Turning in Dominic’s arms, I search his eyes, wondering if it’s the last time I’ll see love in them.
41
“I saw the bomb,” I whisper. “The black box, the wires that didn’t belong. I knew it was there, but I still let Paul get in that car with my dog and turn the key. I could have stopped him. I could have saved their lives.”
Dominic’s brows draw together, his eyes softening with sympathy. “Oh, London, no, you couldn’t have. How long were you on the ground before you jumped up? Seconds, I’m guessing. And how many bombs have you seen? Are you trained in explosives? Did you know it was armed? Did you know without a shadow of a doubt what you saw was a bomb?”
I shake my head helplessly. “I’ve asked myself those questions a thousand times, and all I can come up with is that some part of me wanted—”
“No,” he interjects, his arms tightening around me. “You aren’t that person. But you are the type to beat yourself up over something you couldn’t have changed. Mix memories with trauma, regret, and grief, and you can easily put yourself in the center of blame. Believe me, I know. I did it to myself, too, before someone put things into perspective for me.”
My conviction falters. “But—”
“But nothing. It wasn’t your fault and you had nothing to do with Paul’s death.”
I almost smile at his tone—firm, commanding, final. I can easily envision him speaking to his team the same way. Imagine how much they must have trusted him… and how horrible it must have been for Dominic to lose them.
And that’s when it happens. My dark knot of shame quivers and begins to unravel, tiny threads loosening, disintegrating. The abyss inside me shrinks as light grows around it. As I realize I’m not alone in my pain. Or my healing.
“Thank you.” My voice is soft and thick.
He doesn’t ask for what—he knows—and his only response is a small smile. “How did you figure out it was Schultz?”
My mind cycles back, populating with snapshots, colors, and sounds. A lawnmower somewhere in the neighborhood. A plane overhead. The smell of cut grass and gas fumes. Our garage door open, Paul’s car in the driveway.
“It was something Paul said—yelled actually. That it was Rudy’s idea for him to come get Felix, because my coping mechanism was work and I wasn’t home enough to care for him. It sounded exactly like something Rudy would say—shit, he’d said it to my face before—except for the fact I’d found out recently he was allergic to dogs. Rudy wasn’t that generous. But it only registered after the fact, after it was too late—”
“Breathe.”
I fill my lungs. Exhale. Fill them again.
“The blast threw me backward, across the front yard. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was an SUV across the street. I recognized the driver. Saw his smile.” I shiver on the last word, remembering so clearly that evil smirk. “It was Reznikov.”
Dominic grunts. “Figured as much. The police report said the bomb was similar to ones he’s been suspected of using for years. Using the same design made perfect fodder for a rumor about him murdering your husband at your behest.”
“Yes, it did.” It still hurts, how easily my friends and colleagues believed the lies and turned against me. Like grief, I don’t think that kind of betrayal ever completely loses its sting.
“And then?”
“When I woke up with paramedics over me, it was like all the fog in my head had cleared. I knew, knew Rudy was behind everything. I wasn’t concussed—just some scrapes and bruises—so I refused the ambulance and drove to his house. I confronted him. He quoted Nietzsche, the smarmy fuck, then Ivan put a gun to the back of my head. Rudy asked me to join him. I said no. That’s all I remember. Besides waking up in a hospital with a lump on my head and my sister sobbing in the chair beside my bed.”
Almost there. Finish it.
“Two months later, I received an untraceable email detailing what I had to do to keep my family safe. Leave New York, don’t deny the allegations against me, and drop any and all efforts of investigation into the Senator, his connections to the Russians, and Paul’s death, or the detectives I was talking to would be first to die.”
“Christ Almighty.” He’s quiet a few moments, then sighs. “What’s important now is figuring out what Schultz wants from you and how to best protect you from him. I’m not afraid of him, his Russian goons, or any threats made present or future.”
My smile is tired. “Are you still afraid of me?”
“No,” he says tenderly, “but I’m still running toward you. Nothing on this earth is going to keep me from you. No matter what.”
I want to believe him.
I really do.
Dominic continues to hold me, his breathing deep and even. Hypnotic. Safe. We don’t speak for a long while, but there’s no more pressure in the silence. No secrets muddling the space between us. No darkness. Instead, there’s quiet communion. Soft acceptance. We each carry the loads of our past, but now we carry them together.
Tears bead in my eyelashes as, finally, the truth hits of how lonely my life has been. How convinced I was of my own fallibility. My treachery and conceit. How undeserving I was of happiness or forgiveness.
The wave of grief and relief breaks free, my body quaking with hot tremors. Convulsions of purging and recovery. All the while, he holds me and murmurs comfort in my ear.
“We’ll get through this together, London.”
I want to believe.
42
My mom and I are standing in the kitchen of their house in upstate New York, the only real home we had as a family. She’s singing off-key—Janis Joplin, I think—as she readies her signature blackberry pie for the oven. Sunlight from the window above the sink sparkles in her pale blond hair, braided and wrapped in a crown around her head.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn to face me. I try to move, to walk around the island to reach her, but I have molasses legs. Disquiet slithers through me. Something is wrong.
Daylight winks out like God flipped a switch. At the same time, the oven clangs open, revealing writhing, unnatural flames. Black and red and deepest indigo, they throw ghastly highlights over the kitchen, over my mother, who still hums Janis and lifts the pie in her hands. Reddish smoke pours from the hellish cavity, rapidly filling the room with the scent of charred flesh.
No! Mom!
Humming and smiling, she walks sedately toward the oven. The latticed pie crust oozes dark, thick liquid, which spills over her hands and stains her apron red.
I scream and scream for her, but I have no voice. Smoke chokes my airway. Every muscle in my body bunches, frozen on the burning edge of panic.
I can’t save her.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t—
My eyes snap open in the dark. A heavy hand covers my mouth, fingers tight on my jaw. I suck air through my nostrils, my body instinctively bucking for freedom.
“It’s me,” whispers a voice in my ear. “The silent alarm downstairs just went off.”
Dominic.
My relief sours as his words sink in, and fear drives its teeth into my gut. I sit up and his hand falls from my face. My vision adjusts enough for me to see his features, tight and grim. Before I can give voice to my rising panic, he speaks quietly.
“Listen very carefully. You’re going down the fire escape, and then you’re going to run. How’s your mile looking?”
My teeth chattering with adrenaline, I whisper back, “Eight minutes.”
“Make it six.”
I nod, but grab his arm as he makes to stand. “You think it’s—” I can’t finish, but he nods anyway. My fingers slacken as he rises. Rounding the bed, he hauls me to my feet and shoves my sneakers and socks in my hands.
“You have ninety seconds before you’re going out the window.” He sounds so calm, but it’s different than the soft control of his voice during scenes. This tone carries a different gravity—the flavor of life and death.<
br />
“Dominic,” I gasp. I’m confused and frightened and my lips are numb. “Why aren’t you coming—maybe it’s not—maybe Charlie tripped the alarm—”
He steps close, moonlight illuminating half of his face. Dropping his forehead to mine, he whispers, “I checked the feeds from my phone. There are six armed men in the club right now. They’re professionals and obviously know we’re here. It’s only a matter of time before they find the loft. The cops are on their way, but I can’t have you here, can’t worry about your safety.”
“What are you going to do?” I hiss, grabbing his forearm. “Please—”
I can’t lose you.
A loud boom sounds through the loft as something heavy hits the door to the loft. Dominic curses and yanks something from behind his back. There’s a forbidding snick-click as he loads the chamber of a sleek handgun.
For a blurred moment, I’m convinced I’m still dreaming. That this is a new nightmare. One of the worst I’ve ever had. Scratch that—the worst.
“Go, London,” he growls, hustling me toward the window.
“My shoes—” I squeak.
“Forget the shoes.” He yanks the window open, then grips my jaw in his hand. Dark eyes sear into mine. “If they wanted you dead, they wouldn’t have announced themselves like this. They want to take you. I’m not going to let that happen. Go, London. Away from the street—they probably have someone out front.”
They want to take you.
An image flashes in my mind—the young Russian women lying naked and cold in the morgue. A survival instinct I’d thought gone ignites like a flash fire. I scramble out the window onto the metal landing, then turn and grab Dominic’s wrist.
“Come with me. Let the cops deal with them.”
He shakes his head. “I need to slow them down. I’ll be fine, kitten. They’re on my turf.”
Another boom is followed by the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. Dominic grabs the back of my head and kisses me hard, then pushes me backward and slams the window closed between us. I stare in open-mouthed shock as he locks it.
Go, he mouths.
One more moment—one more look between us a thousand miles deep and wide—and I bolt to the edge of the landing, grab the ladder, and scurry to the ground. My heart gallops, white noise crowding my ears. Freezing, I look both ways, deeper down the alley, then toward the glow of the main street. Fear bulldozes my mind as the risk becomes startlingly clear. I don’t know why Rudy’s doing this, but I know if they catch me—if he catches me—I’ll never know freedom again.
With a final, longing glance toward the false safety of the light, I run into the dark.
I make it thirty feet.
A dark figure appears from the shadows and tackles me to the ground. Before I can scream, a gloved hand slaps over my nose and mouth.
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Kirkland.”
I recognize the voice—the man from the club. Terror is an afterthought, pain a distant second to rage. But no matter how hard I fight, how furiously my nails seek his face, he avoids my wrath, immobilizing me with sheer strength and weight.
Exhausted, I fall limp. Tears of fury and defeat fill my eyes, spilling as I blink up at him. A shadow face with glinting eyes.
“That’s better,” murmurs my captor. “Now, before you take a nice long nap, I have another message for you. The Old Man wants you to know he’s very disappointed with the direction you’ve chosen in life. He expected more from you. And since you owe him your life anyway, he’s calling in the debt. Say goodbye to Los Angeles, Mrs. Kirkland. You’ll never see it again.”
There’s a sharp pinch on my upper arm. My vision wavers, darkens, and my limbs grow heavy.
Static crackles and a tinny voice says, “All clear. He’s been taken care of.”
“Good. I’ve got the woman. Let’s go.”
No! Dominic!
A pitiful moan escapes me. Consciousness whirlpools, fading fast as I’m hoisted from the ground and thrown over a broad shoulder like so much baggage. The last thing I hear before darkness takes me are police sirens—too far, too late.
43
I wake to the smell of bleach and the rhythmic scritch-scratch of a ballpoint pen on paper. My eyes snap open, sucking in details of my surroundings as fast as possible. A small room. Cement with no windows and a fluorescent light fixture. There’s a drain in the middle of the floor, the area around it wet and dark. An empty bucket and dingy mop sit near a reinforced metal door.
My mind is slippery, disjointed, likely due to the sedative I was given. I’m still wearing my T-shirt and pajama pants, both filthy from the scuffle in the alley, damp with perspiration and clinging to my skin. I’m thirsty. My body quivers and aches. My bicep radiates tenderness from the injection site.
I’m not alone.
Moving gracelessly into a sitting position, I press my spine to the cool wall hard enough for my bones to protest. Harder still, until I’m certain that however much this feels like a nightmare, it isn’t one.
Set against the adjacent wall is a small desk and chair, their construction cheap, dark blue paint chipping. A man sits in the chair, his head bent as he writes. Nothing about him belongs here—not his proud, broad shoulders, not his thousand-dollar suit or Italian-made shoes. He knows I’m awake, of course, but has yet to acknowledge me. Games of power are his favorites.
But I’ve learned a thing or two about power since I last saw him. And I’ve learned about patience, too. Surrendering to discomfort. Awaiting change without expectation of it. He won’t get what he wants from me.
So I sit, suspended amidst a dozen threads of physical and emotional pain, embraced by them and untouched. I don’t think of Dominic. Of anyone or anything except not giving this man the reaction he’s looking for. And I don’t.
Eventually, the writing stops. The pen drops to the table. Wood creaks as the man shifts, turns the chair to face me, and settles again.
“London.”
“Rudy.”
His features pinch, eyes surveying me with manufactured concern. “I’m sorry about your treatment. Rest assured, that man has been dealt with. He’ll never hurt you again.”
In another existence, I might laugh. “What are you going to do with me?”
He smiles crookedly, eyes reproachful. “Don’t you want to know why you’re here?”
“I don’t give a shit.”
A pained wince. “Language, dear.”
“Fuck you.”
His mask shivers and slides away, and I see the man beneath the facade. The cold, calculating monster who possesses no conscience, no accountability for his own evil. Who ruins lives for no other reason than because he can. Handsome as only the devil can be, with a silvered tongue and a rotten soul.
Reaching behind him, Rudy lifts a manila envelope from the desk. With a flick of his wrist, the folder and its contents spill onto the floor between us. Most of the 8x10 photographs land face up. Enough for me to glean their subject.
Me.
The photograph near my left foot is grainy, a little blurred, but the central subject is unmistakable. A Saint Andrews Cross, glowing under the spotlight in Crossroad’s Epicenter. It’s from the night Dominic caned me. The night Charlie helped me get him back.
Dominic…
I bite my tongue until I taste blood. Until the urge to scream passes. Slowly, I take in the other photographs. Dominic and me on the beach. Dominic leading me from the alley next to the nightclub on Nate’s birthday. A few shots of me bartending. Then my gaze snags on one in particular—one that makes my blood run cold.
It’s the back hallway of Crossroads—empty but for Dominic and me standing close together near his office door. I remember the exact moment. A month ago, right before a shift. I’d found the gift he left for me in my locker and immediately sought him out.
“I can’t accept this.”
Arms crossed over his chest, Dominic smirks. “You don’t even know what it is.” He glances at the delicat
e gold chain dangling from my fingers. Attached to it is a diamond. Flawless and at least two carats, it’s insanely gorgeous and makes me want to puke.
I frown up at him, anxious and borderline panicked. “I appreciate the sentiment, really… I’m just not a jewelry type of girl.”
What I want to say—shout, really—is that men only give jewelry like this to girlfriends. To fiancées and wives. Not commitment-phobic submissives who can’t envision a future past tomorrow.
Perceptive as always, Dominic grabs my hand, anchoring me with his touch. “This isn’t that kind of jewelry. That, kitten, is your collar. The choice of whether or not you wear it is yours, but I want you to keep it. Please.”
Now, staring at the photograph, I wish I’d put the necklace on. Trusted him sooner. Loved him longer. Been stronger. Braver. Less damaged. More capable of seeing and accepting the clear signs of his growing affection. The melting warmth of his eyes. The teasing curl of his mouth. The soft, tender expression he only wore for me.
But the worst, most bitter truth revealed by the photograph is who took it. Only one person could have, since only one person walked into the hallway, coughed so we knew they were there, then apologized for interrupting and said I was needed behind the bar.
My friend.
My sassy, ball-busting, generous, funny friend, who bulldozed her way into my life and heart with unfailing encouragement and support.
Steph.
“Did you think I wouldn’t keep tabs on you?” asks Rudy mildly.
Through a haze of betrayal, I search for and find truth. “What are you blackmailing her with?” I don’t disguise my anger well enough, and his lips curve in satisfaction.
“That’s none of your concern.” He crosses his legs, the picture of refinement in his bespoke suit. “What matters, London, is that you understand why I couldn’t allow you to continue as you were. I should have come for you sooner, and I’m truly sorry for what you’ve had to endure. The depraved lifestyle you felt you deserved.”
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