by S. E. Lund
I signed his paper and stood, recognizing that the meeting was over by the way Barlow opened a new file and said nothing else.
I left and went back to the gym, wondering if I'd made the right decision. I felt it was my only choice. I was a soldier. Despite my MBA, it was in the military that I felt at home. Taking down the Romanov family with the approval of the FBI and with police support?
How could I say no?
I went to Langley for a couple of weeks of intensive training, emerging relatively unscathed. After the two-week training period was up, I had a few more bruises from the physical training and a lot more respect for the rigorous training clandestine operatives underwent.
I returned to Boston, tired but ready to move forward with the next phase of my performance as a Romanov insider.
"I'm glad you're back," my father said the first night I returned and we were sitting around the table in our kitchen. I'd made a quick meal of steak and potatoes with a side of green salad, and was happy to sit down with him. He looked tired, his breathing a bit faster than I'd like. I took his hand.
"How are you? You look exhausted. I'm sorry I went away when I did. I should have stayed."
"No, no," he said and waved me off. "We all went through hell these past months. Everyone deals with their grief in different ways. I'm just glad you’re back."
I smiled at him and then attacked my steak, but I wondered when I’d get my first mission, hoping my little arrangement with the FBI didn’t turn out to be a bad decision.
A week passed and then another. My life seemed to get back in order, with days spent in the office, talking to suppliers and match organizers for the fights, plus dealing with franchisees, making sure they were keeping up with reporting requirements.
On the personal side, I hadn’t had any action since I returned to Boston, having said goodbye to a woman I’d had an on-again off-again arrangement with in Quantico. She was going through a divorce and didn't have a lot of time for a relationship, so we met a couple of times a week and fucked, then said goodbye. Nothing more.
Every night, when I finally crawled into bed after closing the gym and club, I lay awake and wondered when things would get going with the Romanovs. My mind kept returning unbidden to the graveside service and catching sight of Celia Franklin.
How a woman could still hold my interest years after one night of sex I'd never know, but she did. There was something about Celia that I couldn't get out of my mind. I always thought she was the kind of woman I could make an exception for regarding serious relationships, but I'd been so damn wrong. How she could go from so sweet and passionate and fun and intelligent to being a cold-hearted bitch who’d used me and then thrown me away when Greg finally asked her out blew me away. I'd been hurt before by a woman, and I expected I would again, if I let my guard down.
So I had many frustrated bouts of masturbation to get me through the week, and always, my mind's eye returned to lovely Celia lying beneath me, her thighs spread wide for me to see her, her eyes half-closed in pleasure, her mouth open, licking her lips… I imagined ramming into her tight pussy, into her willing mouth—and more.
It was unsatisfactory but it was all I had until I found a new fuck buddy.
Finally, I was summoned to meet with Gladwell and learn more about my mission. I made the trip to the precinct and knocked on the door to his office.
"Come," he said. I opened the door and entered, standing in front of his desk to wait for his orders.
"Sit," he said finally, pointing to the chair. I sat and waited some more.
"I hear you did a pretty decent job in your training," he said without looking up at me.
"I survived," I said.
"Good," he said and finally took off his reading glasses and glanced up at me. "We're going to let you loose. We expect you to try to reconnect with your uncle's old contacts in the Romanov family, get deeper into his organization."
"I'll do it," I said, having already heard from my father that several thugs with Russian accents had been by asking about me, wondering if I was going to be their contact now that Donny was in federal custody. "I've been quite vocal about my objection to my uncle's ties to racketeering and money laundering for drug money so I'll have to use Spencer as the excuse to get in and roll around in the dirt with them."
Gladwell smirked. "Victor Romanov is pretty arrogant and might be only too glad to have you at his side. We'll see what he does. Don't worry," he said and put his glasses back on. "He'll think you've finally come around. At the least, he'll understand your desire to get revenge for your family. Even he could understand that."
I nodded. "I hope so."
Gladwell shook his head. "He's smart," he said, "and has been good to your uncle, but he's hell on his enemies. Don't become an enemy."
"Isn't that precisely what I'll be doing?" I asked.
"Don't let him find out," Gladwell said simply. "We won't out you. We want to keep you involved for as long as we can so there'll be no leaks on our side. Keep your own mouth shut about your mission and you'll be okay as well. Don't tell your father or anyone in your family what you're doing. Don’t tell your girlfriend."
"Don't worry. I understand the need for secrecy."
As my handler in the FBI and I planned, I met with Victor Romanov, one of Donny's business associates in the Romanov family, and made the offer to provide security for their businesses in exchange for them leaving our family alone. I set up a security detail for them so they could guard their properties on the waterfront against rival families muscling into their territory or attacking any of their family members.
I hired a few retired Marines I knew, who were quite happy to take on light duties on a part-time basis. Standing around and watching streets for suspicious vehicles and taking names at the door to the business was child's play for them.
Despite it all going well, I had a bad feeling in my gut. What was I getting myself into? All my life I had done everything I could to keep out of the "family business." Now, I'd be immersing myself in it. I had to shut my mind off. I couldn’t stop thinking about being bait for a mafia boss.
What I knew about bait, from fishing with my grandfather when I was a young boy, was this: In the process of catching a fish, bait got eaten.
Chapter 3
CELIA
Present Day
James took me to my dorm room and together, we boxed up my few possessions so I could move in to the safe house. Amy poked her head into the room while James and I were busy.
"What's up?" she asked, frowning when she saw James. "Who are you?"
James was wearing his sober blue suit and looked official. He stood up from the box he was taping shut.
"I'm James," he said and smiled. "A friend."
Amy turned to me, her eyes wide. I stood up from my own box and exhaled, wondering how I'd explain things. I brushed the hair from my face and shrugged.
"James is a friend," I said, hoping she'd believe me. "He's helping me move some stuff."
"Where?" she said, not letting up. "You never said anything about moving. What happened?"
I glanced at James, who returned to his box. "I'm moving in with Hunter," I said lightly. Then I returned to packing my own box, hoping to avoid too much of a long explanation.
"What?"
Of course, I was foolish to think I could get away without a complete debrief.
"Hunter?" she said when I continued packing, her mouth open wide. "The Hunter? As in Hunter Saint?"
"The very one," I replied, wishing she'd just get the hint and leave.
"And you were going to tell me when?"
I stood up again, exasperated. "Look, I'm sorry, but some stuff happened and I haven't had time to talk to you."
"Your best friend? You didn't have time to talk to me about moving out and moving in with Hunter Saint? You've never heard of a thing called texting? Your fingers broken or something?"
"Amy, I'm sorry, but can I talk to you later about all this?" I made a helpless face, shrugging m
y shoulders. "I promise I'll explain everything. And I'm not really moving out permanently. It's just temporary, okay?"
She frowned and glanced between me and James, who I could tell was trying to look inconspicuous.
"You're okay, though, right?" she asked and came over to me, her hand on my arm. "There's nothing wrong? You're not in any danger?"
I shook my head. "I'm fine. Things have happened and, well, I can't say anything right now." I tilted my head to the side, gesturing to James. "I wanted to talk to you about it, but I couldn't. I promise I'll tell you later tonight, okay?" I made a face of regret.
"If you say so," she said, and I could hear the hesitation in her voice. "As long as you're really okay…"
"I am. I'm fine," I replied.
"Okay," she said and glanced around. "Do you need any help?"
I shook my head, wanting her to leave so I didn't have to explain who James was. "No," I said and glanced around. "We're pretty much done."
"Where are you staying?" she asked. "At the gym? Does Hunter still live there?"
"No," I said and handed the box to James. "At one of Hunter's other properties."
"Where?" she asked, her expression hopeful. "I'll come and visit you."
I shrugged and made a face. "I can't tell you."
She frowned. "Why not?"
"Security reasons?" I said and cringed. "I can't tell you anything more than that."
"What?" she said and glanced between James and me again. "You are in danger, right? Something to do with Hunter's family business?"
"No, I'm not in any real danger. Hunter has a lot of security, for obvious reasons," I said, wishing she would stop questioning everything, but I knew it was because she was worried about me. "I'm fine," I said. "Really."
"This is about the bad guys who beat up Graham, right?"
"Yes," I said, exasperated, deciding to satisfy her. "This is about that. But you can't say anything about it to anyone, especially not Spencer if he comes by."
"Are they back from Europe? I thought they weren't back for a while."
"Not yet, but in case he comes by or anyone comes by asking about me. Tell them I moved out and you don't know where I am."
"All right, Ms. Mysterious. I won't tell anyone. But I don’t like this whole clandestine business. You should be telling me. I'm the best friend, remember?"
"You are," I said and went to her, hugging her.
She squeezed me and then pulled back. "Text me later tonight, okay? Promise?"
I nodded. "Promise."
Then, with clear reluctance, she left, closing the door to my apartment behind her.
"I'm sorry about that," I said to James. "She's my best friend and has been for years. She's just worried about me."
"Completely understandable." James picked up a box and went to the door. "I'll take these out to the vehicle."
"I'll help," I said and together, we packed the SUV with the few boxes of my things, clothes, computer, books. Lots of books. The apartment was now empty except for my furniture.
When we were done, I stood at the door and glanced around the apartment. Hunter would pay off my room and board, but I wasn't going to live there for my own safety. Finally, I closed the door, feeling sad that a part of my life was gone—the ‘independent me’ part of my life. The girl who had finally escaped Spencer's tyranny and was living free and on her own. Now, I'd be some gangster's fuck toy, living in his safe house for my own protection and for his ease of use.
I hated that the idea of being his to use excited me, but it was Hunter.
The man I'd been fantasizing about half my life.
After we unloaded the boxes back at the safe house, I went to class. James drove me to the building, waited for the class to finish, and then took me to the hospital so I could drop in and check on Graham, but he was gone to physio and wouldn’t be back for an hour. I decided to go see him later and left him a note on a sticky I had in my book bag. Then James drove me back to the warehouse.
I went inside to find that there were construction guys on site, busy installing drywall and another crew working on a bathroom. Now that I had the time, I could explore the loft a bit more.
A new kitchen sat at the far end of the space, with an island and a bank of cupboards facing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. It was high-end, the fixtures and cupboards top of the line. A huge marble-top island contained a sink and professional stove and the fridge was so big you could practically store a dead body in it.
George was there, working in a small office near the entry. He came over when he saw me.
"Hello, Miss Celia," he said with a smile. "Your classes finished for the day?"
I nodded. "This is all new," I said and glanced around.
"Yes," he said. "Boss wanted to make comfortable. Is going to be very secure when everything finished. Thick walls. Steel doors. Security cameras on perimeter. No one will be able to get near building without us knowing. You will be safe here."
Then he pointed to a small alcove where James was busy stacking the boxes from my dorm room.
"I buy you desk so you can work," George said. "I hope you like."
I went over and ran my hand along the modular desk. It had a hutch with cupboards and drawers and was in a dark cherry wood. It was expensive. Much more so than anything I'd ever owned before.
"It's a lot better than my desk at the dorm," I said with a laugh, thinking of the rickety old student desk I'd left.
George smiled at me again. "If you need anything, just ask. I am your keeper while Hunter is away."
I nodded. "Thanks."
Then I began unpacking my boxes and getting my computer set up, resigned to my new reality.
After I finished organizing my books and files, I glanced around. Several workers were finishing a new bathroom, installing a tub and sink. They were working fast, and before the end of the afternoon, the walls to the bathroom had gone up and drywall was in place, the sections taped and mudded. It wasn't the best environment for studying, and I finally gave up and sat on the sofa and watched television for a while.
Different contractors came in that evening, putting down flooring in the bathroom and cleaning up. George came over to me and pointed at the bathroom.
"Is yours to use," he said, apparently pleased with it. "I pick best fixtures and colors. I hope you like."
I looked inside. It was ostentatious, with gilded faucets, marble countertops, and granite tiles on the two-person shower. A fantastic tub. All of it looked out over the bay.
"Blinds are inside windows," George said and pressed a switch that closed the blinds, blocking out the light. He opened them again. "You can put things in," he said and opened the vanity mirror. "I bring towels and soaps." He went to a bag beside the bathroom and sure enough, there were thick plush towels and bars of soap.
"It's very nice."
He smiled, pleased with the bathroom.
"Are you staying here, too?" I asked, noticing the small military cot beside his bank of security cameras in his office.
"When Hunter isn't here, twenty-four seven," he said and nodded. "You don't have to worry. You're safe here with us."
"Who are you to Hunter?" I asked, curious about the man and his relationship to Hunter.
"We work together in Afghanistan. We trust each other," he said. "He save my life many times. He is good man, Celia."
"Good men don't get messed up with the mafia," I said, unable to bite my tongue. For all I knew, George might be in the Russian mob.
"Sometimes good men do bad things for greater good," George said and shrugged. "I know Hunter for several years. He is best, very honorable. Hero."
I didn't say anything else, because there was no sense arguing with someone who was obviously a good friend and employee.
I used to think Hunter was a good man, but he seemed to be quite happy to get down and dirty with the Russian mob, being just as bad as they were—beating people up like Stepan, partying with them at his clubs, doi
ng business with them. He was on a first-name basis with Stepan and his ilk. From what I understood, Hunter was still running fights at the gym and there would be illegal betting involved, and who knew what else.
While I had no love for the thug Hunter had beat up and was glad he was paying for what he’d done to Graham, I believed in law and order, not vigilante justice. By beating Stepan up, Hunter had reduced himself to Stepan's level. That was the only conclusion you could draw from what he did. I remembered a quote from my philosophy class on Nietzsche and quoted it, not expecting George to know it.
"He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster."
George made a face, pursing his lips. "And if you gaze long into abyss, abyss will also gaze into you." Then he smiled.
"You know Nietzsche," I said, pleasantly surprised.
"I am old," he said with a laugh. "I spend many hours in desert waiting for fight to start. Books get you through long waits." He shook his head. "Hunter is not monster."
"So you say." I forced a smile, starting to feel a grudging admiration for George. I wasn't going to argue with him about how much of a monster Hunter had become. He obviously thought very highly of Hunter.
I glanced around the large space. "I unpacked my things," I said with a sigh. "If I'm going to be here for the duration, I might as well get comfortable."
"Hunter will protect you," George said, nodding. "Until all blows over."
"All what blows over?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"This problem with Romanovs. Once they are gone, you will be safe."
"Gone where?" I frowned. Was Hunter planning to kill the Romanovs?
He shrugged. "Prison? Back to Russia?" Then he ran a finger across his neck and raised his eyebrows. I knew what that meant…
I shuddered. "I hope Hunter won't kill anyone."
"He is soldier," George said. "He fights for what he loves. Friends, family. Country. He is honorable man."
"You keep saying that, but if he's involved with the mafia, that's not honorable."