Shattered: Running with the Devil Book 7

by Jasmin Quinn

  “Do you play?” Janice asked.

  “Darts and pool. I am pretty fucking good at both.” It slipped out and Esma glanced quickly at Janice trying gauge her reaction.

  Janice cracked a grin. “Don’t swear in front of him. He doesn’t like it, especially from women. Even if he does enough of it himself, don’t do it.”

  Esma nodded and Janice added. “Also, don’t disagree with him. Once he decides something, it’s not debatable. I’m letting you know – there’s no point in you finding out the hard way.”

  Esma sucked in a breath, wanted to ask what would happen, but simply said, “Okay.”

  “If he asks your opinion, he expects an honest answer. Don’t defer to him or say what you think he wants to hear. He sees right through that. It pisses him off.”

  They exited the billiards room and Janice guided her down a long hall to another wing. As they walked, she said, “Don’t keep him waiting. Not for you, not for anything he asks for. He sets the expectations, doesn’t like it when they’re not met.”

  Esma stopped. “What happens when that happens?” It was a little masochistic of her to ask because she knew she was going to fuck this up on an epic scale. The only thing on time in her life was her period.

  Janice stopped too. They stood in the hall facing each other. “He’s a good man, if you’re loyal. I’ve been with him almost 10 years. I’ve lasted this long because I play by his rules. They’re not intolerable. He gives you a roof over your head, a good paycheck, and freedom to do as you want. He protects you. But he doesn’t tolerate mistakes, bullshit, and disloyalty.”

  “I get it.”

  They started walking again until Janice stopped in front of a set of heavy double doors. She rested her hand on the handle as she turned to Esma. “I hope so. I’m telling you this because I’m his household manager. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. I won’t set you up for failure because if Rusya found out I did something like that, he’d ruin me. Ten years of my loyalty would mean nothing if I undermined him.

  “You’re a member of the household. He has to trust you implicitly.” She stopped, appearing to choose her next words carefully. “It’s not like him to be so quick to make a decision without doing all the background checks. I intend to do them. If I find something, I’ll be passing it along to him.”

  “You won’t find anything.”

  “I hope not, for your sake.”

  Janice pulled the doors open, leading Esma into a small gym, a glass partition separating it from a full-sized swimming pool. Janice pointed out the hot tub and sauna. “Yours to use whenever you aren’t working.” Her eyes raked Esma. “Looks like you keep in shape.”

  Esma nodded. “I try to.” She caught the woman’s appraising eyes as they lingered on her and flushed under the intense scrutiny. It was more than a casual glance, Janice was interested, testing the waters. A little more information for Esma to file.

  Janice led her through the gym to a door at the back. “The changing room is here and the bathroom, but just the one for both men and women, so use a little discretion just in case. The household staff has use of the facilities but it’s rare to see anyone here. Rusya’s men on the outside don’t train here. Rusya does – here or at the country facilities. If he’s here, he uses the gym and sometimes the pool, usually after 9pm or first thing in the morning.” She paused as her eyes raked Esma again. “You may want to get your workouts or swims in before then.

  She turned and re-entered the hall. “There’s a library that you can use, not sure what Rusya will want in terms of an office for you. He doesn’t have an assistant. Just me, his men and the household staff. Everyone else supporting his business enterprises lives off-site or is contracted. You’re the first in terms of supporting his work as a full-time staff member.

  Esma suppressed a grin. How sophisticated to call mob operations, business enterprises. She knew Rusya dealt in both legal and criminal activities. The criminal activities he ran weren’t that elegant. Neither were the legal activities, not the way Rusya handled them. Ruthless was a word that came to mind.

  They paused at the threshold of the library. “There’s a deck off your room if you want to sit in the sun, or the back yard – don’t wander the premises alone. There’re the dogs, and the men are well-armed, well-trained and sometimes pigs. Don’t be alone with them.”

  Esma nodded. She wasn’t afraid of dogs or well-armed, well-trained men, even the ones who didn’t understand how to treat a woman. She’d met them all and she was still here. Some of them weren’t. But, she reminded herself, she probably shouldn’t go around killing Rusya’s men.

  Janice interrupted her thoughts. “Unless he tells you otherwise, address him as Mr. Savisin.”

  Esma nodded again.

  “Wander the house, look around. I’ll send for your bags from the hotel. Later, I’ll introduce you to the house and kitchen service staff. They’re here to look after you - clean your room, make your bed, change your sheets – Mondays through Fridays.” She smiled. “You’ll have to make your own bed on the weekend, if that matters to you.”

  “Thank you,” Esma said sincerely. But she caught Janice’s message too. There was not a lot of privacy in this household. Staff would come in and out of her room so if Esma had anything she didn’t want shared, she needed to hide it well.

  After Janice guided her back to her room and left, Esma closed the door, kicked off the boots she’d been wearing and crawled up on the bed, right into the centre, pulled one pillow into her arms and curled up on her side, resting her head on the other pillow. Now that she was alone, she wanted a drink. Anything. Beer, tequila, vodka. Cough syrup. Today she looked death in the face and played Russian roulette. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in a position where she might die. Not even the 10th time. The problem this time was that this was the most danger she’d ever been in.

  Not even Whistler last summer, armed with a knife, fighting back against men with rifles, did she feel the sense of dread and unease she was feeling now. Jackman more or less sent her to her death because she fucked up so badly, or so he decided. Except she didn’t. She saved Marisol’s life, but that didn’t matter to the Russian asshole. All that mattered was that she disobeyed his direct order not to engage with Anto and Marisol, the couple she was supposed to track.

  She found them though, but then Dean Copeland arrived, walked into Anto’s house in Whistler, to find her dead drunk and sprawled out next to an injured Marisol on the couch. They worked together to get Marisol to safety, but after that, Dean forced her to go back to Russia with him, hauled her back to Jackman’s compound and gave his fucking report. No opportunity to defend herself, even though she knew that some of her actions were indefensible.

  Jackman held her in contempt, locked her up for six weeks. Without access to alcohol, she went through detox. Painful, numbing, torturous. Jackman didn’t provide the care she needed. She had the bare essentials. A bed, a bathroom, a basin for vomiting when she couldn’t crawl to the toilet. A doctor came and went twice a week, to check on her physical well-being. But no counselling, no other human contact. She’d been through a lot of hellish moments in her life, but this was one of the worst. She hated Jackman for it, thought she might be the one to kill him one day. It’s what got her through the worst of it – all the ways Jackman would die. All the ways she could kill him.

  After six weeks, after she was clean, Jackman allowed her to return to her apartment, but she was monitored closely to make sure she stayed off the booze. She worked out like a fiend to help her deal with her cravings, trained endlessly. Janice wasn’t wrong – she was in the best physical shape of her life. When her body crashed, she practiced her gun skills. Not her favourite thing but she got pretty fucking good at hitting the target. Before, she’d been deadly with a knife, but now, she was lethal either way.

  Then Jackman gave her this assignment. Infiltrate Savisin’s operations as a linguist. The manipulative bastard set it all up. Background checks
in place, a high recommendation by someone Rusya thought he knew and foolishly trusted. All she needed to do was get past the interview, convince Savisin she was worthy. There was no option for failure. If she’d walked out of Rusya’s home without the job, she would not have lived to see another sunrise.

  Once she was in, once Rusya trusted her, she was to report back on his activities or manipulate from the inside. Jackman setting her up to fail. She didn’t operate like that, subversion wasn’t a strength of hers and he knew it. The whole idea of insinuating herself into another’s life was a foreign concept for her. She liked to say what needed to be said and she liked people who were of the same mind. It’s why she hated Jackman. Because he was always about the game. Always working an angle. Sometimes going through the front door was as effective as sneaking in through a window. But Jackman didn’t think so and she never wasted her time debating the point because he would shut her down. He didn’t like her much either.

  At first, she thought Jackman was nuts, thinking she could sustain this deception, this kind of pressure, but then she realized that he didn’t have any real belief that she would pull it off. That was the thing. Jackman knew exactly what he was doing. Torture then death. He knew she wouldn’t succeed, knew that she would break under pressure, take a drink. And one drink, one single drink would be her undoing, because she couldn’t stop at one. That was her problem. She could not ever just have one drink. Jackman’s real punishment for her disrespect of him would be for her to die at Savisin’s hand. Jackman could sit back and enjoy the show. Another betrayal for Rusya, Jackman’s chess game. She, his pawn.

  Chapter 5

  Rusya was in his office, a glass of vodka tucked between his fingers as he sat on the couch, eyeing his new translator’s two-page resume. The sun had long since set on the day, but Rusya’s mind had not yet shut down. He was intrigued by Esma and it bothered him. It wasn’t like him to have his head turned by a woman. But this woman, well, she was different in a way that spoke to him, to his dick without a doubt, but also to his emotions.

  He didn’t like emotions. Not the messy ones like anger or love. Desire, he understood. A good fuck and it waned. But anger or love meant losing control and Rusya didn’t like to lose control. He’d beaten men to death in anger. He preferred to coldly shoot them in the head. Less messy and distracting, fewer long-term repercussions. Love? Not really a thing for him. Yes, his wife, because it was what one did when they married. It crushed him when she died. He lost her, lost the baby she was carrying. Lost interest for a while.

  But that was long enough ago that it almost didn’t matter anymore. He’d had his vengeance. One of those moments of losing control. Not his undoing, because it was expected, it was justified. But it fueled the legacy of hate between he and his enemy. He sometimes thought the best thing to do would be to finish it once and for all. Bulldoze the fucker over and hang his head on a spear outside the high walls of his fucking Russian fortress. But that had repercussions too.

  Janice drew his attention as she stepped into the room. He stretched his neck to ease the tension in his shoulders and threw her a small smile. She was carrying a cup of tea in a saucer and a plate of freshly-baked lemon butter cookies. His favourite though he wasn’t interested tonight. She set the plate down on the coffee table in front of him and sat in the armchair next to the couch.

  Their conversation was enlightening.

  “She’s an alcoholic,” Janice told him. “In recovery.”

  Rusya took a draw of his drink. “She told you that?”

  “No.” Janice grinned at a memory. “She told me she was Muslim.”

  “That’s not far-fetched. Almost everyone from Turkey is Muslim.”

  “She’s not active if she is. I challenged her on other Muslim practices, and she admitted that abstinence from alcohol was the only thing she adhered to.” Janice paused as she sipped her tea. “She’s nervous, Rusya. I bet she hasn’t been off alcohol six months. Probably less.”

  Rusya considered this. “It shouldn’t have any impact on her work.”

  “Unless she starts to drink again. Then who knows what information she’ll share and with whom.”

  Rusya frowned. There weren’t a lot of linguists in the world that had the skill sets Esma did. And of those who did, not many were willing to work for someone with the mob affiliations he had. It had taken time and a few favours to find someone like Esma, who needed a job and a safety net. If she hadn’t surfaced, he would have had to help himself to someone who could do the job and that was fraught with all sorts of issues. He didn’t expect that she would come without problems because if she couldn’t find work elsewhere, there were several unspoken reasons.

  Janice was of the same mind. “What’s her story, Rusya?”

  “My contact wouldn’t elaborate too much other than to say she’s had a rough upbringing, and a hellish past few years. Trouble with the law in Turkey.” Rusya looked down at his drink, twisted the glass between his fingers. “I know I’m not being careful enough, but she’s a better option than no option.”

  “I want to know more.”

  Rusya studied his household manager. She was a good person to have around. Everyone respected her, including his men. He nodded his permission. “Find out why she left her attaché job and what her legal troubles are in Turkey.”

  Janice seemed satisfied with his answer as she drained her tea and stood. At the door, on her way out, she paused. “What if she does take a drink, Rusya, then what?”

  The question of the hour.

  Later, it made Rusya restless as he tried to sleep. Esma was too much on his mind, small, but compact with gentle curves and a pretty face that lit up when she smiled, which she did a lot. Her hair was a riot of curls that reached above her shoulders. Not professionally styled, natural in the way she wore it. It was provocative. She was provocative. Women weren’t like her or at least not the women he encountered. She was afraid of him, but also not. It was like she knew exactly what he was capable of but stayed the course anyway. She was smart, thoughtful, bold. She would be a challenge to unlock. It had been a while since he felt challenged by a woman.

  In the morning, he was no less settled. He went through his usual careful routine, showered, shaved, dressed in his suit and tie. His mind on his day, what he needed to do, then flitting back to Esma, trying to envision her. Thinking about her, wondering about her, wanting her.

  In his office, he was edgy, waiting for her arrival. It was still early, a little after eight. They hadn’t established a start and stop time so he needed to be patient. But he was failing at it. He was wound up, pacing with his coffee cup. Staring through his window at the shitty west coast weather. Not relishing the meeting he had later, off-site, in down-town Vancouver. The meeting that would decide the fate of three young men who were encroaching on Rusya’s territory, challenging his authority for a little drug money. He wondered if he should take Esma with him. She was to be his assistant after all. But then shook that thought off. She didn’t need to know everything about his operations, not yet anyway.

  The woman in his thoughts entered his office after lightly rapping on the door twice. Not waiting for his permission to enter and Rusya wondered about that as he turned, tried not to stare, but did anyway. She was wearing a red dress with a white collar and white cuffs on long sleeves. The top stretched across her breasts and hugged her soft stomach and small waist, then flared at her hips, falling to slightly above her knees. Her legs were covered in black stockings and one-inch pumps graced her small feet. No make-up, like yesterday, but her complexion was flawless. Make-up would sully it. She’d pinned her hair up and it sat on the top of her head, a riot of curls like a small crown. His heart skipped a beat as her deep brown eyes met his.

  “Good morning, Mr. Savisin.” She flashed a wide smile that reached her eyes and lit up her face.

  He had a sudden image of him kissing her and he felt it straight through to his cock. Fuck, she was going to mess with him. “Good morning
.” He took a sip of the coffee he was holding to distract himself.

  She strolled boldly into the centre of the room and looked around. “I wasn’t sure what the plan was. Starting time, what I needed to bring, all that stuff.” She grinned again, her eyes piercing him straight through to his core.

  He thought about what the plan was, thought he didn’t need a fucking translator. Thought he just needed a fuck. “How about coffee?”

  Esma nodded as she followed the direction of his hand. “Yes, please.” They both started toward the pot, then stopped, started up again. For fuck’s sake, Rusya thought. It was like being in high school again. It couldn’t get any more awkward if he suddenly got hard.

  Finally, she said, “I’ll get it. My coffee. Do you need more?” She headed to the carafe, picked it up and poured herself a cup. Added a small drop of cream, stirred it in, then lifted the cup to her nose and inhaled deeply. Rusya found himself holding his breath and she grinned as she caught him looking. “Coffee first thing in the morning is my favourite.”

  Rusya’s heart stuttered. He looked at his cup as raw emotion gripped him. How could a simple statement evoke such a visceral response? “Do you do that every morning?”

  She took a sip, held it in her mouth for a second, then swallowed it down. A shy smile stole over her face. “I think I do. I guess it’s my morning ritual. Sometimes I go to bed early at night so I can wake up the next morning to smell the coffee.”

  “You’re a romantic.” He hadn’t meant to start the day on such personal footing, but it went there without his will to stop it.

  Her smile faltered as she pressed her lips together, touched her temple and ran her finger behind her ear like she was tucking a piece of hair off her face. “I… maybe…” Her discomfort clearly showed. But then she rallied, the smile on her face back in place, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I like kittens, soft rain on sunny days, and unicorns if they’re not pooping in the fields.”