Torrid

by Nikki Sloane

  Goran Markovic was smart, and because the FBI was always up our ass, he liked to keep his distance from the more lucrative business he ran. He sat in one of the chairs opposite my desk, and Filip took the other.

  “How are things?” My uncle’s tone was generic, and he looked at the screen of his phone as he asked it.

  “I finally sold that Bentley,” I said. It’d been in inventory for months.

  “To that guy who test drove it six fucking times?”

  “No, some older guy who lives in Iowa. Him and the wife drove in to get it.” I watched Eric at the back of my office as he swept the portable reader over the picture frames on the wall. “That local guy was an asshole when he came in and discovered it was gone. He said I should have called him to tell him I was about to sell it.”

  Goran raised his eyebrow up into a sharp point. “What does he think we do here?”

  I nodded in agreement. The son of a bitch thought he had, like, dibs on the car just because he’d test driven it a bunch of times. It was fucking ridiculous. “He only liked the idea of buying it. He was never going to commit.”

  Eric finished his sweep of the wall and moved on to the vents. It was pointless because I could see the dust still in the slats, meaning it hadn’t been touched, but maybe the FBI had stepped up their game. Security was the top priority at Markovic Motors after a listening bug had been discovered in the break room of the main dealership two years ago.

  We’d never learned if it was the Russians or the Feds who’d planted it. My suspicion was the government, since my cousin had been busted right before that.

  Eric climbed down from the chair and turned the scanner off. “You’re good,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Goran dismissed him.

  The satisfied look evaporated from my uncle’s face as soon as the door shut. “The meet and greet was a setup in the texts we’ve been following.”

  So, that confirmed it. The Russians had planned an ambush. “You sure?”

  Filip nodded. “They haven’t used those cellphone numbers since.”

  “Jesus.” Last night could have been a huge mess. I glared at my uncle. “What the fuck would have happened if we’d showed up ten minutes later?”

  He stared at me the same he would an insect he’d squashed with his shoe. “Lucky for us, your father taught you some sense, and you and Filip were smart enough to see what was at play.”

  I stared at him critically, and he returned the look. Neither of us liked the other, but you couldn’t pick your family, and we were stuck with each other. For now. My uncle smoothed a hand down his tie, and he looked around the office like he owned every inch. It was fine, I told myself. Let him think he owned me, in addition to this dealership. He’d never see my knife when it finally came for him.

  Would I look like my uncle when I got older? Goran was fifty-six, but he’d aged well and stayed in good shape. He got plenty of cardio in, judging by the steady stream of whores in rotation. Pancreatic cancer had taken my aunt from him ten years ago, and he’d never remarried. Her death had given my uncle some gray hair and lines around his eyes, but if anything, it made him more intimidating, because it was proof the monster was real.

  His eyes were as black as the barrel of my Glock, and men withered under his glare the same as my gun.

  My uncle was right. I was smart enough to see what was coming. Did he?

  “Without any new shipments to take from,” he said, “it’s going to squeeze that side of the business for the next few months.”

  It was out before I thought better of it. “Fine with me. I hate running the girls.”

  The Markovic hereditary trait was our pointed eyebrow. It arrowed up whenever someone pissed us off. My uncle’s rose now. “Do you, Vasilije? And here I was, thinking you liked making money.” He leaned forward and his dark eyes drilled into me. “You hate them so much, then why’d you bring one home?”

  I faked indifference. “It was nothing. I promised a girl to Alek.”

  Shit. There was a flicker in his eyes. Gotcha, it said. Fuck, I’d stepped into a trap. My uncle was like fucking God sometimes. All seeing, all powerful. There was a possessive tug in my chest over Oksana. I didn’t want her on his radar.

  “What’d he do with her, then?” he demanded. “Mira said Aleksandar came by her place last night.” His expression was hard as stone. “I don’t like loose ends.”

  “No loose ends. I have the girl.” I held up my phone. “Don’t worry. If she so much as fucking sneezes, I’ll hear about it.”

  His dark eyes went wide with outrage. “You have the girl? What the fuck? Get rid of her.”

  “I’ll send her on to Mira when I’m done with—”

  “Get rid of her.”

  His words stopped me cold. This was an order, and disobeying it would be really fucking stupid. It was the right thing to do.

  I leveled my cool gaze at him. “All right.”

  9

  Oksana

  It should have been hard to sleep in a strange bed under a Markovic roof, but staying alert around Vasilije was exhausting. I’d picked a luxurious looking guest bedroom with green-striped wallpaper, burrowed under the covers of the bed, and when I blinked, morning sunlight streamed from the window.

  The house was quiet.

  I grabbed a towel from the attached bathroom, wrapped it around my bare body, and made my way down the stairs. Vasilije had dropped my overnight bag in the closet by the garage when we came in last night, and I hoped it was still there.

  I let out a deep sigh of relief when I spotted it, and gripped the strap with eager hands. I’d take every tiny victory I could, since I suspected my time with him would only get more difficult as it went on. If it went on. I ducked into the hallway bathroom and dressed as quickly as possible.

  Even though the clothes weren’t actually mine, the off-brand pair of jeans and thin camel-colored sweater made me feel like myself. The woman I’d been while wearing Vasilije’s robe last night scared the hell out of me. I could tell myself I was only playing a role, but if that were true, why the fuck had any part of me . . . enjoyed it?

  There was a simple note left on the table in the kitchen, scrawled in messy male handwriting, telling me to shower, eat breakfast, and be dressed to leave by noon. He wasn’t kicking me out. He had other plans for me, and I wasn’t sure whether to feel relief or trepidation. Not that I had time for either. It was already after nine, according to the clock on the security system display. There seemed to be one in every room of the house.

  I rummaged through the pantry for something quick, and was surprised to find he had actual food in his house. He was twenty-four. I’d expected frozen dinners and beer to be the only staples he lived on. But he had fresh fruit. Bread. Even eggs and milk. I stared at the stocked fridge and tried to picture the mobster making out his grocery shopping list.

  My stomach gurgled. I was starving. I had barely eaten yesterday, and wasn’t sure when my next meal would come, so I cooked up a few eggs and scarfed them down. I drank a huge glass of orange juice and ate two slices of toast while I stood by the sink, gazing out the window at the golf course.

  I kept my mind empty.

  Thinking about what I needed to do not only brought anxiety, but analysis of what had happened at the piano, and I wasn’t ready to go there. Do whatever you need to do, to get the job done, Oksana. Sacrifices will have to be made.

  I scrubbed the dishes clean and put everything back just as I’d found it, then hurried upstairs to the green wallpapered room. There was generic shampoo and conditioner already in the shower there, which didn’t have a masculine fragrance like the stuff in Vasilije’s, as well as a hairdryer beneath the sink.

  When I was showered and dressed, it left me ninety minutes to investigate and try to get to know him better. Less time, really. He was unpredictable and could show up without warning. I swallowed a breath as I stared at the door to his room, and scowled when I went inside and took in the unmade bed. A flash of dark
, unwanted pleasure coasted through my body. He’d brought me to orgasm on that mattress with his head between my legs.

  His gun and holster were gone. Did he always wear it, even at the dealership? How many used car salesmen were packing there?

  The drawers contained clothes and nothing else. I surveyed the closet next, but there were only suits hanging on one side and casual clothes on the other. No safe. No backup guns. Nothing of interest, so my focus shifted to the office downstairs.

  I had to be careful while digging around, though. The security system was sophisticated, and I couldn’t tell if it had surveillance cameras attached to it. I plopped down on the chair behind the desk and moved the mouse, waking the computer up. A login screen appeared, giving me the out I needed to search the drawers. If there was footage, it’d look as if I were searching for a password.

  I knew I’d never find one. Vasilije wasn’t dumb enough to leave it around, but maybe there’d be something of interest in the desk—

  There was a Smith and Wesson 9mm in the bottom drawer.

  My gaze etched over every inch of the black metal. Should I swipe it and tuck the gun somewhere else? Not to use it on Vasilije, but to buy me time if he ever went for it to use it on me? I was usually so decisive, but my muscles locked up with indecision. What would happen if he checked on the gun and discovered it missing? He clearly thought I’d use a gun on him last night.

  There was a quiet mechanical hum on the other side of the house—the garage door going up— which made the decision for me. I slammed the drawer shut and bolted for the piano out in the living room. I plunked my fingers on the keys and tinkered out an old recital piece I’d practiced so many times I was sure I’d forget my name before I forgot how to play it.

  There was the sound of hard soles meeting wood as his footsteps approached. I couldn’t see him, even in my peripheral vision, but I tensed under Vasilije’s scrutiny. I shivered as he came close, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  My mouth went dry when I turned and set my attention on him. The devil wore a navy suit, a white dress shirt, and a burgundy tie with the knot loosened at his neck. His dark eyes studied me like I was dangerous. Wasn’t he the one who was armed? The tailored jacket hung beautifully, and I couldn’t see the outline of his gun beneath his arm, but I felt its presence regardless.

  “Hello,” I said, steeling my voice as I rose from the piano. When he didn’t offer any greeting, I was forced to continue. “Where are we going?”

  His eyes swept over my body, and he didn’t hide his disdain. “Shopping. You need clothes.”

  I wanted to point out I was wearing clothes, but then he might demand I take them off, so, as I’d done last night, I bit the inside of my cheek and stayed silent.

  We didn’t speak to each other as I put my shoes on and followed him into the garage. There was a white Porsche parked close, and he made it clear this was the car we were taking when he opened the driver’s door.

  I sat in the passenger seat, buckled myself in, and the air went thin as Vasilije started the car. It purred to life. Even though it wasn’t warm, I set my sweaty palms on my thighs and tried to act unaffected. The interior of the sports car was dark, the space compact, and it felt like I was intimately trapped with him. He seemed oblivious to the tension between us that was stretched as taut as piano wire.

  I should have gazed at my surroundings and pretended to be fascinated with the new-to-me American landscape as he drove, but instead I studied him. He hung the palm of his left hand casually on the top of the steering wheel while his right hand gripped the gear shift. The car was an automatic, but the relaxed posture made me think he’d be comfortable driving a manual. He probably had to be, given his job.

  “Where did you go this morning?” I asked. “Work?”

  He made a grunt of confirmation. I wasn’t worth the effort to actually speak to today.

  “What do you do?”

  “I own a car dealership.”

  His fingers moved to the radio controls on the steering wheel and the rap song grew loud. Too loud to hold a conversation. It was fine with me. I’d rather listen to music anyway, even if it was a repetitive loop of a simple melody, more computer than voice or instrument.

  The song ended and another replaced it. I deconstructed the tracks in my head, picking out what worked and what didn’t. On and on the songs went as we drove on the expressway, flying through the I-PASS toll. The longer we drove, the more worried I became. He wasn’t talking. Yesterday he’d been demanding and curious, but today he seemed to have zero interest in me.

  My heart picked up and anxiety spiked in my bloodstream. Had he gotten bored with me already? Was he going to send me on my way . . . or worse? I curled my fingers inward, digging my nails into my thighs. I had to do something. I couldn’t let him cast me aside, and I definitely wasn’t going to let him drive me somewhere secluded so he could put a bullet in my head and dump my body.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Vasilije’s harsh voice was loud over the angry rap spewing from the speakers.

  I’d put my hand on his leg, high up on his thigh and an inch from his crotch. My lungs squeezed tight, making it impossible to breathe. “I don’t know,” I answered. Truer words had never been uttered. Sex was the only weapon I had access to right now. Too bad I wasn’t sure exactly how to wield it.

  The radio turned down to almost nothing. His voice was patronizing. “The little virgin got a taste of my cock and now she wants more?”

  I swallowed a thick lump in my throat.

  He took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at me, and took in the hesitant look on my face. I’d been trying to be bold, but all my courage vanished. He flashed a knowing smile. “I’ll let you blow me later. Just not when I’m driving a car I need to sell for seventy grand.”

  He put his cold hand on mine and pushed it away. I felt flushed. Shouldn’t I have been relieved he’d rejected my poor attempt at seduction?

  Faire Avenue was a high-end department store attached to one of end of a sprawling mall. Vasilije parked in the garage and said nothing as he got out of the car. He expected me to follow him like a servant, and I had no choice but to do it.

  We had to be an odd match as we walked through the set of double doors. I wore clothes purchased from Goodwill, which probably hadn’t cost much when they’d been new. He was wearing his suit with fancy shoes and accessorized with an expensive watch. It was basically male jewelry, because as we entered the store, he pulled his phone out and checked the screen.

  “Are we on a schedule?” My voice was devoid of any emotion.

  “We have an appointment.” He pointed two fingers down the aisle, gesturing to the escalator up.

  Overloaded Christmas trees decorated the intersections of the main flow areas, and glistening snowflakes hung from the ceiling. The holiday shopping season was already in full swing since Thanksgiving was later this week. The opulent displays made it easy for me to exaggerate my gawking at American culture.

  When I stepped onto the escalator, Vasilije moved right behind me and climbed up onto my step, invading my space. A shudder thundered through me as he placed his hand in the small of my back. It wasn’t a sweet gesture. This was about control.

  He pressed me forward to the counter where two women were working. They both looked up at us at the same moment, and the conversation between them halted.

  “We have an appointment with Daphne,” he announced.

  The younger of the two women, who was probably in her thirties, nodded her head of corkscrew tight curls and gave him a bright smile. “That’s me. Mr. Markovic?” She stepped around the counter. “It’s nice to meet you.” They shook hands, and then she turned toward me, her hand offered. “I’m Daphne.”

  I acted on pure habit. “Oksana.”

  “Oksana,” she repeated, and her eyes lit up. “That’s so pretty.”

  Her gaze evaluated me from top to bottom, probabl
y for sizing, and then it floated to him, evaluating for budget. If she was concerned about how young he looked, it didn’t show. The ease in which he wore his tailored suit wasn’t lost on her. He reeked of money and oozed confidence.

  Daphne motioned toward the back of the store. “The fitting rooms are this way. I pulled a few pieces we can start with, and build from there.” She talked as we moved. “Your boyfriend tells me you need to expand your wardrobe. Are there any pieces you’d like to see, or colors I should steer clear off?”

  My what? I fired a stunned look at Vasilije, but he was tapping something out on his phone, texting while he walked and ignoring everything around him. I knew she was waiting on an answer, but my brain struggled to find one. “Uh . . . I don’t look good in yellow.”

  Or as Vasilije Markovic’s girlfriend.

  When we reached the antechamber of the fitting rooms, he plopped down on the couch beside the three-panel full length mirror, never looking up from his screen.

  Daphne grabbed a rolling rack with one manicured hand and pulled it toward the first dressing room, then unlocked the door and ushered me inside. She pulled several hangers down and hung them on the hook closest to the door. “Let’s start with a few staple pieces.”

  She searched through the pairs of black pants until she found the size she was looking for and took them off the hanger, passing them to me.

  “Try these, and pick one of the tops you like from the collection.” She motioned to the other hooks around the room. “Anything you don’t like goes here. Pieces that make the cut go here. If you need different sizes or styles, let me know and I’ll be happy to pull them for you.”

  She flashed me a final smile, one that said I was a lucky bitch, right before she pulled the door closed behind her. I stared down at the pants I was clutching. The price tag said they were almost two hundred dollars.