by Shandi Boyes
Fighting my trembling muscles, I crawl out of his embrace just as we hit the door of my room. His eyes convey a protest to the loss of my contact, but his lips remain locked. My entire body quakes in fear, but, thankfully, my legs are in functioning order.
After entering the room, I force my eyes to lock with Rico’s. “Did they kill him?” My words come out strained since they were coerced through the bile sitting in the back of my throat.
He holds my gaze, his eyes blazing with a range of emotions I can't read. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to, Kitten.”
Although his tone is clipped, the remorse concealed by his sharp eyes answers my question.
I throw my hand over my quivering lips. “Why? Why did they kill him?”
He slants his head to the side and stares at me with bleak, desolate eyes. “Why what? As far as anyone is concerned, you heard and saw nothing. Do you understand what I'm saying, Kitten?”
My lungs become winded when he takes a step closer to me. “You saw nothing.” His eyes relay the importance of his words. This isn’t a request or a suggestion. This is a demand. “Tell me what you saw, Kitten?” His face is emotionless, his tone low.
Tremors rake through my body as I say, “Nothing. I saw nothing,” through a sob.
The heavy indentations lining his forehead smooth the instant the words seep from my lips. No longer trusting my legs to keep me standing, I pace to the monstrously sized bed and sit on the edge. His eyes track me, but his feet remain planted in his original position as he watches me with reserved silence.
Pain shreds through my heart when the man’s pleas sound on repeat through my ears. Did he have small children like he said? Did Rico's men just make them orphans? As I search his impassive face for answers to my inaudible questions, several minutes pass in silence. They are full of turmoil and despair.
I don't know what's more disturbing: the fact I don't know the man in front of me, yet, he is my husband; or that I discovered him sitting in a room with a man who was just killed. Rico nor I pulled the trigger, but we didn't stop it from happening either. Doesn't that make us just as callous as the man who did?
After running the back of my hand under my nose—removing the contents spilling there—I return my eyes to Rico. A frown line mars the space between his brows as he watches me like a hawk, but he has not spoken a syllable since he warned me to remain quiet.
“Can I go home?” My voice is rickety. “I want to go home.”
His brows scrunch together as the quickest flash of antagonism fills his eyes.
Even with the scent of fear encroaching our small gathering, I continue, "I shouldn't be here. I don't want to be here." My words come flying out of my mouth before I have the chance to stop them. "Please let me go home."
The small flare of anger in Rico’s eyes expands to a raging tornado, but even rattled beyond comprehension, I crank my neck back and hold his gaze as he spans the distance between us. He carries himself with a confident poise that not only demands respect, but trust as well. And for some reason unbeknownst to me, I already trust him enough not to fear him.
His hand fills the side of my face when he places it on my jaw and peers into my watering eyes. For someone whose stern gaze alone could terrify any man, I find comfort in his gentle touch and glistening eyes.
“What do you remember about last night?” His tempestuous voice lowers to a more intimate tone.
My eyes bounce between his before I murmur, “Nothing.”
His thick brows slant, his gaze searingly intense. “Nothing?”
Tears dribble from my eyes when I nod, confirming his question.
He runs his thumbs over my cheeks to gather my tears. “From when?”
Sick gloom spreads through me. “I don’t remember stepping foot off the plane.”
Rico yells a foreign word. From the harshness of his tone, and the rage brewing in his eyes, I'm going to assume it was a Russian curse word.
“You were sipping on a spritzer, Kitten. You had three at the most. How can you not remember anything?”
The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Don’t ask me if it's a good or bad shiver as I wouldn’t be able to tell you.
When I fail to answer his question, Rico scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin before crouching down in front of me. I only just manage to hold in my gasp when we meet eye to eye. His dark eyes are captivating from a distance, but up close, they’re. . . soul-stealing.
“You're my wife, Kitten. Do you understand that?” he asks with his austere gaze staring into mine.
When I nod, relief fills his eyes. It’s short-lived.
“But not because I remember marrying you; I put two and two together when I saw our matching wedding bands.” And my tattoo. . . but I keep that snippet of information to myself.
With a furious storm raging in his eyes, he asks, “Do you regret marrying me?”
I balk, utterly shocked by his question. He can’t be serious? He just walked me past a room where a man was murdered without a single hesitation or spark of remorse in his eyes. If I didn’t regret meeting him, I’d be just as much a monster as he is. Furthermore, I don’t know anything about the man standing before me. I don’t even know if Rico is his full name or how old he is. I don’t know him any better than the man who delivers my mail. He’s a stranger. A scary stranger who can make my heart race in alarm and excitement, but still a stranger nevertheless.
I can tell the exact moment Rico reads the silent response of my eyes. The anger in his fear-provoking gaze grows, and the scruff on his jaw is unable to hide its manic tick. Standing from his crouched position, he extends to his full six-foot-plus height.
Keeping his eyes facing straight ahead, he says, “Collect your belongings; I’ll have one of my men take you to the airport.”
With that, he turns on his heels and stalks out of the room without a backward glance.
Chapter 4
Forty-five minutes later, a gentleman of medium build and short stature gathers my bag that was left dumped by the door within minutes of Rico fleeing it. Other than the clothes I'm wearing, I have no other personal stuff to collect, so I’ve spent the remaining forty-three minutes staring at the ceiling rose surrounding the crystal chandelier silently pondering. Forty-three minutes of reflecting only awarded me with forty-three minutes of blank memories. . . and a lifetime of haunted ones.
Dozens of eyes track me as I follow the balding middle-aged man through the large residence. Unlike an hour ago, the women with thick accents don't accost me when I enter the main living area of the house. They eyeball me with curiosity, but remain quieter than the front row of churchgoers during Sunday mass.
My eyes shift sideways when the heat of an imprudent stare captures my attention. The man I spotted earlier with the icy blue eyes has his shoulder propped up on the curved wall of the corridor that saw me walking into the gates of hell. His hair is dark and slicked back; his eyes are mocking and full of evil, and his chin holds less stubble than Rico's.
When he issues me a conceited wink, I hold my head high and turn my gaze to the front, trying to display he doesn’t scare me. If only I could stop my knees wobbling, then my attempts would be more worthwhile.
The blue-eyed stranger’s mocking laughter shrills into my ears when I step out a pair of double doors. The warmth of a late afternoon Las Vegas sun reddens my cheeks when I stop on the front stoop of an elegant, highly-guarded mansion.
I scan my eyes over the manicured grounds, absorbing the rolling turf that goes as far as the eye can see. A stream of elegant cars worth millions of dollars and beautiful floral displays make it feel like I’m not in the middle of a desert. If I could look past the heavily armed men in every corner, it would be a spectacular view.
Ignoring the gawking stares of the numerous men with guns strapped to the front of their chests, I shadow the unnamed bald gentleman down the steps of the private residence. A thankful smirk curls on my lips when he holds ope
n the back passenger door of a black Escalade.
“Thank you,” I mumble under my breath while sliding into the car.
My heart leaps out of my chest when he unexpectedly slams the door shut. After gathering my heart from the floor, I attempt to latch my seatbelt into place. My fiddling with the uncooperative latch stops when the door opposite me swings open and Rico slides inside. The veins in my neck twitch when he leans over, yanks my seatbelt out of my grasp, and latches it into place in one swift motion.
I try to issue him my thanks, but just like the seatbelt fastener, my mouth refuses to cooperate. Once he has secured his belt, Rico turns his eyes to the window. I stare at him, gawking and confused. He said he’d have one of his men drive me to the airport, not himself.
When a gentleman in a cream checkered suit enters the escalade, Rico dips his chin in greeting before raising his eyes to the rearview mirror. Not speaking a peep, he signals to the driver to leave. Confused and nursing a bruised ego, I keep my eyes rapt on Rico. If I were holding my breath waiting for him to acknowledge my presence, I would have been asphyxiated by now.
My eyes stray away from Rico when a deep voice calls my name. “Sorry, were you talking to me?” I say to the gentleman sitting across from me.
The corners of his lips tug high, exposing his perfectly white straight teeth. “Yes, Blaire. My name is Erik Monstrateo, I'm Rico’s lawyer.” He offers me his hand to shake.
Masking my shock that he knows my name, I accept his handshake before shooting my eyes to Rico. From the way he keeps his gaze planted straight ahead and his subdued mood unwavering, anyone would swear he hasn’t noticed my intrusive stare. Anyone but me. I can feel his scorching glare burning a hole in my soul.
I turn my eyes back to Erik when he says, “Rico has been very generous with his settlement offer. Once the annulment forms are signed—”
I wave my hand through the air, stopping Erik mid-sentence.
"Settlement offer?" I interrupt with my confused eyes bouncing between Erik's light blue gaze.
Erik is a handsome man in his early thirties with sandy blond hair and cut facial features, but just like Rico, he has a snip of danger in his eyes that sets me on edge.
Erik smiles. It's a warm smile in a callous and vindictive confrontation. "Yes. When you sign the annulment papers, a transfer of two million dollars will be wired into your account within twenty-four hours. . .“
He continues speaking, but I don’t hear a word he is saying. I’m too busy staring at Rico, slack-jawed and muted. Throughout Erik’s legal jargon on the terms of our annulment, Rico taps his index finger on his trouser-covered knee while his gaze remains fixated on the heavy flow of traffic whizzing by the window. Anyone would swear he is being informed the lunch specials at a fancy restaurant on the strip, not a life-altering decision.
The only time Rico’s attention is won is when I drift my eyes back to Erik and say, “I don’t want Rico’s money. All I want is to dissolve a drunken mistake and return to my normal life.” My brows scrunch as bile crawls up my windpipe. “Well, as normal as it can be after what I’ve experienced this weekend.”
A grin stretches across Erik’s face as he scratches out the excessive monetary amount in the alimony section of our annulment documentation.
His smile is wiped right off his face when Rico commands, "Leave the figure as stated." He turns his hard-set eyes to me. "We had an agreement. The amount will remain. This is not negotiable.”
“I don’t want your money,” I fire back, my voice surprisingly strong considering how fast my heart is racing.
"Then don't sign the annulment papers.” Rico glares at me. "You either leave with the figure stated or remain married to me. Only you can decide which is the lesser of two evils."
When he returns his narrowed gaze to the window, I stay staring at him, blinking and confused. Why would he agree to hand over such an extravagant amount of money to a stranger? He has only known me for twenty-four hours. It honestly doesn’t make any sense.
After adjusting the figure back to two million dollars, Erik hands the five-page document to me. I shift my eyes away from Rico to scan the densely worded form. My heart squeezes when my eyes roam over Rico's full name: Enrique Julies Popov. It's a beautiful name for a handsome but cold-hearted man.
My heart squeezes for the second time when I spot the reason for our annulment: “Plaintiff lacked understanding of his/her actions to the extent that he/she was incapable of agreeing to the marriage because she was…”
"Severely inebriated," I read aloud.
Snubbing the swirling of my stomach, I return my eyes to Rico. “I thought you said I only had a spritzer or three?”
He appears to be paying me no attention, but he can’t fool me. I can feel the heat of his gaze on me. It’s even more scorching than the blistering sun hanging in the sky. But no matter how long I glare at him, he never acknowledges my presence. That hurts even more than a failed marriage under my belt before I turn twenty-five.
With my heart clutched in my chest, I scribble my signature across the forms before passing them to Rico. He doesn't read the document or pause for hesitation, he just signs his name beside mine before handing the papers back to Erik.
I grit my teeth when absurd tears prick in my eyes. I was married for less than twenty-four hours, so I have no clue why I’m being so dramatic. But, I guess, at the end of the day, I always thought when I married, it would be to a man I love, and it would last a lifetime. I never considered the prospect of a quickie Vegas wedding.
Keeping my snivels to a bare minimum, I persevere with keeping my eyes locked on the scenery flying by. Famous Las Vegas landmarks stretch as far as the eye can see. It's a beautiful landscape, but nothing can ease the pain crippling me from the inside out.
It isn’t just the freshness of an annulment maiming my heart or the coldness Rico is directing at me; it’s the desolate look I saw in the eyes of the unnamed man bound to the chair shortly before his untimely death. He looked broken and defeated, similar to how I'm feeling now.
My eyes move away from the architectural wonder of Vegas when the Escalade suddenly comes to a stop at the side of the highway. Cars roar past the stationary vehicle, rattling the heavily tinted windows, and motorists beep their horns and yell out obscenities, completely oblivious to who they are unleashing their vicious road rage on.
I bounce my dilated gaze between Erik and Rico when Rico demands he leave immediately.
Shocked and frozen in place, my brows hit my hairline when Erik exits the Escalade without a single protest. Warm, muggy air blasts into the car when he steps onto the road surface, adding to the outrage swirling my stomach.
"It's a busy highway in the middle of a desert," I protest on Erik's behalf, my high voice conveying my utter disbelief. I won’t witness another untimely death without citing an objection.
Either not hearing a word I said—or continuing to ignore me—Rico signals for the driver to continue with our journey. With my heart walloping my chest, I crank my neck back to Erik. He’s standing at the side of the blistering asphalt with a cell phone attached to his ear and a complacent look on his face. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by the one hundred plus degree temperature beaming down on him. Obviously, this is nothing new for him.
“One of my fleet drivers will collect him,” Rico explains to my appalled expression, his tone deep and heart-clutching. He turns his blank eyes to me. “Why are you crying, Kitten?”
The simplicity of his question causes a fresh batch of tears to trickle from my eyes. At a guess, I’d say he's a similar age to me: in his mid-twenties. So it makes me wonder how much darkness has he witnessed in his short life that knowing a man was killed has no effect on him whatsoever? Rico is no doubt a handsome man, but as he's sitting before me now, he's hideously ugly. There's nothing uglier than a human being without compassion.
“Did that man have children like he said?” My words are brittle like cracked glass.
I nod. “Yes. He was a human being, Rico! How can you be so callous? You sit here demanding a woman you hardly know to take your money, but you can’t have sympathy for a man who lost his life!”
His dark eyes glare into mine, his gaze an odd mix of anger and interest. "I know you," he cites without a snick of hesitation. "And he was not a man. He was an errant coward who had to pay for his actions.” His angry tone exposes a slight twang of a Russian accent.
“By death?” I blubber out.
He holds my gaze, his stern composure unyielding. “Yes. By any means I saw fit.”
I balk, both flabbergasted and disgusted. “Who made you judge, jury, and executioner?”
“My birth right, my title, and my morals.” His voice gets louder with every word he speaks. “You're trialing me, judging me, and sending me to execution all to defend a man you don’t even know.”
I run my hands across my cheeks, angrily removing the tears tracking down my face. Even knowing I'm waging a war against a man who clearly has no morals, I can't holster my campaign. I would have never married a soulless man, drunk or not, so I know there's more to this man than what I’ve witnessed this morning. My moral compass would have never blown so far off course.
"Nothing deserves a death sentence." I stare him deadset in the eyes. "Nothing."
My breathing shallows to a wheezy pant when he asks, “Not even a child molester?”
My mouth falls open as a brutal pain hits the middle of my chest. “W-what?” The tremor of my heart echoes in my voice.
"Or what about a murderer? Or the man who laced his drugs with cheap chemicals, resulting in the death of fourteen teens in one night? What punishment would you give them, Kitten? A slap on the wrist? A stern talking to?"