Nikolai
THE ROMANOVS
by
MARQUITA VALENTINE
Nikolai
Copyright © 2017 Marquita Valentine
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
www.marquitavalentine.com
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
More Books By Marquita Valentine
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Every Wednesday, at precisely four o’clock, Everly Andrews enters my bookstore to pick up her latest package of romance novels. We’ve been doing this for over a month now. She gives me a list of five books—sometimes ten if she wants to gift a few to her friends—and then I give her a future date. Sure, the books come in quite a bit faster than a week, but it’s the shortest amount of time between her visits I can allow.
Any shorter, and I’d put her in danger. And that is not acceptable.
You see, I don’t actually sell romance novels. I don’t sell books at all. My store is a front. I’m a death dealer—an avenging angel to some…while others would pay millions to see me die. I can’t blame them really. An eye for an eye, and all that.
Everly is the only one in this city I talk to on a regular basis, even if she’s the one doing most of the talking while I answer as vaguely as possible without sounding like an arse. In any case, it’s nearly four and I’m bound to start pacing if she doesn’t show up soon. Habitual people like Everly are a comfort to me, and yet that comfort is their greatest weakness.
A weak spot in their armor, if you will.
The bells on the front door ring, and I let out a breath. I don’t particularly like the jingle, but in my line of work, a bloke needs the extra time it affords.
Automatically, my hand goes to the gun strapped under the counter, only relaxing when I catch a glimpse of mahogany waves gleaming in the rays of light that seem to follow her inside.
Here comes my weak spot. My solnyshko. My sunshine.
“Hi, Roman,” she calls out as she walks to the counter, as if her appearance might spook me. Though she wouldn’t be far off, since I almost shot her the first time she entered my shop.
No one comes to my bookstore, and I make sure it looks as dark and dank as possible to turn away the tourists. But none of that, including my scowl, deters Everly. For that, I’m curious, thankful, and terrified, because I only bring death to those who are seen in my company.
“Ms. Andrews,” I say, placing her package on the counter.
She gives me a sunny smile. “You know, I’m pretty sure we’re the same age, so I think you can call me Everly.”
Ah, solnyshko, that will never happen. “As you wish,” I say with a shrug, and her beautiful eyes go all soft, like I’ve just spoken the most romantic words in existence.
Her emerald gaze searches my face. “You still didn’t say it.”
Clever girl. “Shall we open your package?”
Dainty hands, with soft, blue-polished nails trimmed short, tap the box twice before settling on top. She gives me a crooked smile. “You’re allowed to open it before I get here.”
“Duly noted.” But then how would I prolong her visit? I grab a box cutter and motion for her to move her hands. Hands that I want to touch, hands that I want to feel run down my body, or do something as simple as hold. Quickly, I split open the box and check it before permitting Everly to dig inside.
Always, I’m concerned my enemies will target her, no matter how innocent our contact and how damn reserved I am in her presence.
“Oooh, the latest Zoe Ambrose, or should I say, Romanov?” Everly sighs, her expression turning dreamy. “Can you imagine marrying a Hollywood movie star who’s rumored to be the son of the head of a Russian mafia family?”
I don’t have to imagine it. “It’s not something I contemplate on a daily basis.”
Everly snorts, and then winks at me—something I find absolutely charming. “And they say the British have no sense of humor.”
I’m not British, but the accent suits me. As does my name. The location. Everything about Raleigh, North Carolina suits me.
Since I moved here, I’ve trained myself to think like an Englishman, to speak, eat, and make assumptions about Yanks. It’s easier this way, and I’m less likely to fall into old habits.
“How is business?” I ask, setting the box cutter on the counter. A conversation about the internet-based company she runs seems to be banal enough.
She beams at me. “Two more new clients this week. One makes the most adorable bows for little girls, and the other makes the cutest sweaters for dogs. When I’m seventy-five, I hope to have just a tenth of Ms. Mabel and Mrs. Jemima’s energy.” The way Everly talks about the women she helps makes me smile inwardly. She gushes over their wares, using words like adorable, cutest, fabulous, and super yummy. In reality, these women should gush over her. “Sales are already pouring in like crazy, and I was able to give my two weeks’ notice at the YMCA.”
“Congratulations.” I smile a little. This is excellent news. There was many a night I kept my shop open just to make sure she got home okay. Late nights and a shady downtown area are not safe for a woman walking alone.
She traces a pattern on the countertop, right beside her box of books, and then peers up at me through lacy black lashes. “Maybe I could help you, too? I’d be more than happy to set up a site for you on Etsy or eBay.”
“Thank you, but no. Rare books wouldn’t do well.” And there’s no way I’d advertise my business’s location. Might as well place a neon arrow pointing at the building.
Everly’s gaze bounces around my shop. I know she wants to say something about my lack of customers, but she doesn’t. She’s too kind. Too soft. Too weak.
No, I remind myself, for some, kindness is a strength.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go sit and read for while. I don’t want to wait until I get home.” Without waiting for a response, she picks up her books and dashes to the back of
the store to sit in the plush club chair I bought just for her.
Bemused, I stare after her.
With a little grin, she settles in the chair and pulls out a book, pretending to read while eying me over the top of the pages. Just like I pretend to work while keeping an eye on her.
“Roman,” she says, taking my breath away as she wriggles out of her coat. Her book nearly falls out of her lap before she catches it.
For a moment, I can only stare at her, at her lush figure flattered by the simple dress she wears. It’s green like her eyes, with a wide, pink belt around the middle. “Yes?” I manage to get out.
The bells on the door ring and a familiar face reflects in the mirror across from me. I clench my jaw. Petrov. Two weeks ago, I had dinner with his brother. That night, his body was found floating in the Seine.
Blissfully unaware of the danger, Everly asks, “Did you buy the hot chocolate and Granny-Smith-apple-flavored jelly beans just for me?” She holds up the bags of hot cocoa and jelly beans, clearly delighted at the find. My heart turns in my chest. The feeling is odd. It’s dangerous.
Once, on a particularly blustery morning, she had mentioned liking hot chocolate, and I’d spied the bag of jelly beans in her purse. Naturally, I went out and bought every bag I could find while ordering the best hot cocoa money could buy.
Naturally, I’m a stupid fuck.
Petrov smirks as he awaits my answer, beady eyes darting to a smiling Everly, then back to me.
“No. Someone left it here. I have no use for it,” I answer evenly. “Once you’re done checking your order, let me know and I’ll get you sorted before you leave.”
Her face falls, and I want to stab myself in the heart. “Oh,” she says in a small voice. “I’m, uh, ready now.”
Petrov pretends to peruse my shelves while I force myself not to apologize to Everly. “The total comes to twenty-five seventy-four.”
She hands a credit card over and, in less than a minute, our transaction is complete, and she’s walking to the door without a backward glance.
I busy myself with nonexistent paperwork, while watching security monitors concealed under the register. “I’ll be with you momentarily,” I say, as if I have no idea who Petrov is. The bastard disappears from the screen and I start for the gun hidden in the far cabinet.
“Leave the weapon, Nikolai,” he says, walking toward me, and I freeze.
CHAPTER TWO
My eyes slide to the front door, but I have nothing to worry about, because Everly is long gone. She’s safe, I remind myself, even as I want to run after her to make things right.
“I don’t have a problem with you,” I say to Petrov, who is dressed like a conservative businessman. Only I know the jackal underneath. I’ve seen his handiwork, but since I haven’t been contracted to put an end to him, he lives to terrorize.
“Russian, please.” He waves the gun around, his sports jacket creasing with the movement. “Never know who’s listening.”
I’m not about to remind him that the NSA has people who speak every language working for them, and that if they choose to spy on my shop, we’re both fucked.
Carefully taking a half-step back, I say, “Good to see you, old friend.”
“I have shit older than you,” Petrov says, eying me with disgust.
“If you’ve come here for information about the financier, then I’m very sorry to disappoint you.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Your brother had it coming. Be glad it was me, and not the Skinner.”
Petrov’s nostrils flare. “You expect me to be happy that you executed Daniil instead of Ivan?”
I nod. “At least he didn’t suffer.” Or rather, he didn’t suffer long. Short of falling asleep and never waking up, there’s no such thing as a painless death. “With Ivan…”
Ivan is called the Skinner because he takes great pleasure in skinning his victims while they’re alive. He loves the screams, the smell, the blood, and the clothes he can make from his treasures.
Just one time in his presence, while my father forced me to watch Ivan perform, had been enough. My only consolation is that I was told the victim was a pedophile, but who knew if that were true or not.
“For that small mercy, I’ll make it quick.” He raises his gun, and I lunge forward, grabbing the box cutter and throwing it at him. It embeds itself in the side of his face, the point sinking into his left eye.
He howls with pain. “Motherfucker!” He doesn’t bother to aim, just starts shooting, as I dive behind the counter. A bullet hits me in the thigh, searing pain rips through me, and I see stars. Another hits my shoulder, rendering my arm useless.
I lie on my side, panting heavily and trying to manage the pain as he strides to me. Petrov mutters a curse and kicks me in the ribs.
“I ought to gut you like the pig you are,” he says, pulling the razor from his face. He throws it at me, and it plunges into my hip.
“Fuck,” I growl. My leg throbs. If I don’t get help soon, I’ll bleed out. That is, unless Petrov decides to shoot me once in the heart and three times in the back of the head. It’s his signature. Then again, that might work against him.
“Do it,” I taunt. “Show the world who killed me.”
He lifts his gun, blood running down his cheek. “The world will never know.”
There is a pounding on the wall. A wail of sirens.
Petrov scans the room while I grab the gun I’ve hidden under the base of the counter and take aim at his miserable head. When Petrov’s bloody gaze meets mine again, his eyes widen.
“Leave now,” I pant.
With a growl, he pivots and runs out of my store.
I yank the blade from my thigh and yell out another curse. Damn Petrov’s family, my family, and the fucking Bratva.
The sound of sirens is closer. I’m not sure if they are for me, or another crime. I fumble for the hidden latch near where I stored the gun. A small opening appears and I toss the gun in along with the bloody box cutter, then press the latch again.
Waves of darkness wash over me, and I pass out.
What seems like seconds later, I wake up, gasping for air. I blame my comfortable life here for my passing out. In the past, two gunshot wounds wouldn’t have stopped me, and Petrov would never have left my store on his own two legs.
The bells ring again. “Come to finish me off, you bastard?”
“Roman? Is that you?” a familiar voice asks. “I left my coat.”
“Everly,” I croak.
Suddenly, she’s by my side, her fingers on my face. At least I won’t die before knowing how soft her skin is, or how tenderly she strokes me.
“Oh my God. Who shot you?” she cries, shifting to cradle my head in her lap. “Let me call 9-1-1.”
“Your dress,” I manage to say.
“Don’t worry about the blood—you’re more important.”
I smile against the pain. “No. Tear off the bottom of your dress into strips. I might need a tourniquet. He shot me in the leg…and shoulder.” I cough, and air rattles in my chest.
I hear fabric tearing even as she gives information to Emergency Services. The phone drops to the floor, narrowly missing my head.
“Where should I tie it?” she asks. As she leans over me like this, her breasts are directly above me. God, I’m dying, yet the thought of kissing her there is driving me mad. Or maybe it’s a sign I won’t die. She presses down on my wound and I groan, forgetting all about her delectable breasts.
Immediately, the pain lessens. “Sorry, sorry. In the movies and books, they always try to stop the bleeding like this,” she cries.
“Cut my trousers open and help elevate my leg.”
“At the same time?” she asks, voice trembling as she sits back. Once again, her hands go to my face, stroking my cheek. She leans over me. This close, I can see the fullness of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, and the concern in her gaze.
“No, love. Check the wounds to see if the bullet went all the way through or not.”
“O-okay.” Gingerly, she moves away from me, careful to place my head on the hardwood floor. I watch as she grabs a pair of scissors from her purse. “I knew these would come in handy one day.”
Quickly, she cuts my pant leg. In the background, I’m dimly aware the emergency operator is still on the line. “Well?”
“I can’t… Oh God, Roman, I have to pick up your leg to see.”
“Don’t move him!” the operator shouts.
Everly’s gaze flies to mine. She licks her lips, clearly torn between following the directions of a professional or me, the reserved shopkeeper. “What do you want me to do?” she asks softly.
“Check, please. I’ll help you.” Gritting my teeth, I lift my leg and break into a cold sweat. “Hurry, darling.”
“There’s a hole in the back, but it’s small,” she says, and I prop my foot on the shelf in front of me.
Sirens blare.
Everly looks over her shoulder. “They’re here. Thank God. They’re here, Roman.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, letting the darkness take me once more. Even if I never wake up again, this heaven I’m experiencing right now is worth it.
The world is a great, white light as I open my eyes. Too bright.
I screw my eyes shut once more, listening. It seems safe, just the hum and beep of machines. The slight echo of footsteps and voices in the hallway.
Shifting my head left, then right, I take stock of my body. Though I’m sore as hell, I can still move everything. I open my eyes and take in my surroundings, startled to find Everly curled up in a chair beside my hospital bed.
She’s sleeping, still wearing the same green dress. Only the hem is about a foot shorter and there are purple shadows under her eyes. How long has she been here? How long have I been here?
Someone walks into the room, and I turn my head to find a nurse approaching the side of my bed. “Welcome back, Mr. Smith.”
I find my voice. My throat is scratchy, and it burns. “How long was I out?”
“Two days.” She places a couple of fingers on my wrist and keeps an eye on her watch. “It was touch and go for a while, but that angel sleeping beside you wouldn’t give up. I’ve never seen someone pray so fiercely for another human being. She even donated blood—you’re a lucky man to have a fiancée like her. And she must be a lucky woman to have you, because ain’t no man worth getting that worked up over, unless he’s a good one.”
Nikolai (The Romanovs Book 1) Page 1