by Nicole Fox
I see my parents in her face—two backstabbers who were born to destroy each other.
I shuffle the cards but I don’t answer her question. There are two sides to every story. In this case, both sides are ugly.
My ringtone starts to play. I pull it out of my pocket.
“Ilya,” I answer.
“Members of the Colosimo family have taken the VIP tables at Black Glacier.”
There’s a small edge in his voice, but he’s mostly calm.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
I set the cards down and stand up. I have to give Duilio’s son credit for the strategy. It would be reckless for me to attack them without knowing what they want and even more reckless to attack them in my own club. It’s intimidation with a low risk of retaliation.
“You’re leaving?” Allison asks. I focus on her, almost forgetting she was there for the briefest moment.
“Business,” I say. I bend down, cupping her face. I crush my mouth against hers, punishing her for that teasing glimpse of her body. Her fingertips touch my waist, scrambling to bring me forward. I move my hand down, slipping it under her shirt and grasping her breast. I give it a quick squeeze as my mouth moves toward her ear. “You deserve a lot worse than that.”
I pull away. Her eyes are glazed with neediness and her mouth is tinged pink.
I turn and walk out of the den. As I feel her lip balm on my mouth, I try to play over the last few seconds. I hadn’t decided to kiss her. It was instinctual. This city—my city—is a jungle, and out here, instinct can be life-saving or fatal. In this case, I don’t see it saving my life.
As I get into the car—a gleaming Cadillac that has been hibernating in the garage—my thoughts trail back to my parents. I loved my mother. I don’t blame her for anything. But she’s still a reminder that Allison can only be a sexual partner.
Anything more is risky. Show her too much of the man behind the curtain, and I invite danger into my own home. A woman who needs more from me than I can give …
And my blood on the ground when she inevitably stabs me in the back.
If Mariya’s Revenge is my pride and joy, Black Glacier is my shame and misery.
I keep it open for the Bratva, but the police are suspicious of any nightclubs under the Alekseiev name because of my father. If I could drop it, I would, but it’s so profitable that the police would be too suspicious if I tried to cut my ties to the place.
When I walk into the club, it’s moderately busy. Tuesday nights are one of our slowest, but there’s still enough people inside to guarantee a great profit margin, keep a bartender busy, and give any man here decent odds of getting his dick wet.
On a raised platform, five VIP tables overlook most of the club. The men there are unmistakably Italian—the dark hair, dark eyes, olive complexion—and a poor gene pool that gives them a rapidly receding hairline.
I walk up to the section. Duilio’s son isn’t difficult to pick out. Everyone else either keeps their gaze down around him or keeps their hand gestures restrained. In appearance, he doesn’t resemble his father. He’s slim with a casual demeanor that could fit in at a country club. Whereas Duilio looked at everyone with an air of self-importance, his son observes everyone with a lazy curiosity—until he sees me approaching. Then he sits up, his focus as sharp as a sniper’s.
He stands up when I’m less than a foot away. My arm instinctively reaches back for my gun, but I let it relax as his eyes follow my movement. His actions may betray his emotional immaturity, but not even an idiotic child would make the mistake of trying to kill me in a club with my men scattered amongst the crowd.
“Mr. Alekseiev.” Duilio’s son gestures to the chair beside the one he just vacated. “I’d be honored if you joined me.”
I take the chair, pulling it out. I’m not enthusiastic about having my back facing an open area, but I’m not about to show my caution in front of the Colosimo Mafia.
The Italian sits down beside me. He gestures for the two other men at the table to leave. After they are gone, he turns to me.
“So, Mr. Alekseiev,” he says, his voice slick with fake courtesy. “Do you mind if I call you Lev?”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t call me at all,” I say.
He nods. “Fair enough, Mr. Alekseiev. I’m Marco Colosimo, but I suppose you already know that.”
“I didn’t know your first name.” I turn my body, so I can check what’s happening behind me without seeming paranoid. His men are lingering nearby, but don’t appear to be preparing for an attack. “Your father never mentioned it.”
It’s meant as a small cut and from the look on his face, it cuts even deeper than I expected.
“Well, it’s not like the two of you met up with each other to talk casually,” he says. “I am sure you think that my men meeting here is some kind of power move—”
“I agree,” I say. “It’s not a power move. At least your father had the balls to not wait around for me, hoping to God that I’d notice him. He contacted me directly. None of this bullshit.”
He forces a smile. “I’m glad we agree. I simply wanted to be somewhere that we could talk. After all, we have a lot to talk about.”
“We don’t have anything to talk about.”
“You were in talks with my father when you killed him.” His jaw tenses at the last few words. “Perhaps we can finish that conversation.”
There isn’t a second I would ever believe that Marco cares about forming a truce and collaborating to take down the Calvino Mafia.
“Finish it then,” I say.
“First, I’d like to tell you something.” He picks up his glass, swirling the pale brown liquor inside. “I hated my father. People care about the bruises, but it’s the disappointment and shaming that sink in deeper. I’ve heard that’s something you might understand.”
“I have no complaints about my father,” I say, opening my hands to show my apathy.
“Not anymore, no,” he says. “And, now, I suppose, neither do I. From what I’ve heard, we had similar mothers as well. Of course, mine died from cancer, which isn’t comparable to your tragedy, but—”
“Why don’t you keep the rumors pertaining to my personal history in your diary and out of this discussion?” I try to keep the anger out of my voice, but it creeps in. He raises his eyebrow, hearing it. It’s a mistake. It’s fine for me to be annoyed about dealing with him, but getting angry about my parents can only be seen as a weak spot.
“I understand, Mr. Alekseiev,” he says. “My point, though, is that—despite my hatred for my father— family is still everything. I want you to know, in Jesus’ name and on my mother’s grave, you’re going to suffer for what you did.”
His tone doesn’t change as he talks. He’s in better control of his emotions than I thought, which is a problem. Emotions can be exploited. Cold logic is much harder to manipulate.
I lean forward. “I could shatter that glass in your hand and slice open your carotid artery. I could take my gun, shove it down your throat, and blow your spine out of your body before anyone else got a single shot off. With one gesture, every Bratva man in here would shoot you and all of your men and spray every patron in here with your DNA, and every fucking civilian in the joint would testify that they didn’t see a motherfucking thing. Junior, if you make a threat, you better be certain you have the upper hand or you’re going to be surprised at how goddamn easy it is for me to kill you.”
Marco doesn’t blink. “Go ahead,” he says. “But you’re a rational man. Even if you managed to kill me, it would only lead to investigations into Black Glacier. Even if I left now and you or your men killed me, my credit card information will show that the last place I went to was Black Glacier and I’m sure the police would love to include this club in their investigation.”
He slides the glass over in my direction, taunting me.
“Mr. Alekseiev, at least a few people here know who I am. One person might know who you are and if they don’t, they’ll fin
d out if my dead body is discovered. Even if they don’t know, we paid for the best tables here. We’re practically on a stage. Everyone is watching and they’re wondering what our connection is, so if I die, you will be the first one questioned.”
I indicate for Daniil to step forward. Marco refocuses on him. I hand Daniil the glass. “Get Marco three shots of Mariya’s Revenge.”
“Yes, sir.” Daniil leaves with the glass. I turn back to Marco.
“You have the same problem,” I say. “If you kill me, everyone has seen us together and everyone knows the Colosimos still resent my men for showing the city that you’re just unstable thugs.”
“The city doesn’t know who you truly are, though, does it, Mr. Alekseiev?” he taunts. “Besides, I have no plan to kill you in the short-term. I said I’d make you suffer and I meant that. These things take time.”
He glances around the club. Daniil returns with the three shots and sets them between the two of us. He retreats. Marco and I don’t reach for the shots.
“I’m not going to kill you yet,” Marco says. “But I’m threatening your kingdom. You’re threatening me with prison time, which would be a relaxing vacation for a man of my means and connections. You should remember that I’m not the face of any major legitimate businesses, so I have nothing to lose—you made sure of that. I’m going to tear you apart like it’s your autopsy. And I’m telling you this now because I know you’ll look back at this moment and know that I’m everything you think you are and that’s going to be the other thing that kills you, Lev.”
He takes a shot and downs it. He stands up. As he passes by me, he bumps the glass against my arm.
“It’s great to meet the owner,” he says, his voice carrying over the sound of the music. As he continues to stride down toward the bar, I see several people turning to look at me.
I fight the impulse to go after him. He’s a worthwhile contender, but he’s wrong. I’m not going to let him go to prison. I’m going to kill him myself. As soon as I have the police chief in my pocket, I’m going to stick each of Marco Colosimo’s body parts in a different section of the city like skulls on a spike.
And each one of them will be painted red with the same warning:
Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.
Getting drunk is a game for undergrads, easy women, and people who never grew up. But as I step into my house, my body feels heavy and my thoughts weightless, floating away.
I wander through the house. I imagine Allison in every room—drinking in the den, eating in the kitchen, showering in the bathroom, napping in my bedroom—but she’s not in any of them. There’s no reason that she would be, but she infiltrates every room.
I’m not the kind of man. I don’t let shit bother me, but she’s so deeply under my skin that it’s aggravating every part of my life.
I stop in my personal gym. The warmth from the liquor is changing into heat from rage. I jump onto the treadmill, selecting nine miles per hour. I run for fifteen minutes but the frustration digs into me farther. I pound out thirty pull-ups. The aggression continues to grind against my brain. I start wrapping my hands for the boxing bag.
My cell phone beeps. I take my time reaching it.
Allison Harrington: Is everything okay?
It’s such a small thing. The tension in my shoulders and jaw eases. I tap her number on the screen and bring the phone up to my ear, letting out a slow breath.
“Hello,” she says. She sounds like she’s underwater or ill. “Did you fix whatever you needed to?”
“Not exactly.” I walk over to the gym’s mirrors in front of the dumbbells and kettlebells. I replay our sex in the dressing room. “But it’s not important. Are you ready for the gala tomorrow?”
“I mean, I will be if I get enough sleep.”
I glance at my phone. 2:29 a.m. Shit. My phone must have just been reminding me that I had a text and I hadn’t noticed it before.
“I apologize. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Wow. You aren’t used to apologizing, are you?” She laughs. I press my ear harder against the phone, taking in her joy. “It’s fine, Lev.”
Her voice sounds nice when she’s just woken up. I imagine her, curled up on her bed, her hair splayed over her pillow, wearing some kind of thin shirt that can’t conceal her nipples.
I should have checked to see what her bed looked like when I was at her apartment.
I could relax if we fucked again, but phone sex would be a decent substitution.
“So, is everything okay?” she asks again. Her words slur slightly together, sticky with sleep. It takes me a few seconds to understand what she said.
I’m certain I could coax her into telling me her deepest fantasies and get her desperate to have me fuck her again. But the sound of her tired voice works its own magic on me.
“Tell me about your court cases,” I say softly.
She laughs. “You want to know about what I did with the DA?” she asks. “It was mostly the one case, but I helped out other people in the office. There was one interesting case, involving a house covered in cat prints.”
Her voice is a lull in a storm as she goes on, talking about this and that. The actual things she says are less important than the fact that she’s the one saying them and I’m the one listening. It’s like playing a game where the outcome doesn’t matter—all that matters is the back and forth between us. Her exhaustion seems to have taken down all of her emotional walls. She is simple, raw, vulnerable, even as she says nothing that she wouldn’t tell a stranger on the street.
After the first ten minutes, she talks less and less. She becomes quiet except for the sound of her breathing. I could stay on the phone and listen to it for another few minutes, but I know that would be irrational.
“Good night, Allison,” I whisper.
“Good night, Lev.”
I end the call and sit there for a moment. I rub my face, trying to pull my thoughts away from Allison. Sitting there, it feels like I’m in the depths of an illness. I’m not myself. I shouldn’t have cared whether or not she was tired. I shouldn’t have called her at all. Tenderness is a virus and being around her has infected me.
I massage my shoulder. I need to redirect my focus to my work. Fear is the father of love and there’s no fear when I focus on my company. Not only am I certain in its longevity, but I’m also certain that even if the end comes, I’ll see it coming from miles away.
I can’t say the same about people.
12
Allison
Irina answers the door when I arrive at Lev’s house.
“Welcome, Miss Harrington,” she gestures inside. She’s holding an ibuprofen bottle. She catches me looking at it. “Mr. Alekseiev is being stubborn. Maybe you could convince him to take some medication?”
She offers the bottle to me. I take it. “Did he hurt himself?”
“No, not exactly,” she says, picking up a rag and dusting spray off the floor. “It’s not my place to say anything. Mr. Alekseiev is in the den. It was nice to see you again, Miss Harrington.”
She sprays the handrail of the spiral staircase before wiping it down. I pass her and head into the den.
I’ve found myself discovering new parts of Lev—his criminal connections, his concealed kindness, his body—but I’m not expecting to find him in his den, lying on the couch with his clothes rumpled, his arm covering his eyes, and the strong scent of alcohol lingering on him.
Irina’s evasiveness makes a lot more sense to me now.
“Do you need some ibuprofen?” I ask.
He shifts his arm. “No. You’re early.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “It’s nearly 4:00.”
He grabs his phone, the screen lighting up his face. “Shit.”
I set the ibuprofen on the end table. “It’s not the best time to start indulging in any addictions.”
“It has nothing to do with addiction. It’s a migraine.” He sets his phone down. “Everything will be fine.”
&
nbsp; I sit down on the couch’s armrest. It’s strange to feel comfortable in my blackmailer’s house, but that’s exactly how I feel. Like I’m at home.
Lev sits up, rolling his neck, and winces. “We need to talk about the gala.”
“I think we’ve quizzed each other enough. Unless you’re ready to confess more.”
“It’s not about quizzing each other. It’s about the engagement.”
That part always slips my mind. All this time it’s felt like we’re preparing for some adult version of the prom. The bad parts are easy to forget.
“We’re going to announce our engagement the morning after the gala,” he says.
“Why wouldn’t we do it at the gala?”
“Less risk,” he says. “We’ll pretend that I proposed the night of the gala after a very romantic night together.”
The doorbell rings. Lev barely glances in the direction of the door before he closes his eyes again, rubbing his temples.
“Is that Ilya?” I ask.
“Close,” he says. “Did you want to see Ilya?”
There’s an edge in his voice I haven’t heard before. I don’t see him as a jealous type, but I can’t figure out what other emotion it could be.
“No, I just haven’t seen anyone else visit.”
A woman enters the room, carrying a large bag over her shoulder. She’s almost fairy-like in her beauty. Her blonde hair flows down her head like sunlight, her skin is flawless, and everything about her is the definition of dainty.
She’s gorgeous and I hate her for being in Lev’s den right now.
Lev gestures to her. “Allison, this is Sophie. She’s Ilya’s wife. She’s going to help you get ready for the gala.”
“Oh, Ilya’s wife. Great.” I hold out my hand, hoping she can’t see my embarrassed blush, and she shakes it. Her hand feels incredibly fragile. “Thank you so much. I’m not great at makeup or anything like that.”