22. Alik

22

ALIK

I t’s been a long day.

Too long.

Too much time has been spent speaking to people not worth my breath just to get answers on Nikita that nobody has. His lawyer says he’s being charged with murder of an informant—Agent Cullin—and that his DNA was found at the scene. But that’s impossible. I killed Agent Cullin, and Nikita wasn’t in the room. He wasn’t even in the warehouse.

It doesn’t make sense.

He’s the Pakhan. A mob boss. Perhaps we’ve crossed lines other organizations wouldn’t have, but the police planting flimsy evidence just to take Nikita out when they know we’ll find a way to fix it is dangerous. He’s unhinged. I can picture him now, pacing his cage like a tiger, hungry for the opportunity to strike.

He’s the Pakhan. We must defend him. We must take action, despite our reservations regarding his leadership. It seems obvious to me, and yet my brothers…

I curl my lip and shake my head to clear my thoughts as the lake house comes into view up ahead. The roses in the passenger seat pull my attention, and I stare at them a moment, suddenly wondering if I should’ve gotten something else. Daisies. Tulips… That ends my knowledge of flowers.

Sunflowers. Maybe Olive likes sunflowers. I wish I’d asked. We seem to know the big things about each other, but I’m missing too much of the little stuff.

Where did she learn to draw?

Who did she get her cinnamon hair from?

What does she do on the first spring day after a harsh winter?

These things have never mattered, but suddenly … they do.

I look forward as I turn into the drive and pull behind her SUV. This morning, it was fine, but now the bumper hangs inches from the ground, and the green paint is struck with silver streaks of metal that’s been dented in.

What the fuck?

After parking, I slowly stalk past the SUV, my eyebrows pinching as I inspect the damage. The sun has begun to set, but no lights come through the windows of the house when I get to the unlocked back door.

“Olive?” I call, stepping into the dim kitchen. My heart beats faster in the silence, trepidation working its way into my chest.

“Olive?” I call out again, louder this time.

No answer.

I do a short sweep of the house, my throat closing more with each empty room I come to. By the time I head back outside, I have to swallow the lump of coal in my throat just to be able to breathe.

She could be with her father.

I told her to call her father if I wasn’t back by nighttime. It’s nearly nighttime.

But the car…

When I step through the back door, something catches my eyes by the lake, and I hang my head with relief when I see Olive on the little wooden dock.

Fuck .

She has to stop doing this to me.

I have to stop doing this to me. I’m becoming as much of a nervous wreck as she is.

A warm laugh slides out of me, and I rake my hand through my hair as I realize the truth to that.

I go to my car to get the flowers then walk to the dock where Olive is lying on her side on a blanket, her head propped on a pillow. She’s facing the sunset that casts shades of red and orange over the lake, so it isn’t until I step onto the dock that she seems aware of my presence.

She turns her head my way and smiles, starting to sit up, but I lay down beside her and ease her shoulder back to the blanket. I rest the bouquet in front of her and unleash a mountain of tension when she gasps and brings the petals to her nose to inhale a deep breath.

She flips over, bringing the flowers with her and hugging them tenderly to her chest. “What are these for?”

What are they for?

I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t have an answer.

Every Friday for the past eight years, I’ve walked Johnson Street collecting payments from three businesses for the Bratva in exchange for our protection. And every Friday, I’ve walked by the same flower stand without any thought. Today, the red roses caught my eye.

“They’re lovely,” she says when I don’t answer her. She brings the flowers to her nose again, and I relax with my head resting on my arm.

“I wasn’t sure which was your favorite.”

“I don’t have a favorite. But I love these.” She sets the flowers down then lays her head on her hands. “The last person to buy me flowers was a nurse when I was in the hospital because she pitied me for having no visitors.”

Olive laughs, but there’s a hint of sadness to it. Her lips relax into a content smile. “I’m really glad that isn’t my last memory now. Thank you.”

I close my eyes and lean toward her so that my forehead presses to her chest. She strokes my hair in a caress full of so much adoration, it twists my stomach. I’m sure she thinks I want it, but all I really want is for her not to see the guilt on my face.

She’s talking about the hospital bed I put her in. The pain I caused her that she still doesn’t know about. I hadn’t realized her family hadn’t come to visit her, and I suppose I didn’t care at the time, but I did check in on her. Not out of care. Out of obligation. I was her executioner, checking to see if she still had a pulse.

And those hospital flowers that brought her bitter sadness… Those weren’t from a nurse. They were from me. Nothing more than a ruse to get into her room unnoticed.

“Where did you learn to draw?” I ask like a coward instead of coming clean.

“Practice.” She doesn’t miss a beat. Doesn’t sense the guilt I feel inside. “And YouTube videos.”

“You don’t have a formal education?” My brow furrows as I lift my head to look at her. She just laughs.

“Formal education? You mean like an art degree or something?”

“Crazier things have happened.”

She shakes her head. “Drawing is just a hobby.”

I rest my hand on her hip and snake my thumb under the waist of her jeans to feel her warm, smooth skin. Her scent tickles my nostrils and has me breathing in, eager for more. She smells better than the roses ever could.

“I see… Well, I enjoy your art. I’m sure others would too.”

Her lips tug. “Possibly a few. But not the graphic sketches.”

“ Especially the graphic sketches.”

When she beams, I smile so wide my teeth show and my face hurts. Like my muscles aren’t used to it. She covers her mouth while her face reddens, drawing my attention to the slight discoloration running from her cheekbone to her jaw. The bruise is fresh, a soft blue, and still partially swollen.

My smile slips while I reach for her face, carefully inspecting the bruise before trailing my fingertips over the tender flesh. Her wrecked car slams into the forefront of my mind.

“What happened today?”

She presses her hand over mine and lays my palm against her face, her eyes closing. “You’re going to be pissed.”

“At you? Or at someone else?”

She’s right. Already, I can feel my muscles tensing, adrenaline rushing into my veins. She isn’t dead. The Bratva couldn’t have found her. Then…

“Me…” She sighs and opens her eyes. “I went to town today because I can’t stand the idea of not being medicated. Whether the medication works or not, I realize is still fuzzy, but I just?—”

“What happened to your face?”

And your car. But mostly… Did someone fucking hurt you?

Because if they did, what are we doing here? What am I doing here? My gun at my back comes into my consciousness, but I’d never use it on anyone who hurt Olive. No. Nikita is always pushing me to test my creativity. Tonight, if someone has hurt her, I will make him proud.

“I got rear-ended in the city… Friday Vegas traffic, you know? There was a group of guys in this big diesel truck who weren’t paying attention and rammed into me at a red light. My face slammed against the steering wheel.”

I stare at her face, trying to envision it hitting the steering wheel of her car to leave that bruise, but she cups my neck and leans until her lips meet mine. Slowly, gradually, my muscles unwind. My heart rate slows.

No one found her.

She’s okay.

She pulls away from my lips but keeps her forehead to mine, her eyes closed. “Please don’t be mad.”

I pause a moment, staring at her lips. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I just wish you would’ve waited until I could take you… But I understand.”

“You would’ve said no.”

I arch a brow at her when she pulls back a few inches so she can look at me.

“Wouldn’t you have?” she presses.

I shake my head. “As long as I feel I can keep you safe, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Some parts of Vegas are off limits. But uh…”

I look past her while I think of a way to tell her everything that’s changed without telling her anything at all.

Lies. Lies and more lies.

How long am I going to keep doing this?

I swallow and meet her eyes. “Something’s happened to the person who wants you dead. They’ve been arrested.”

When she perks up, hope blossoming on her pretty face, I gently cup her shoulder to settle it. “He’ll be released, probably soon. But I’m trying to use the situation to our advantage. I think if I can find a way to get the charges against him dropped, I can leverage it to get the target off your back.”

“Hold on…” She gives her head a shake. “My father’s enemy who has been trying to kill me is now in jail… And your idea is to get him out? What?”

I open and close my mouth.

With Nikita in jail… Who wants Olive dead?

No one. The order has still been given, I’m still supposed to be looking for her, and this is known amongst most, but are the lieutenants looking? Would they even recognize her? Would they even care ?

They want to betray the Pakhan. They don’t respect his orders, let alone his judgment.

They may let her live.

But … the alternative…

Vitaly .

No. Not an option.

“I know what I’m doing,” I say, more for myself than for Olive. “I promise, just … trust me. This is a good thing for us.”

Nikita isn’t fucking insane, as much as he can appear to be at times. He’ll stop the order as soon as I give him reason to. Staying out of prison is a good reason to.

“Okay…” She bites her lip and nods. “There are still the people I snitched on who?—”

“The Irish don’t want to kill you.” I squeeze her shoulder, expecting my words to put her at ease, but all she does is give me a tight smile.

Seconds go by while she stares at my jacket, her eyes reluctant to meet mine.

I don’t want to talk about this shit right now. Not today.

I just want to know her favorite movie. What books she reads on snowy days. Her favorite scent at Christmas time.

I want to be boring, just for tonight. Maybe tomorrow too.

“Are you feeling cooped up here?” I ask, running my hand down her side.

She shrugs. “I’m feeling alive here, so… Yes, but it’s okay.”

“I’d like to take you to the city tomorrow night, if you’d like to get out of the house. I could make dinner here, then we could drive the Strip or something? It isn’t much, but it’ll be safe with the weekend crowd.”

She finally meets my eyes. “Like … a date?”

Her voice shows nothing, and I find myself shifting with discomfort. I clear my throat and nod.

Her lips spread into a grin so wide, I return it with a rush of air expelling my lungs and grip her hand when she clutches mine.

“I want you to tell me more,” I say, trailing my thumb over the back of her hand.

She squints with confusion. “More?”

“About yourself.”

“Oh.” She chuckles. “What do you want to know?”

I relax into the deck, the soft blanket beneath me feeling twenty inches thick. “Everything, beautiful… I want to know everything.”