by Lana Sky
We stay there, a tangle of limbs on the couch. I don’t think I can leave, even if I wanted to.
Chapter 21
Chloe
I come alive against a warm hand cupping my lower back—nothing else can describe waking up like this. One whiff of cigarette smoke and I can identify the culprit. He must have held me during the night. It’s a disgusting token of concern from a man who exudes kindness without trying.
Darkness too.
The stench of it lingers on him. Like smoke. Like mint. Like blood, clinging beneath the stink of sweat and lust.
As I peel my eyes open to the cold, gray daylight painting the edges of the room, I can’t bring myself to move. I’m still straddling him, my face in his neck, his hands on my waist. It’s pathetic to admit, but I could come again, just like this. Listening to the sound of his breathing. Feeling his breath against my throat.
Reluctantly, I unfurl my stiff, sore limbs and roll my weight from him. He grunts when I do. I guess he’s been awake all along.
“We should get back to the bar,” he says.
But we don’t move. We just lie here like two statues in a world of his own making.
The creations I assume he put on the canvases seem to fill every available space from this angle. Splotches of red. Black. Green. Yellow—mainly the last one. It’s the color under his fingernails now, I see when I glance over. There’s no substance to any of the newer pieces. Just streaks of that one hue, over and over and over.
I could lie here for hours, trying to decipher them all. Maybe I do. I’m not sure how much time has passed when he finally moves, breaking the spell. With a shift of his body, he puts space between us and tugs on the hem of his shirt, tucking any bit of stray skin away. Then he enters the kitchen and turns the faucet on. He splashes water on his face until it drips onto the floor. With his face still wet, he grabs a plastic cup from a cupboard, fills it, and drains the entire thing.
“I…I need a shower,” he grits out before heading down the hallway.
I can tell from the way he walks that it will be a cold one. The realization alone diminishes whatever heat he left behind. Angels are strange creatures. He’s selfless enough to touch me with his hands, but nothing more. He won’t even let me touch him.
But why do I want to? It’s a terrifying question. It’s a relieving puzzle at the same time. Piotr didn’t break me after all, ruining me for any other man. It just so happens that the only one to make me feel…anything isn’t interested in the leftovers of the Russian Syndicate.
I hear the water running from my position. I picture the scene beneath it before I can help myself. His scars basted in the glow of the dim artificial light. The letters of his tattoo blazing on his damp chest. His hair slicked back.
A hard swallow doesn’t dislodge the tightness at the back of my throat. It’s funny. Now, I might have a faint idea of what drives men to frequent places like Moe’s. Cheap, easy sex with no strings. With him… Maybe I’d consider it. Debase myself just to get him out of my skin. Out of my goddamn head.
The only way to block the idea out is to stand and pace. Remember. I shake my head to reinforce the command. Remember. Think. Why am I here? Because of Grey. I upheld my end of the bargain. My next step is to outsmart Petrov. Keep moving. Find Anna. Devise a new plan. Be ready.
The bathroom door opens down the hall, but the water’s still running. I turn and find him there, sandwiched between the doorway and the door.
“I need to grab a towel,” he says, his gaze on the hallway across from him. It’s like he’s asking for my permission to traipse around his own house naked.
The polite thing to do would be to turn my back and let him. Better yet, I should leave and return to the bar on my own. Francisco would be expecting me around now. Maybe that’s what I plan to do when I start in his direction.
But, somewhere between him and the front door, I change my course of direction.
Inside the hall closet, I find a stack of towels and washcloths. I grab two of each and turn for the bathroom. He extends his hand, angling the door to hide as much of himself from me as he can. The only clue to his shock when I slip past him is a widening of his eyes. He steps back. Maybe in confusion. Maybe in invitation. Either way, I keep going and set the towels down on the floor beside the tub. Then I strip my shirt and my pants off and climb inside.
I hear the door close through the spray. For a moment, it’s so silent that he could have left. A layer of steam has flooded the room by the time the shower curtain is finally drawn back from the outside. Damp curls shield most of his face from view. I can only make out the stern ridge of his jaw as he braces one hand against the tiled wall of the shower and enters the stall. He’s cautious but doesn’t shy away from standing too close. Tempting me.
I back away, freeing enough space for him to stand opposite me. But not much. I take his hand, feeling the shudder that runs through his skin. I don’t need anything else. Just this. His nearness. This closeness. Everything else in my head is a distant murmur when he’s near. I need that silence.
It’s like he knows that. He doesn’t resist my touch. He humors me and my silent request for more of him. More nearness.
Maybe it’s enough.
Maybe not.
It’s afternoon by the time we get dressed and return to the bar. Francisco shouts at me to, “Give me a fucking hand!” the moment I step over the threshold, and Espisido just keeps going, probably searching for Arno.
Wading knee-deep into a sea of broken glass and spilled beer should help take my mind off him.
But it doesn’t. Withdrawal is a cruel fucking thing. Coming down from whatever shit Piotr had injected into my veins during those long, dark years was easier than this. I still remember the unofficial detox. Ivan had to strap me down while I writhed and screamed obscenities at the wall for days.
I would eagerly return to those vices rather than become an addict to a drug I’ve only gotten hits of. A full dose might kill me. Maybe it’s a good thing I’ll never experience it.
My time is running out. I know it. I feel the inevitable sense of urgency—like there’s an invisible clock ticking the minutes down. Piotr’s still coming for me.
But, once the lunch rush hits and I’m swamped with work, I can almost forget. Almost. I’m sweating by the time I join Domi behind the bar. I slink past her for the faucet, but her hand on my shoulder keeps me in place.
“Your phone rang all night,” she says around a yawn. “I didn’t answer it, but here.” She reaches into her pocket and tucks something into my hand. “I had to turn off the noise, but I think they’re still calling.”
When I rouse the phone from sleep mode, the notice of twenty missed calls flashes across the screen. They’re all from the same number—Grey’s.
I leave my broom in a corner and slip away to the back while Francisco isn’t looking. Only when I’m safely in the alley with no one else in sight, do I hit the redial button. Grey picks up on the first ring.
“It’s bad,” he says without wasting time on pleasantries. “Either you return from ‘vacation,’ and try to find some way to cover your ass, or you stay gone.”
I swallow hard. It’s quite the dilemma to be faced with this early in the day. “What happened?”
Grey inhales raggedly and releases the air on a sigh. “I got an email last night,” he says. “It contained a certain little video…of you.”
He doesn’t have to describe it. I can picture it easily enough. Piotr’s grown impatient, it seems. Apparently, he thinks I need incentive to run.
“It’s bad, Parker,” Grey says. “I think I’m the only one who got it so far. But if the brass sees that—”
“Who sent it?” It’s a pointless question. I’m just stalling for time. I need to think. I need to plan. With one hand braced against the wall of the alley, I start walking.
“Blocked address,” Grey says tightly. “I’d have to enlist IT to track it, and I don’t think you’d want me to do that.”
“What do they want?” There’s always a catch. Always a hook to the bait.
“They want me to give you a letter. I found it in my mailbox this morning. Your name’s on it—”
“Which name?”
If he heard the hollow note in my voice, he doesn’t question it. “Your name,” he says. “Chloe Anne Parker. The note says I have twenty-four hours to give you the letter before that video goes department-wide. I got it at four p.m. last night. You have two hours to get your ass down here.”
“Where?”
“Not the fucking precinct. Maybe… Meet me down by the harbor, near the docks. Look for the station wagon. Don’t bring anyone and I won’t fucking call for backup, got it?”
“Got it.”
He hangs up and I…breathe. I try to. My steadying hand against the wall grapples for leverage. It feels like I’ve run a mile, but I’ve only gone a few feet away from Mulligan’s. The feeling building in my chest should be grim acknowledgment—I’ve known that this was coming—but it’s not. It’s a different pinching sensation I recognize all too well—fear.
This isn’t like Piotr. He doesn’t set traps for his victims and invite them to spring them. He is a hunter. A predator. He sent me his little gift and should have waited patiently for me to run, allowing him to track me down. That is how a wolf operates.
It used to be our favorite game to play.
Not this. He’s impatient, but not in the way I’m used to. Though, hell, maybe the bastard learned a new trick over the years.
I consider running anyway. I could hop on the next plane and leave Grey and my reputation to ruin but buy more time. Chloe Parker would become an outlaw, wanted for the murder of a criminal, yet Ksenia could be free for just a little while longer.
Then the truth hits me.
There is only one way this will end. One outcome…
A pair of blue eyes chase the dark thought away before it can really take hold. It’s been hours since I left him and I’m still high on his scent. How funny. How pathetic.
I do my best to hasten the withdrawal as I return to the bar and mount the staircase to the upper level. I enter the borrowed apartment and rummage beneath my bed just long enough to find the gun. It fits perfectly in the pocket of Espisido’s borrowed jacket.
Maybe he’ll miss it. But he won’t miss me.
Chapter 22
Espi
“You gonna ignore me all fucking week?” Arno spits out while pouring himself a shot. He overfills the glass, and the liquid sloshes over the rim, tainting the air like gasoline. “How many times do I have to fucking say it?” He downs the shot and grimaces at the taste. “I’m fucking sorry.”
“I hope this means that I won’t have to fight Jose for the title of your best friend forever.” I step farther into his office and nearly trip over a trail of empty bottles.
It’s like he spends more time in this damn room than he does at his own place, not that I can blame him. After all this time, he can’t bring himself to sell that house. He can’t even empty out her room.
“Don’t even fucking joke,” he snarls, already pouring himself another shot. “You know me. I wouldn’t go to that piece of shit without a good fucking reason—”
“I would like to think so.”
Arno isn’t one to hold grudges. Jose, on the other hand, doesn’t just cling to a vendetta. He cuts it into pieces and hangs it on his wall.
“Let’s just say I took a gamble and got more than I goddamn bargained for,” Arno says, his jaw clenched. “I found a gun at the warehouse of the cartels that got hit. I figured some idiot from the other side dropped it, and a good trace would lead back to a dealer at least. Maybe I could neutralize this new threat myself.”
Suddenly, Dante’s warning reads loud and clear. “And?”
The dark look he shoots my way prefaces the gravity of the answer. “The gun belonged to a cop.” He doesn’t bother explaining just how he found that out. “It wasn’t a lead. It was a plant.”
“You’re serious?”
“Damn right,” Arno agrees. “They’d find that fucking gun, and it wouldn’t just end there. They’d have ‘just fucking cause’ to open up an entire FBI investigation. They could arrest and interrogate at random. Whoever is behind this isn’t just happy with burning shit down. They’re leaving a sniff trail for the goddamn Feds.”
I almost swallow the question that springs to my tongue. “You…you think it’s Dante?”
Arno shrugs, tearing a hand through his hair. “He wouldn’t be that stupid to bring that shit down on me—not so close to the fucking Gardai.” But he doesn’t sound very convinced of that.
Am I? My head spins with the new information, but at least one mystery might be solved by this shitstorm. “Is that why you’ve been acting so weird lately?”
“Part of it,” Arno admits. He knocks the next shot back and chases it with a swig directly from the bottle. “About the Russians… You deserve to know why I really sent you there. Not whatever bullshit I told you before.”
“You mean you aren’t looking to muscle in on the human sex slave trade?”
Arno’s had his fingers in some shady shit, but never that dark.
Yet.
“Fuck no,” he says, “but have a seat. You’re not gonna like the real reason, and I don’t need your fucking pity.”
“All right.” I take the seat across from him and try to keep an open mind. More drugs? Guns? Something worse? With Arno, you never know just how deep the rabbit hole will go. “Lay it on me.”
He swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and eyes the wall behind my head. “You remember what happened to Mack?”
“Mack?” It’s a weird change of subject—his ex-partner who ran an underground fighting ring. “Mack got stupid. Tried to fuck with the Syndicate. Either he got ghosted, or he skipped town.” According to the rumors, anyway—which Arno never corrected.
Until now. He scoffs and takes another swig of liquor. “Mack. You really think that fuck would just walk away and let me have all of this?” He gestures around to the peeling wallpaper. The chaos from the main barroom reaches us even here, a distant pulse through the trembling walls. “Fuck no. That bastard wouldn’t run. But whatever happened to him, you can bet your ass he had it coming.”
“So, what happened?”
Arno breathes out and tears a hand through his hair. “You know that shit with Vinny Stacatto?”
“It’s not like I can exactly forget.” My fingers flex at my sides before I manage to clench them into fists.
“Ah, fuck.” Arno notices my hand and grimaces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Look, Dante didn’t want you to know, but Mack’s the one who turned you in. He offered you up to that sick fuck on a platter. Everything.”
Given Mack’s history with Arno and Dante, the news isn’t exactly a surprise. I uncurl the fingers of my left hand and eye the ones remaining on the right. A ruthless criminal, Mack was never my favorite person. I still wouldn’t have pegged him as a goddamn traitor, no matter the payoff.
“So you two killed him?”
“No,” Arno says. “We didn’t kill him. That would have been too good for that piece of shit. We did him worse.” He sighs and pours another shot. Then he slides the glass over to me. “We sold him out to the Russians. They don’t take too kindly to traitors.”
“I can imagine.”
“I thought he did it for money, you know? For power. Some dumb shit. You never fucking know with Mack—”
“Why does it matter what he wanted?”
Arno looks up, and I almost pour myself a shot. I’ve never seen the gleam in his eye before. Not like this. He inhales the liquor, finishing off the rest of the bottle, and winds up coughing most of it back up. He has to pound on his chest, his eyes streaming, just to speak again.
“We watched,” he croaks. “While they pummeled the shit out of that sick fuck. He should have been begging for mercy, but he…he was laughing. At me. He
said, ‘That Italian fucker bragged at how fucking easy it was. You didn’t even look for her. You didn’t even try…’” He breaks off, his hands clenching into fists. One of them strikes the surface of the table, knocking it off-balance. Again. “You should have seen him. Laughing even with a busted fucking jaw and a fucked-up eye. Just laughing. ‘You never gave a shit about her,’ he said. ‘She’s better…she’s better off without you.’”
“He was lying.” I try to make my voice soft, the way Dante did when he told me that Santa wasn’t real. Soft but firm like a good slap to the face. “Parish is gone, Arno.”
“You didn’t see him,” Arno says, shaking his head. “You didn’t see the fucking look on his face. I know Mack. I know that look.”
“This is why you’ve been so out of it.” Underneath everything, it was always her. “She’s dead, Arno.”
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” He lifts the bottle and starts to take a sip. Halfway to his mouth, he turns and hurtles it against the wall, sending broken glass flying in every direction. “You think I don’t fucking know that?”
“You saw her—”
“I didn’t.” Admitting that makes him brace both hands flat against the table, his knuckles white. “I… Fuck, I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I sent in someone else. They said her face was t-too—fuck!”
“Mack got inside your head,” I say as gently as I can. “He wanted to fuck around—”
“I tried to let it go. But too many fucking things made sense. That’s how Stacatto operated, you know? Those fucking Italians. They loved keeping things around for ‘insurance.’ If she’s alive, the Russians would know where. Hell, she could be in any fucking one of their bars—”
“Arno, don’t do this.”
“Don’t fucking lecture me, Espisido. If it were Dante, you’d be doing the same fucking thing.”
I don’t have a comeback for that. The sick, ironic thing is that Arno has a better shot of finding his dead sister alive than I do of finding Dante when he doesn’t want to be found. The joke’s on me.