Yeah … five months didn’t mean shit.
It didn’t matter how often he found himself seeking the bottom of a bottle—whether it was a dark variety, a light, or a mixture of both—he still couldn’t escape his memories of her.
His Aidra.
The woman he’d loved and lost.
Even with an abundance of alcohol swimming in his veins, he remembered the way she used to roll her eyes when she was flustered, or the way she would trace a heart over his chest when they were in bed together. She was there. A part of his very being.
No matter how hard he tried, nothing seemed to purge the misery he felt.
And now, he was dreaming about the first time they met.
It felt like a lifetime ago now that she’d stumbled her way into the training room he was in as he completed his first lesson.
Nix didn’t know that little detail, and if he did, he wouldn’t have been pleased.
Relationships, in general, were frowned upon in the Lotus Society—the secret organization of assassins both he and Nix once belonged to. They were complications, and one of the most important rules in the Society was that concentration on a job could never be lost—especially not because of matters of the heart.
Or his cock, as it were that day.
He’d only been thinking about one thing then, but as the years passed and they grew closer before she ultimately found her way into his bed, Aidra was more than just her looks. She had been everything to him.
And in a single night, he had lost her.
Nah, five months didn’t mean shit.
He still felt her death like a punch to his ribs, and despite what Nix had told him the last time they spoke, it didn’t seem as though time was fixing anything.
Time.
How often had he heard time healed all wounds? That time was what he needed to process and cope with the reality of losing the woman he loved?
He’d wanted to believe it too, needing to grasp onto anything that meant he wasn’t feeling like he was drowning as Aidra had.
Even now, as he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the disheveled strands of his hair tight, he could still see her floating in that tank, eyes wide with panic as she fought to breathe. The man who’d put her in there had been smart, but not smart enough. He hadn’t gotten the fuck out of town before Christophe got to him.
He’d felt a certain thrill feeding the man’s remains to pigs—it had felt appropriate.
But even as revenge was sweet, Aidra was still gone, and he’d still felt like shit after.
No, time was a little bitch he wanted to shoot right in the fucking face.
Stumbling to his feet, Christophe wandered into the bathroom. Reaching across the tub to turn the dials, water sprung from the showerhead above him. It took no time at all to strip his clothes off and climb in, the cold water further waking him from his stupor.
Silence reigned as he stood in the shower, waiting for the water to warm. The nothingness clawed at his subconscious, inner demons waiting to be let out.
He hated silence.
Always had.
He hated the way it wrapped around him and became a suffocating bubble he couldn’t escape. It wasn’t often he liked being lost in his own head—he didn’t like what he found there.
Maybe tonight he would finally go out, find a bar somewhere, and drink himself into a coma. That would at least quell two of his needs—the first to stop thinking of Aidra and his failure, and the second to stop thinking about anything.
Once he was clean, Christophe stepped out of the shower. Barely drying off, he tugged on a shirt and a pair of dark jeans then laced up his boots.
Now, the only thing he needed was his wallet and keys. Resting on the nightstand next to both was his mask.
That mask …
Just as much a part of him as the tattoos that decorated his skin and the brand on his chest of the lotus flower.
Painted to resemble a melting skull, it identified him much more clearly than his face ever did. When it was time to do a job, and he put that mask on, he became a different person.
He became Fang, the moniker he had adopted long before he ever stepped foot inside the training facility—back when he’d been much younger with more to prove.
Without it, he was just the Romanian orphan desperate to wind back the hands of time.
Pulling the drawer of the nightstand open, he dropped the mask inside and slammed it shut.
Something for another day.
Grabbing everything he needed, he left his apartment, walking the short distance down to the bar at the corner.
Davie’s Tavern.
As long as he’d been in the neighborhood, he had never bothered to venture inside, preferring to drink alone where the sheer volume of alcohol he consumed wouldn’t be cause to judge him.
Tonight, he didn’t give a shit.
He would drink until he couldn’t remember his fucking name, and he didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought.
The first time she’d seen the guy with the tattoos, he’d been on a motorcycle, slowly removing his helmet before placing it on the handlebars and climbing off.
Mariya Kuznetsov had only thought then he was a little dangerous—really attractive—but nothing she wanted to get involved in. With the trouble she was already dealing with, she didn’t need to add anything to it.
She was content to just look, letting her curiosity run wild, but once she realized he lived in her building, just one floor above her own apartment, it was much harder to ignore him.
The apartment building only had five floors, with just as many apartments between them, but the apartments themselves were still tiny. Most of the residents had lived there for more than a decade, so when she moved into the building—coincidentally, only a month or so after he had so she’d been told—it wasn’t hard to learn more about him.
Though the more she’d learned was only the floor he lived on and his predilection for buying vodka.
Most thought he was part of the trouble in this neighborhood, as dangerous and violent as some of the men that walked these streets. Whispers of an Irish gang taking over this part of the city hadn’t escaped her, but Mariya was careful to keep her head down and not draw attention to herself.
They didn’t know crime was all she knew.
They didn’t know her last name held power, even in the streets of Brooklyn. Not as much as in Chicago where the Kuznetsov Bratva reigned, but her family name reached well beyond the borders of her old city.
The men who ran this neighborhood weren’t nearly as terrifying as some of the men she knew.
And definitely not compared to a man like Feliks Sokovich.
She could handle teenagers on the corner, but what she was made to endure no one would have been able to handle that.
And he’d been her husband
The smell of the blood splattered on the front of her dress still hung in her nose despite the months that had passed since the last time she stepped foot in Chicago.
The gurgling coughs.
The grasping hands.
She needed to get him out of her head.
Feliks might have been hundreds of miles away, but he still found a way to invade her every thought.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced the memories away, tucking them into a box where she couldn’t reach them.
Brooklyn might have been a long way from Chicago, but everyone knew someone, and it was hard staying one step ahead of someone who had far more power now than he did before.
“Oy, you there tonight?” Davie asked, drawing her back to the present.
Some feet away, her boss stood with thick arms folded across his chest and a towel draped over his shoulder.
She hadn’t realized she was still just standing there staring at the entrance where her neighbor had come through, but now, he was long gone.
“Sorry, lost in thought.”
Davie gave her a look that told her he thought she was a little off. “Aye, I’
m getting used to that.”
Davie was Irish through and through, complete with the temperament and the ability to drink anyone under the table. On her first night in the city, she had stumbled into his bar, and by the end of it, she’d stumbled back out after begging for a job. He’d agreed to take her on so long as her schedule was always open.
Without her family and without knowing a single person in the city, her answer had easily been yes.
She had never mentioned she had never waited a table in her life and knew absolutely nothing about mixing drinks, but after a few trials and errors—and after he’d lost his temper with her a few times and forced her to come in on her off day to practice—she got the hang of it.
But she liked him nonetheless, temperament and all.
Without Davie, she wasn’t sure where she would be. After leaving Chicago, she hadn’t brought much with her besides the basic necessities, and after dumping the car she’d stolen on her way to New York, she hadn’t been able to pick up anything more.
Bringing over two beers for a couple on the other end of the bar, Mariya was about to start wiping it down when a raised hand caught her attention at the edge of her vision.
The neighbor.
Wiping her hands on the hand towel she kept in the half-apron she wore, she headed in his direction, easily maneuvering through the people standing and sitting around the mounted televisions.
It was stupid, she thought, the slight flutter in her stomach she felt as the distance between them grew smaller.
It was curiosity.
That was it.
After months with Feliks, she hadn’t thought she was capable of feeling anything other than disgust for a man, but she couldn’t ignore the burning curiosity inside her for the one person no one seemed to know.
“What can I get you?” she asked once she was close enough to be heard over the speakers.
He’d dropped his hand once she was halfway across the floor, and as he turned to read the menu in front of him, the dark mark on the side of his neck caught her attention. Now that she was close, the ‘X’ tattooed there stood out, the lines thick and dark.
“Vodka,” he said with a marked accent. “The strongest you have.”
Romanian, she thought but couldn’t be sure. “Do you have your license?”
One dark brow shot up as he regarded her, but he didn’t argue as he reached for his wallet and pulled it out for her to see.
As her gaze moved from his picture to his birthdate, she couldn’t help peeking at his name too.
Christophe Lupei.
Interesting name.
“Do you want a sh—”
“The bottle.”
Now, it was her turn to arch a brow at him. Davie didn’t often sell by the bottle—too many drunk eejits thinking they could drive home, he’d said—but Christophe looked completely sober to her.
He just seemed sad.
Very, very sad.
Nodding, she headed back to the bar, grabbing a glass first and filling it with a few cubes of ice before she went up on the tips of her toes to grab one of the frosted bottles on the top shelf.
When she brought it back over, he offered her a nod of thanks.
Wordlessly, she left him.
“He’s nice to look at,” Aubrey Tamsin said once she was back behind the bar. “I’d definitely try to take him home.”
Unlike Mariya, Aubrey was born and raised in Brooklyn, and despite having kept to herself for weeks, Aubrey hadn’t thought twice about befriending her.
“Russians are fun,” she’d said with an adoring smile. “My last boyfriend was Russian, and let me tell you; he was a hell of a good time.”
Aubrey wasn’t the type to ask questions and dig into secrets one didn’t willingly offer. She merely took life a day at a time.
“Don’t you think so?” she pressed on, nudging her with her elbow.
Mariya shrugged, evading.
She would have to be blind not to see Christophe’s appeal. He must have been at least six-foot-four, and with dark hair that curled slightly, and a jawline that was more than a little impressive, he was gorgeous.
But Feliks had been gorgeous too even as a monster lay beneath the surface.
“Plenty of attractive people in this city, you know,” Mariya said with an absent smile, going back to filling her orders, even as Aubrey drifted behind her.
“Well, you’re no fun. How am I ever going to get you a man if you don’t cooperate?”
“I don’t want one.”
Not now. Not ever.
Never mind that she had suffered at Feliks’ hands, but she would never ask anyone to accept the life she came from, and whether she liked it or not, they would have to.
“It wouldn’t be forever, you know.” Aubrey tried another tactic. “Just let him rock your socks off and leave it at that.”
“Nyet. Not going to happen.”
“Hand to God, best sex I ever had was a one-night stand.”
Setting her two drinks in front of the men openly listening to their conversation, Mariya cut her eyes back to her friend. “I thought you said the best was your sixth boyfriend. What was his name?”
“Tim—but our one night was so special, it totally counts.”
How could she argue with that? “I’ll think about it.”
She wouldn’t, but that was the easiest way to get her off her back.
As the hours slipped by, Mariya found her gaze drifting over to Christophe. Each time, he was refilling his glass, but she didn’t think she’d actually seen him drink any of it. By the time they were on final call, however, the bottle was nearly empty, and he was slapping down a number of bills on the table before getting to his feet.
“Are you going to be all right there, dove?” Davie asked as Mariya stripped off her apron and finished wiping down the bar top.
“I live right down the street.” Something he already knew. “I’ll be fine.”
He was eyeing Christophe as he left. Gypsies, he’d said once, you can’t trust them. Maybe he was Romanian, after all.
“You still have that thing I gave you?”
By ‘thing,’ he meant the can of pepper spray he’d given all the girls who worked for him. “Yes, I have it.”
“Go on, then. I’ll close up here.”
It was a balmy night despite the hour; warm enough that she didn’t need the jacket she’d brought along with her. Just as she’d told Davie, it took her no time at all to reach her building as the rest of the street was mostly vacant.
Digging around in her bag, she hunted for her keys … at least until a shadow fell into her line of sight.
Jumping back with a silent scream, she darted her gaze to the shadow’s owner before she could think to pull the only weapon she had.
“Shit, sorry,” he said, holding his hands up in a nonthreatening gesture, though it didn’t help much. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Despite the apology, he didn’t sound as though he actually meant it. He spoke as though he knew those were the right words to say, rather than what he wanted to say.
Christophe.
He was drunk, or at least he should have been drunk by the sheer amount of alcohol he’d consumed, but he seemed remarkably steady on his feet as he brought a cigarette to his lips.
The smart thing to do would have been to walk on past him, leave him to his cigarette and mind her own business, but months of curiosity had her speaking to him. “Are you going to be okay?”
Christophe blinked, seeming surprised she had spoken to him at all. Besides the occasional hello and serving him tonight, she hadn’t really engaged him much at all despite them living so close.
But his answer was not what she expected.
“Probably not.”
Most people tended to lie, even when the truth was obvious. “Are you at least going to be able to make it up the stairs on your own?”
The last thing she wanted to see when she left her apartment in the morning was him passed out
in a pool of his own vomit.
“You offering to walk me up?” he asked with a smile, as though amused by her question.
“No,” she responded, holding her head up a fraction. She wasn’t stupid. “But I’m sure Thomas is awake, and he’d be glad to.”
Thomas being the lifelong US Army Ranger who lived across the hall from Mariya and did his best to minimize the crime in their building.
Flicking ash off the end of his cigarette, Christophe shook his head. “I think I have it under control.”
Seeing no point in arguing further, she left it at that. “Have a good night.”
She’d only managed to take a step before he asked, “Your name?”
“Sorry?”
“What’s your name?”
Funny that she had passed him so often yet never bothered to learn his name until tonight, or him learning hers.
But perhaps that was a good thing. It only meant she hadn’t been drawing attention to herself.
Undoubtedly, it would be smart to stick to that. After four months without so much as a peep from Feliks, maybe she was doing something right.
“What’s yours?” she asked instead, even though she already knew.
“Fang.” His response came a moment later.
“Fang?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
A corner of his mouth tipped up wider, revealing a set of pearly white teeth, and under the glow of the street lamp, she thought she saw a glint of silver in his mouth.
“People actually call you that?”
“If they’re smart.”
“And if they’re not? What do they call you then?”
Bloodshot eyes fell on her, his expression … sad. “Christophe.”
It was obvious he didn’t like being called that. “Nice to meet you then, Fang.” Officially, at least. “I’m Mariya.”
That was all she would give him.
Leaving him to his cigarette, and more than ready to get off her feet, she started up the stairs again until his voice stopped her. “Careful walking alone. It’s not safe.”
It was the same warning Davie had given, but she didn’t feel a chill when he’d said it. “I’ve survived this long.”
Shaking his head, he tossed his cigarette down, grounding it out with the toe of his boot. “Yeah? So did she, but it didn’t mean shit in the end.”
Skorpion. (Den of Mercenaries Book 5) Page 24