by Lana Sky
“Hello, Ivan.” My throat goes dry, and I have to swallow hard to moisten it. “You also told me I could always trust you.” I display my hands to show I’m unarmed. “I hope I still can. I-I need your help.”
He sighs, my old friend. The past years have taken a toll on him. Most of his dark hair is streaked with gray. He’s grown his beard out, but his blue eyes have retained that same disarming gleam.
“My help? Does it have anything to do with this?” He reaches behind him and snatches something from the counter.
Shit. My heart sinks as I recognize the shape even though it’s been burned, the outer casing singed and melted—a ruined service weapon typical of a police officer.
“Did you think I didn’t know you were in town?” Ivan asks before holding the remains of my gun out to me. “Though after last night, I was sure you were dead. I had my men scour the ruins of the club for any trace of you. I was just about to call in a favor to have you scrubbed from the database.” He sizes me up with a sweep of his eyes, and with every inch, they narrow. “You did a very, very stupid thing. I didn’t even know you’d let yourself get transferred to this shithole until last night. After everything I’ve done for you—” He forms a fist and slams it against the countertop. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Rather than defend myself, I take the gun. My nostrils wrinkle with the acrid stench of smoke, but I’ll write off the feeling twisting through my stomach as relief anyway. This is one less mess Grey will have to explain on my behalf.
I don’t dare ask Ivan how he managed to infiltrate what was sure to be a hive of police activity by now. Ivan Ivanov knows everything.
“So, who did it?” I croak once I’ve gathered up the nerve. “Who attacked the club?”
I steel myself for the answer. Another gang? The police would never be so reckless.
“I don’t know,” Ivan says. His expression is carefully blank. “I thought you would.”
So much for his omniscient reputation.
“Well, I don’t,” I admit. “Someone…someone got me out before I saw much.”
“Oh?” His eyes narrow in a silent demand for more.
“A man,” I add. “I don’t know who he is or who he works for.”
“His name?”
My mouth opens, but this time, the words stick in my throat. A baby-faced angel may run with street thugs like Vlad, but he’s no match for a man like Ivan Ivanov.
Neither am I.
“Did you hear me?” His voice lowers in warning. “Ksenia…”
After a sharp intake of air, I spill the rest. “He said his name was Espi. Espisido.”
Ivan frowns, mulling the name over. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until he sighs and my lungs contract in response.
“Never heard of him.”
Is that more relief flooding my veins? Whatever it is drains the energy I have left. My hand flies out against the wall for balance, but my outstretched fingers miss the frame of a hanging photograph by inches—a much younger Ivan grinning beside an even younger Vlad. I flinch at the reminder and tear my gaze away. In the process, I find myself staring down at my arm. Only a few tiny stitches are visible beneath the sleeve of my borrowed shirt and sweater. The artist wasn’t exaggerating his talents, considering they’ve held this far, at least.
“Whoever he is, I don’t think he’s part of the Syndicate.” It feels important to say that, conveying an underlying message I’m not brave enough to say directly—He’s no one. Leave him alone.
“Hmph. I’ll look into it.”
“I didn’t tell him much,” I add. “Just enough to keep him from asking too many questions.”
“Too many questions.” Ivan laughs.
He’s in front of me in an instant, and I don’t even see the slap coming. It’s sharp, stinging, but he hooks his meaty palm beneath my chin and forces my gaze up to meet his as my eyes water. The concern I see there is more painful to endure. I don’t deserve it.
“You need to focus, little girl,” he insists, his accent thickening over each word. “I promised your father I’d look after you. After everything… I’ve done what I could. I even humored your little bid to join the pigs.” He spits the word out and releases me to sway on my feet. “All you had to do was stay away from here. Especially from Vladimir and Piotr. I risked my fucking neck enough helping you the first time—”
“I think I saw Anna.”
He recoils. A part of me wants to take his reaction as a good sign, but it’s a hollow comfort. His alarm quickly gives way to a terrible expression that takes the form of a frown. Pity.
“Ksenia.” He sighs heavily, shaking his head. “So that is why you came back—”
“I saw her,” I insist. My fingers fly to my chest, but my proof is gone, burned to ash along with Vlad. “I did. In the international database. A girl who had been detained here a few weeks ago. She had her eyes.” That beautiful, haunting navy.
“So that’s why you joined the pigs,” he says, seeing through my lies in advance. “To keep looking? Tell me you’re not that stupid.”
“It’s her,” I say. “I know it’s her—”
“She’s dead,” Ivan says. Not brutally or harshly. Just firmly—as if he’s told himself the same two words enough times to believe them. I can stomach his anger, not his pain. “You know if she weren’t I would be the first to get her out.”
But he couldn’t. Only I can. With my newfound strength, my resources with the police, and my instincts. That is how I’ve rationalized it all this time. Anna is still out there, somewhere. Waiting for me.
“She’s gone,” Ivan says softly. “She’s gone, Ksei, and you were reckless to come here. Especially after Vlad.”
Does he know the fate of his friend? His frown reveals little, and I can’t bring myself to ask. He has a good point, drawing my attention to my current dilemma.
“I said I needed your help,” I start, swallowing hard. “There’s a van, looking for a girl. I need you to call it off—”
“Call it off?” Ivan raises an eyebrow, and I cringe in anticipation of another slap. One doesn’t come, however, just a heavy sigh. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into now? If anyone saw you come here,” he adds, “it will be my ass on the line.”
“I…” Deep down, maybe I knew all along that coming here would be a waste of time. A dead end.
But, for the second time today, perhaps Ivan doesn’t know everything.
“I will give you one last piece of advice,” he tells me, jabbing a single finger in my direction. “Leave town. Forget your name. Forget the Petrovs.”
“You think I haven’t tried?”
“Maybe you haven’t,” he says. “Not hard enough, anyway.”
I’m halfway to the door when Ivan calls out.
“Wait.” He lumbers closer and takes the gun from me, tossing it back onto the counter. “I’ll have my men get rid of that. And as for your name…forget what I said. For your father’s sake, never forget who you are. You are Olenova.”
He raises his fist, and I contort my fingers to form one in return. Our knuckles meet for one brief moment.
“Go,” he says, drawing back. “I’ll make a phone call. Just stay the hell out of sight, understood?”
“Thank you!” I push the door open and scramble out, but Domi’s not where I left her. Damn. Whirling around, I spot a dark-haired blur disappearing around a nearby building, and I race to catch up.
“What are you doing?” I snarl the moment I draw even with her in a narrow alley. My hand snags her shoulder, yanking her to a stop. “I told you to stay there—”
“Yeah,” she hisses, wrenching out of my grip. “So that you can deliver me to them on a platter? I know whose place that was. You’re one of them!”
“Wait. Just slow down.” I direct the plea more to my body than to her. I need my pulse to slow. My thoughts to stop spinning. I need to forget his fucking face.
A face that won’t look so pretty once Piotr’s men are through
with him. Ivan may call off the thugs for now, but the reprieve may come too late.
“Forget it. Keep moving.” I release Domi’s wrist and shove her forward. “I’ll catch up.”
There’s only one shortcut back to the precinct. How many blocks have we covered already? Ten? Twenty?
He’s already dead. If I’m lucky, they left his body on the road at least. Something for the rats to savor.
“No!” Bony fingers clutch at my shoulder. “They’ll—”
A sudden sound draws both of our attention. Footsteps. I watch in a frozen, morbid fascination as a body unfurls itself from the top of a fire escape clinging to a decrepit building up ahead.
With the fluidity of a gymnast, the figure jumps and lands mere feet away from us, one hand pressed against the pavement to steady their landing.
It’s a man. Tall. Slim. Familiar. I exhale as blue eyes meet mine through a fringe of dark hair.
“Miss me?” He’s smiling. Of all things, it’s the strangest occurrence of today. Unlike his amused smirks, this grin looks…
Real.
“Let’s go.” Domi’s still tugging on my arm, though she slows for Espisido to catch up. She must be used to this little trick of his. “Go! Go.”
I don’t know why I submit to being pulled along by the wrist as Espisido takes the lead, drawing his hood low once again. Maybe I’m still delirious.
Watching him, I swear the dark sleeves of his jacket flutter out beside him as he moves. Almost like wings. But even angels aren’t invincible. He’s limping, favoring his right leg, though his expression never wavers.
And he never stops smiling.
Chapter 10
Espi
Yellow follows us into a diner. She stands guard as I shove Domi into a booth but doesn’t take a seat for herself. Too many heads swivel in our direction, so I shift farther down, opening a space beside me.
There’s no time to warm her up. “Have a seat.”
She does reluctantly, squeezing in beside Domi. As for the brunette beside her… With a sigh, I strip my hoodie, wishing I’d had the foresight to bring one for her.
“Domi, remember that new hairstyle you wanted to try?” I tell her out loud. “The pixie cut? And you wanted to get it bleached too. Red. That’ll look cute. We can do it today before you go on your trip.”
I keep the tone light and casual for the benefit of anyone listening in. Including staff, there are only about ten people in the place, but Domi’s bloodshot, kohl-caked eyes draw their attention. The bad kind. An old woman a few tables over keeps sneaking glances at our corner and palming her cell phone.
“My trip?” Domi does her best to play along. She shimmies into the hoodie but isn’t stupid enough to draw the hood with all eyes watching. Good. She tries running her fingers through her ratted hair and gives up halfway. “A haircut. Good. Good. I’d like that.”
“Good. Your grandparents will be happy to see you again.”
The lady across from us returns to sipping her coffee and reading the paper—but one skeptic isn’t fooled.
“Her…grandparents?” Yellow’s gone back to laying on the thick accent. Her gaze darts from me to Domi as if to say, Don’t ask. She doesn’t want to remove all of her masks just yet. “Where do they live?”
“Upstate,” I say. As far north as she can fucking get on a one-way bus. I’ll give her enough money to buy a plane ticket after. Somewhere far from here.
“That close?” Yellow raises an eyebrow. “You think her…friends won’t be able to find her there?”
I shrug. “It doesn’t matter if she’s fast enough.”
Yellow laughs, but amusement never reaches her eyes. “Fast enough. You think that matters? You think she’s the first girl to run away to her grandparents?” The flat of her hand strikes the table. Hard. “They know the likely routes we take. They tip off the bus drivers for intel. They have plants on the airlines. They know the clues to look for. By the time you realize that they have her, she’ll already be gone. To another club. Another city.”
Her voice is too loud. The little old lady at the next table over is staring again.
“Fine, then.” I fold my hands on the table. “What do you suggest?”
“I…” She trails off, her gaze on Domi.
The girl’s been watching us the entire time, her head bouncing between us like a ping-pong ball in a match of table tennis. Smart little Domi. She’s keeping her mouth shut.
“She should stay here,” Yellow says finally. “They wouldn’t expect it.”
Here, as in the city, right under the bastards’ noses. It’s a good enough plan in theory, but there’s an obvious hole.
“Where?” I ask.
There is one place I could stash her though… Somewhere where she’d be safer than anywhere else. But I’d have to get a certain someone’s permission for that—and that might require a truckload of goddamn alcohol and more of my savings down the drain.
But it’s not like I have any better ideas.
“I know a place,” I grit out finally.
Yellow settles back in her seat. Not the way a normal person might. Just enough so that she no longer looks like she’s about to lunge across the table and punch me in my mouth. I can live with that.
“So, change of plans,” Domi says.
I look at her for the first time in what feels like ages. Her black eye still looks like shit. Her clothes are no better. The cops must have given her the oversized orange flip-flops on her feet, but she’ll need to change soon if we want to shake the Russians from her trail.
Even so, she musters up a smile. “Do I still get my hair cut?”
A corner of my mouth quirks up. “Damn right, you do. Whatever floats your boat. Hell, I might even join you and get one myself.” I unlace my fingers and run them through my hair, knocking the worst of it back from my face. “Ouch.” I hiss at the burning sting that flares in response.
“You’re hurt.” Yellow leans forward and swipes the pad of her thumb against my forehead.
“I must have banged it on something.”
“Like a fist,” Yellow says, her jaw tight.
“It’s fine—”
“Here.” She snatches up a wad of napkins without taking her hand from my face.
Her fingers are warm. Too warm. They shake as if it’s taking all of her energy to extend the limb. She seems determined to wipe the blood away though, so I let her.
It’s been a long time since someone else has tried to wipe away my boo-boos. Maybe not since Dante.
And he was never this gentle.
“I’m sure you have your tetanus shot up to date?”
So Yellow has jokes. She wads the used napkins into her fist, and when the waitress comes to our table, she quietly requests a glass of water, still eyeing my forehead.
I order stuff off the menu at random. Both Yellow and Domi look like they haven’t had a good meal in a while. When the waitress scurries away to the kitchen, promising to bring a pot of coffee, we wait.
The two women take turns eyeing each other while I tally up all the many ways this little stunt will cost me. I’ll need to refresh my kit sooner than I planned on, thanks to Yellow. That’s at least a hundred. The drugs are easily another two or three. Taking care of Domi will cost me only god knows how much.
“Are you a gymnast?” Yellow doesn’t like silence too much. She’s itching to fill it. “Are you?”
I shake my head. “Unless studying at the school of ‘badassery on the jungle gym’ counts as proper training.”
That cracks a smile out of her. I copy the expression, but her mouth falls flat.
“Doctor. Artist. Acrobat.” She tiredly rattles off the list. “You’re quite the one-man show.”
“More like a shitshow.” God, I need a cigarette. My fingers flex against the table, desperate to light one up.
“Here.” Domi reaches down the front of her dress without giving a damn for whoever might be watching.
The moment I see
what she has in her hand, I don’t care if she brought the attention of the whole police department.
“I scored these from a cop on my way out,” she tells me as she lets two limp cigarettes fall onto the table. “Told him that he had a cute face.”
“You beautiful, beautiful girl.” I snatch up one, ignoring the slight dampness, and reach into my pocket for a lighter.
This café’s old school, thank fuck. They even have a complimentary ashtray beside the ketchup bottle. I light up quickly and take a hit.
Yellow’s still watching me, her brow furrowed. With her beside Domi, the similarities between them add up. They both sit hunched over and sneak glances at the door as if waiting for the moment a Russian will come barging through. Strip away the different hair colors, and you’d have the same battered woman.
“How long are we going to stay here?” Domi’s getting anxious, but the moment the question leaves her mouth, the first plate of food arrives. The next second, she’s too busy stuffing eggs and pancakes down to care about leaving.
I let her have the lion’s share. Even Yellow caves and samples a piece of toast. At least one of us can loosen up.
Two hard pulls on my cig don’t ease the ache in the pit of my stomach. Half a cup of coffee doesn’t chase it away, either. I’ll need whiskey tonight. Maybe the rest of the damn bottle. It’s like I’m turning into Arno.
I’m nearly finished with the cig when Domi sets her fork down, having cleared four plates. Yellow copies her, and I fish a fifty from my pocket to cover the meal. When we leave the diner, good old reality comes back with a vengeance. Somehow, I’ve got to get back to Arno’s territory without arousing suspicion or being tailed. That’s hard enough on a good day.
“You think you can keep her safe?” Yellow speaks against my ear. Her breath smells like blood.
I take another hit of the cig to drown out the stench. “Maybe,” I say, eliciting a skeptical sigh from her. “Look.” I turn around, yanking the rest of the cash from my pocket. I slap most of it into her hand without bothering to count the bills. “I’ll take it from here. Here’s your cut.”
“And then what?” She withstands the contact of my palm against hers with the money in between, but she doesn’t try to take it. She eyes me instead before turning to watch Domi over my shoulder. “Let’s say you get her to wherever you plan to. Then what?”