how school is going. I try to do the same with him, but he insists he’s fine. That he’s eating well and sleeping, though I have visual proof that he isn’t.

  Dmitry doesn’t interrupt once. He doesn’t sigh with boredom or urge me to hurry the conversation. He lets me sit and talk with my dad for half an hour before I cut the call short. If I don’t, I know Dad never will.

  “Please take care of yourself,” my dad says, his eyes getting teary.

  “You too,” I say. “I mean it. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  When I hang up and slide the phone across Dmitry’s desk, he doesn’t say anything, so I stand up to leave. As I turn, however, he clears his throat.

  “How is school going?” he asks. “You told your dad it was going well. Is that true?”

  His hands are folded in front of him on his desk, and he still doesn’t have a shirt on. It’s disconcerting to be so close to him half clothed and not be trying to get him the rest of the way naked.

  “It’s true. I’m doing well. I have plenty of time to study.”

  He nods. “Are you happy here?”

  The question bewilders me. Dmitry has time in his life for Tati and work and sex with me, but I didn’t imagine he concerned himself with much else.

  He gave me the dance studio—though he disguised it as a gift for Tati—but even that felt more like an apology than a show of affection.

  This, however. This simple question feels like care. Concern.

  For me.

  I’m happier than I was living with my dad in our trailer, waiting for my mom to come home. Happier than I was studying my brains out in school and living in my tiny dorm.

  Here, I have Tati. I dance and eat delicious food and play hide-and-go-seek in the many nooks and crannies of Dmitry’s mansion.

  I have Dmitry.

  Admitting that feels big and too much. So, I opt for a quick nod. “I’m happy.”

  Dmitry seems relieved. “Good.”

  I know he needs to get back to work, so I stand up and move towards the door. But I’m not ready to leave yet, so I divert towards his bar cart.

  “Do you want a drink?”

  He raises his brows in surprise, his jaw clenching in consideration, and then nods.

  I know his favorite drink from ones we’ve shared many nights after putting Tati to bed together. An old-fashioned.

  Even the bar cart in his office is well-stocked, and I quickly portion out the bourbon, add the bitters, and drop a sugar cube in. When money got tight in school, I spent a few weekends working open bars for a catering company. It’s like riding a bike.

  When I slide it across his desk, he smiles up at me, the corners of his mouth hesitant, as if he’s doing so against his better judgment.

  He doesn’t touch the drink until I’m at the door. He takes a sip and nods his head in appreciation as I’m closing it.

  I’m halfway down the hallway when I realize that Dmitry’s life is lonely. It’s hard to see at first because there are so many people in his house and under his command. So many people calling him and needing his help. However, there are very few people taking care of him. Being concerned about whether or not he’s happy.

  Even I didn’t ask him the question in return.

  Dmitry takes care of Tati and me …

  But who takes care of Dmitry?

  17

  Dmitry

  The call comes midmorning.

  I have some men out collecting for me, making a few stops to clients who could become problems unless reminded of our presence. I expected them to call with progress reports.

  I didn’t expect an emergency.

  Get here. Now.

  The words are the same as the night of the fire at the bar, though the location is different.

  I drive without seeing, sure I can’t count how many traffic laws I’m ignoring. My men are in trouble, so nothing else matters.

  As soon as I pull onto the road—warehouses and crumbling buildings dating back to the city’s earliest days, rising up to block out the sun on either side—a shot pings off the roof of my car.

  A firefight.

  I slam on the brakes and dive down into the passenger seat, digging through the glove compartment for my gun. Two more shots ricochet off my car, though none of them hit the windows. Apparently, the Italians can’t shoot for shit.

  Taking a deep breath, I open the driver’s side door, roll down the window, and duck down behind the door, peeking up through the window, gun at the ready.

  My men are in similar positions, guns aimed at a building on the right side of the road. It used to be a shoe factory, recently converted into apartments, though the tenants haven’t moved in yet. I know because the owner of the building pays my Bratva for protection. From the Italians … and us.

  The territory has been in dispute, control constantly in flux, but we have controlled it for the better part of a year without any problems. Now, apparently, the Italians have taken issue.

  “How many?” comes a voice from behind.

  I drop down and spin around, aiming my gun at Rurik before I realize it’s him. He holds up his hands and curses.

  “Shit, Dmitry. It’s me.”

  “Don’t fucking sneak up on me in the middle of a gunfight,” I growl. “And I don’t know. I just got here.”

  “Me too.”

  I didn’t hear his car pull up, but I also didn’t hear him approach me, so I don’t ask any questions. There is no need to look even more incompetent than I already feel.

  “We can’t hold this position,” Rurik says. “We have to advance. They have the high ground.”

  I look where he’s pointing and finally see the Italians in the third floor windows.

  “You think we should storm the building?”

  Rurik shrugs. “It’s better than holding point in the street so the police can conveniently find us and arrest us. We need to end this now, before word gets out.”

  He’s right, but I don’t say so. Instead, I call for the men to move forward.

  One by one, with everyone else keeping cover, the men run forward and into the lobby of the building. The door is locked but the glass panes have been shot out, so we all just step through the shell of the door.

  The lobby is still uncarpeted and smells of fresh paint, though now there are bullet holes marring the new drywall.

  We scour the first floor but don’t find anyone.

  “They didn’t even protect themselves,” I mutter to myself as we run up the two stairwells, converging on the men on the third floor from both sides.

  The planning is shoddy, at best, and the attack seems like an idea thrown together last minute.

  Still, when we reach the third floor and pull open the door, shots ring out.

  Immediately, Maksim hits the ground with a limp thud, a bullet through his head.

  I take out the man who shot him and the second Italian who comes out of the door trying to see where his friend went.

  The floor is in a U-shape, so I lead a group of men down one hallway to a forced left, and when I turn, I see the rest of my men coming from the other side. I gesture for my men to stand back and wait for the other team, lest we end up on either side of an Italian, forced to shoot in the direction of our own people to defend ourselves.

  No one else comes out, though.

  Four men.

  Four Italians sent to snatch a building in disputed territory? It’s a poor showing, and I can’t decide if it means the Italians are running low on numbers or if this is a small faction that broke away and tried to make a name for themselves.

  I don’t have much time to contemplate it, though. There’s too much to be done.

  I sent some of my men to speak with the owner of the building to discuss what happened and help him arrange repairs. Then, Maksim has to be dealt with.

  “I can take him to the funeral home,” Rurik says. “Are you going to speak w
ith his wife and kid?”

  As the leader, it’s my duty to deliver the news to Maksim’s next of kin. I nod to Rurik, then turn to leave.

  I hate every fucking second of the task.

  Maksim’s house is on my way home, so I stop off there, blood still splattered across the front of my shirt.

  His wife wails when I tell her, though she knew it was a possibility. Everyone in this lifestyle does. There are no guarantees of another day. That reality does little to soften the blow, however.

  She hugs her child, still too young to fully understand what his mother’s crying means, and I can only think of Tati.

  Of what I would want someone to tell her if I died.

  I don’t know what time it is when I walk inside. Sometime in the afternoon.

  I’m not thinking about Courtney or her class schedule or Tati’s physical therapy. My only focus is getting to Tati and telling her the truth of what happened to her parents. While I still have the nerve.

  My hand is on the door to her room when I feel a small yet firm hand on my shoulder, tugging me back.

  “You can’t go in there like that.”

  It’s Courtney. Her long dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a tiny pair of athletic shorts with a white tank top.

  I lay a hand on her waist without thinking, mostly as an instinct, and she leans against my chest, her brows knit together in concern.

  “You have blood on your shirt,” she says by way of explanation, pointing at my collar.

  I left the house in a white undershirt and suit pants. I was too distracted to worry about a button-down.

  When I still don’t say anything, Courtney runs her hand down the length of my arm and then grabs my hand. She leads me to the nearest bathroom and helps me clean up.

  I watch her as she wipes a cool towel across my face and neck. Her eyes are cool and assessing, even though there is a blush high on her cheekbones. Her lips are pursed and incredibly kissable, but I force myself to resist the urge.

  “You’re calm in a crisis,” I say suddenly.

  I know Courtney knows about my violent side. It’s the entire reason she’s at my house in the first place. But I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that she’s so accustomed to seeing me covered in blood that it hardly fazes her anymore. Is she afraid of me?

  When she looks up at me, her eyes are wide with surprise. She quickly recovers and gestures for me to lift my arms up so she can peel my shirt up and toss it on the floor. Then, she looks at my chest, and I can almost see her heart beating beneath her collarbone.

  “Even at your father’s shop,” I continue, “you didn’t panic.”

  She shrugs and looks down at the floor for a moment before looking up again, her eyes heavily lidded. “It’s because I didn’t really think you’d hurt me.”

  The words sit between us like a wild animal we’re both too nervous to touch.

  Finally, I take a breath. “I’m going to tell Tati. About her parents.”

  Courtney lets out an involuntary breath. “What changed your mind?”

  I step away from her, the bathroom suddenly feeling too small, and turn on the shower. “I’d want her to know if I was dead. I wouldn’t want Tati to be expecting me home at any minute. Or, even worse, to think I’d left her of my own choosing.”

  I stare at her for a minute before peeling down my pants. I want to grab her and pull her into me.

  But not now.

  Not yet.

  I need to focus.

  Courtney leaves, and I shower. When I get out, there are new clothes hanging from the bathroom door for me, and she’s sitting in the hallway, one of her sign language books in her lap.

  “I can go in with you if you want,” she says. “As support.”

  “For me or Tati?” I tease, though it isn’t much of a joke.

  We go in together.

  Tati is sitting cross-legged on the floor, a plastic doll in her lap. She’s brushing the Barbie’s long blonde hair, tiny clothes and shoes scattered around the floor. When we walk in, she grins and runs forward, hugging us both with one arm.

  But her smile fades when she looks at me.

  What’s wrong?

  I lead her to the bed, and the frown on her tiny face deepens.

  I hate that this happened to her. That she has already had to face so much death and loss in her young life.

  And I hate that I’m the only person left to take care of her. I’m not good enough. Not ready.

  I can’t be in charge of a child’s well-being.

  Except, I am.

  I have to be.

  I want to talk to you about your parents, I sign. Where they are. What happened to them.

  The man at the mall told me about an accident, Tati signs. She takes a deep breath. He told me people were hurt.

  I should have killed that man on the spot. I knocked him out and dropped him in the back of the truck, but I should have ended his life for talking to a six-year-old about something like this.

  People were hurt. You were hurt. Do you remember it at all?

  She shakes her head.

  I unravel the story slowly, giving her as much time as I can to absorb the details and understand. I tell her about the mystery driver who hit her family’s car, knocking it from the road and halfway down a cliffside. I tell her that she survived for hours before being found and then was asleep for several weeks.

  Then, I tell her about her parents.

  They didn’t make it? she asks, confused about my phrasing. Part of her knows the truth, though because her lower lip is trembling.

  Courtney lays a hand on Tati’s leg, and she lays her hand over Courtney’s, gripping her fingers until Courtney’s hand turns white.

  I explain it again and again until she doesn’t have any more questions, until the only thing she can do is cry and be held by us.

  When Tati is finally asleep, tears still on her cheeks, Courtney and I slip from the room and go straight into mine across the hall.

  She stands nervously in the doorway as I pad inside.

  I pull open the bedside drawer, remove a bottle of whiskey, and take a swig. Then, I hold it out to her, wondering what she’ll say.

  She reaches for it and then pulls back. I nod.

  “You’ve been here two months,” I say. Courtney doesn’t look up, but she nods her head. “And I haven’t heard you request any … feminine products.”

  Her breath is shaky.

  “Our first time was unprotected.”

  “I know,” she says. “I didn’t think it would happen after one time, but—”

  “Maybe it hasn’t.” I shrug. “We don’t know yet.”

  “No, we don’t,” she agrees. “But I should be careful.”

  The day has been a nonstop rollercoaster of emotions and adrenaline, and I feel more spent than I have in a long time. Even considering the idea that Courtney could be pregnant feels like too much, so I decide not to think about it until we know for sure. Courtney appears to want to do the same thing, as she leans back against the wall and takes a deep breath.

  “We need to get our minds off—” I gesture indiscriminately around the room. “Everything.”

  “Agreed.” She licks her lips. “How do we do that?”

  “How do you usually clear your head?”

  She thinks for a moment and then her eyes brighten. Suddenly, she steps forward, grabs my hand, and leads me out of the room and down the hall. We’re halfway to the dance studio before I realize where we’re going.

  The windows along the back wall are open, letting in the moonlight, and neither of us moves to turn on the lights.

  The room seems to be steeped in a gray fog, but I can see Courtney clearly as she turns on the music low and faces me.

  “Do you want to dance with me?” she asks, her voice soft.

  The first night we met, Courtney danced for me.

  It seems only fitting after the evening we’ve had that she would now dance with me.
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  “I’m not a very good dancer,” I say, taking her hand and pulling her body close to mine.

  She arches her body against me, grabs my upper arms firmly, and then bends back, her head circling so low her hair brushes the ground. I can’t hold back a groan as her hips grind against mine and her shirt slides up, revealing the smooth plane of her stomach.

  The moment she circles back up and is in my arms, the dance is over.

  I catch her mouth with mine, bending her back, a hand curled in her hair.

  She must be feeling it too, because she grabs my face, holding me to her, and jumps, wrapping her legs around my hips.

  Our movements are rushed and clumsy as we peel off our clothes and ending up on the floor, Courtney naked and splayed out in front of me.

  I run my fingers over her smooth skin and crawl over her, kissing my way between her breasts and over her neck. She digs her fingers into my shoulder blades when I press myself against her opening, and when I slide in, she tips her head back and moans louder with every inch.

  The sounds of our bodies coming together echo off the hardwood floor and the mirrors until it sounds like we’re at an orgy rather than alone in the room.

  Courtney hooks her legs around my lower back, drawing me in deeper, and almost immediately I feel her body tense and shake. Her mouth opens in a gasp, and she squeezes her eyes closed as the orgasm rips through her.

  The moment she can relax her hold on me, Courtney pushes on my chest and rolls me over.

  Watching her climb over me, straddling my hips, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. And that’s only compounded when she slides onto me slowly, grinding her hips in slow circles.

  Our sex before this was hurried and fierce and desperate. This feels slower. Softer.

  Courtney leans forward, her breasts brushing against my chest, her mouth a few inches from mine. But we don’t kiss. I look up at her, watching expressions flit across her face as she rolls herself over me, using her dancer’s body to its full potential.

  I let my hands roam down her back and over her ass, massaging and exploring. But for maybe the first time in my life, I let a woman take control. Of our pace, our motions, our depth.