9. Alik

9

ALIK

B y the time I woke, Olive was gone.

When I was walking out, I passed her father in the hallway, his face red against his gray suit. He banged on her door, then after only a few seconds, took out a key and let himself in.

I waited by the stairwell, watching as he returned less than a minute later looking even angrier than he did when he showed up.

That was hours ago.

As I watch her now at the NA meeting, dressed in a loose black sweater with her hands tucked beneath her, I wonder if Daddy found her before I did. She stares at a man crying at the podium about his destroyed marriage with what looks like genuine empathy. I follow her gaze to the man and try to see what she sees, but there’s nothing there but a pathetic pile of waste.

“Thank you, Stew,” the bald man with a constant frown says as he pats the crier’s back and ushers him off the stage. He clears his throat and splays his hands. “Would anyone else like to speak?”

I turn my eyes back to Olive. She doesn’t notice me. I’ve been tailing her for the last hour and a half, barely concealing myself, and she hasn’t noticed me once.

How will she ever see the Irish coming?

An anorexic-looking woman raises her hand and stands, but I don’t take my eyes off Olive as the woman walks to the podium.

“Hi, I’m Fran, and I’m an addict.”

“Hi Fran,” a chorus calls, including Olive.

My phone vibrates, and I slink lower in the pew as I take my phone from my pocket.

Where are you? Sergey, a fellow soldier asks.

31st and Marland.

Coming now. Boss wants to see you.

I stare at the screen another few moments in case he decides to elaborate then slip the device back into my pocket. It’s just as well. I’m only killing time being here, doing this pointless people watching. It certainly wasn’t ordered.

I’m just about to stand when Olive rises from the pew.

I aim my gaze at the woman as I slink lower. I’m situated within a group of people in the back and have a hoodie pulled over my head with glasses on, not suspicious attire for a shame-fest like this. Still, I wait for her to walk right up to me.

She scurries past the pews with her notebook clutched to her chest.

Does she carry that thing everywhere ? What the hell does she use it for?

I shuffle out of the pew to go after her, following her to the women's restroom near the front of the church. Pressing my ear against the door, I hear nothing, so I chance slipping inside.

Her sneakers peek out at me beneath one of the stalls. I don’t think she heard me, so I turn to leave before she notices I’m in here.

Then I spot it.

The black notebook. It rests on the bathroom sink, the sight of it shooting excitement down my arms.

It’s ridiculous to be so enthusiastic about something so … trivial . Mundane. A dead girl’s journal. But the moment I spot the thing, I don’t question if I should take it. In two steps, I pluck it from the sink and exit the women’s restroom, making a beeline for the church doors.

Once I’m outside, I walk to the corner where I told Sergey I’d be and open the book, only to slam it shut when the church door bursts open and Olive barrels onto the steps.

I tuck the book inside my jacket and watch her whip her head around in a panic, searching for the thief who stole her precious belonging. Unlike when I found her the other night, the sidewalk is too busy for her to spot the culprit as she pulls at her hair in distress.

Jesus, is it that important?

Her hands unclench from her hair and lower to her sides at the same time her back straightens. When she turns to look this way again, she doesn’t look fearful, she looks pissed. She looks…

Huh. She kind of looks deadly. The Terminator seeking its target.

I tuck my hands into my pockets as I watch her, and when her eyes seem to find me, anticipation lifts my chest.

Will she recognize me behind my glasses and hood?

Will she try to chase after me?

Will she yell out for help as if I’ve stolen her purse instead of her thoughts?

None of the above.

She doesn’t see me. I don’t think she’s looking at anyone. She can’t be.

Because when it seems like our eyes lock, one side of her lips lift into a smirk. She must be in her head.

Sergey pulls up, and with the book tucked in my waistband, I climb inside the car.

Olive seems to watch as we pull away.

Drunken chatter floods the bar, mixing with music sung in my father’s native tongue. A few of my brothers, basked in a red, demonic hue by the string of bulbs that run over the counter, turn our way as Sergey and I enter.

I take off my sunglasses as soon as the door closes, my eyes grateful for the dim lighting.

Sergey slaps me on my back as Pavel, a tall brother with cropped hair and three of his side teeth missing, raises his beer.

“Look what Sergey mopped up.” The gap in his teeth shows as he smiles wide. “Alik, join us.”

The two brothers he sits with toss a hesitant look my way before glaring at Pavel. Sergey joins them and beckons me that way, but I grab a stool at the other end of the bar and crack my neck, ignoring them when they protest.

My eyes find the hall to the office. If Nikita were here, he’d already have had me sent back. He must be on his way.

“What are you drinking?” the bartender asks. I don’t remember his name. It isn’t often that I come here.

I hold up my hand and shake my head. Just as he’s walking away, Sergey slides onto the stool next to me and leans in close, grasping my shoulder like he needs the leverage. Pavel appears at my other side.

“So is it true?” Sergey asks.

I point my eyes at his hand until he removes it from my shoulder. “Is what true?”

“Has Vitaly been released from prison?”

I tense at the name. Until last night, I hadn’t spoken of anything having to do with my old friend for years. Eight years, to be exact. Mentioning his name may as well be a crime within the Bratva, which is just as well for me because I have no desire to ever speak it again.

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

Nor would I care.

Good for him if he got out. If he didn’t, well, good for everyone else.

“You sure?” Pavel asks. “We figured you’d be the one Nikita would send to kill him.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And you don’t have plans to leave ?”

There’s so much interest in Sergey’s tone, he’s practically drooling for the gossip.

“If Nikita has plans to assassinate Vitaly, he hasn’t brought them to me, and I doubt he will. Nor would he need to.” My mouth dries, and I eye the bottles on the back shelf, regretting not getting a drink. “His nephew may have Petrov blood, but he’s a coward. He won’t be back.”

Of that, I am certain.

My lip curls as I see the image of my old friend in my mind. My eye burns from the memory of the contraption the men used on me due to a job that Vitaly talked me into, despite my repeated attempts at backing out. So much pain was felt that day, but it was nothing compared to the destruction the ripple effect caused.

I try to blink away the burn without looking strange, but I don’t know if I manage. I don’t know if either man could understand the phantom pain or how much I dislike talking about this man.

Yet I brought him up on my own last night, with Olive. When her image floats into my mind, it cools the burn and brings my attention to the notebook pressed against my abdomen. I don’t want to be here, talking about Vitaly when I could be reading Olive’s secrets. That’s far more appealing.

“Between you and me, some people may be disappointed to hear that,” Sergey says, his voice low.

His eyes lift, then he jerks away from me, quickly sliding off his stool and walking over to sit with the others. By the time I turn to face Nikita entering the bar, Pavel has scrambled away as well.

I stand and cup my hands in front of me while Nikita nods to the office, his lips in a thin line as he limps with his long, black trench coat fluttering behind him like a villainous cape.

I follow him to the office and shut the door behind me.

Nikita falls into the chair behind the desk with a sigh and pulls out a brick of coke from his coat before tossing it on the desk. He pulls out a pocket knife next to tear open the brown paper packaging and plastic.

After lining a trail of white powder on the tip of his knife, he holds it out to me.

Without hesitation, I take the blade and bring it to my nose, pressing a finger to the side of my nose to constrict one nostril while inhaling sharply with the other.

A rush of energy sweeps through me, and I give my head a shake to clear it, sniffing a few times to empty my sinuses of the white powder that seems to trickle down my throat.

It’s strong.

“Good?” Nikita asks, leaning back as he raises a brow.

I pinch my nose and nod.

“Good. It’s from a new supplier. I got a brick of H to try out as well, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate being the guinea pig for that. Unless it gives you and your junkie girlfriend something to bond over.”

“Excuse me?” My eyes widen as my chest puffs. I’ve already got adrenaline pumping through me from the coke, but his words poke at a dangerous part of me.

My defensiveness flares, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m not defensive for myself but for Olive. I don’t like him talking about her that way.

Junkie .

Isn’t that what I called her myself?

That was before last night. Before I understood her. Before I saw her.

Nikita’s lips spread into a smile as his hands splay. “It’s a joke, Alik. Jesus, relax .”

Nikita carefully arranges another line on the blade and snorts it, his head jolting up with a groan as he eyeballs the ceiling.

Flexing his jaw, he brings his head down to face me. “I was hard on you last night.”

I just stare, grinding my molars.

He gestures to the chair I’m standing next to with the wave of his hand, and I reluctantly sit.

“I know letting the princess go to the police was your idea and not Roman’s, and frankly, I’m disappointed in you for not telling me about it.”

He twirls the knife on the desk, digging a small hole with the tip, and if I didn’t know how to read him better, it would make me nervous. His moods give me whiplash, but I can sense when they’re dangerous and when they’re not. Right now, he isn’t angry, and I’m pretty sure it’s because he wants something from me.

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not a lieutenant. Roman wanted to be the one to tell you our plan with the girl.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

He smiles knowingly and lifts the blade from the wood, leaning back before twirling it in his palm. “Yes, you do. And if you lie when I ask you questions, how will I ever be able to trust you?”

“Before yesterday, you did trust me. My judgment was impaired, and your faith in me has been broken. That’s why Roman made the call and why Roman was the one in charge. You already know that, sir.”

He clasps the knife, halting it mid twirl to rest it on the desk. “I told you… Last night I was too hard on you. I think you made the right call, keeping the bitch alive.” He puts his hands behind his head and leans back. “Things seem to be working out.”

Why?

Has he heard something?

Have the Irish made plans to kill her?

No. I’ve been keeping tabs since last night. There’s nothing yet.

Still, I find discomfort settling in my legs. I want to shift them, but I stay still. She’s going to die. I already know that, and I accept it. Following her in the meantime hurts nothing and no one. Feeding the curiosity tugging at my brain interferes in no way with the plan. I told myself this when I tracked her by her cellphone, and I told myself this when I rented the hotel room next to hers. It’s curiosity. It’s fine. I don’t get curious often. I can indulge.

“In what way?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Any day now, the Irish will kill the girl, and the DEA will be off our backs. And hopefully, when that day comes, we can tell the Italians to kiss our asses.” He pats the new supply with a smile, but it soon falls. “But those, unfortunately, aren’t the last of our worries.”

I know before he can say the words.

Vitaly.

It’s true. He’s been released.

“The truth is, Alik, you never broke my trust. I trust you more than I trust anyone. And that’s why I’m going to give you intel you must not tell a soul. Understood?”

I nod.

He sighs, looking a decade older as his face falls like he’s just received news of a death in the family. Ironically, nothing would make him happier.

“I’m afraid my nephew has been released from prison.”

I don’t respond, but I can see him studying me. He wants to know if I already know.

“I haven’t been in touch with him,” Nikita goes on. “I thought if he wanted to reach out, he would. But…” He shrugs. “You know Vitaly. Family isn’t as important to him as it is to us.”

Us .

The Bratva.

It’s laughable, but it speaks to Vitaly’s disgusting lack of loyalty because it’s true.

But, of course, Nikita is lying. He would kill his nephew the second he got the chance, and I’d be shocked if most people didn’t know it.

“He hasn’t reached out to you, has he?” Nikita asks.

My eyes narrow at the question. It could be taken as disrespectful, but Nikita must not care because relief softens his features at my response.

“I didn’t think so, but I wanted to make sure.”

“Sir, if you’re worried about him coming back, don’t be. The Vitaly I know is too selfish to remember our existence.”

“But is he too selfish to remember the throne his father promised him?” Nikita looks at me seriously, his legs spread wide, hands gripping the arms of the chair. I can see the intent behind his eyes, and finally, I know what he wants from me.

Assurance of my loyalty.

Vitaly’s father was in line to be Pakhan, and his death coupled with Vitaly’s absence made Nikita the heir. If Vitaly returns, he could try to take Nikita’s place. Half the Bratva will be hoping for this scenario, worn down by Nikita’s brutality, and the other half wanted Vitaly executed eight years ago.

Nikita wants to know which camp I fall into.

On the one hand, I’ve pledged my loyalty to the Bratva Vitaly turned his back on long ago. On the other, he was once my closest friend. The only person in the world I called family.

Would my loyalty shift if Vitaly came back?

No. But it’s a non-issue. Because like I said, the Vitaly I knew is too selfish to care about his people. He left us once, throne and all. He isn’t coming back.

“It’s your throne now, sir.”

Nikita lets go of the chair, his eyes hooding on an exhale. “He burned you pretty badly, didn’t he?”

I nod.

He burned everyone.

But me? I have the scar to remember it.

“I want you to locate him,” Nikita says. “Look in Moscow first. When you find him, give our friends there a call.”

“And say what?”

Nikita’s lips pinch. “You know what.”

Kill him.

Of course I know. I should’ve known this was coming all along.

He wants my loyalty and my expertise.

At least I don’t have to go to Moscow. For the second time in my life, I’m grateful not to be the one to do a hit. And this is all within a matter of a few days.

Something is wrong with me.

“Of course, sir.” I dip my chin and stand, sensing this conversation is over.

“Alik?” Nikita stops me when I go to turn. “I don’t have to tell you that this stays between us.”

I open my mouth with another of course sir on my tongue, but I pause and decide to tell him what he really wants to hear.

“You can trust me, sir. My loyalty is to you.”

He stares at me a few long moments before nodding his dismissal.

I turn to leave the bar, giving a half-hearted nod to Sergey on my way out and declining when he offers me a ride. I don’t mind getting around on foot and by bus today. It’s what Olive’s doing.

I go back to my apartment and fire up my computer, but before I spend a second on Vitaly, I pull the notebook from my waistband. I slowly lower into my seat while flipping it open, sweet anticipation making my heart beat faster.

A familiar drawing of a flock of birds is on the first page, and when I run my hands over the feathers, I realize why it’s familiar. It’s the tattoo Olive has on her torso.

My fingertips rub the rough canvas while my eyes follow the flock. This isn’t a diary or even a notebook. It’s a sketchbook.

I flip to the next page to see a portrait of a little boy who lives two doors from me. He has a fake, toothy grin and is wearing a collared shirt. It looks like Olive sketched his school photo.

I turn a few more pages, admiring her handiwork of the people in our building. The woman with the purple lipstick. The man with the gold tooth. Our super who always has her hair in a frizzy ponytail.

Olive is good. Really good. An artist.

I’m enraptured by her talent, touching each lifelike character like I’m testing to see if they’re real, and when I come to my image, my hand pauses midair.

She drew me in black and white.

I stare at my image like I’m looking in a mirror. My lips are relaxed but unsmiling. My eyes the same. It looks more like a mugshot than the boy’s school photo.

I turn the page, expecting to see the next portrait, but it’s another drawing of me, only not just my upper half. I’m leaning out a window with a cigarette in my hand, my hair disheveled in the wind.

My squinted eyes drift to the window.

I flip the page to another drawing of me at the window. Then another. I have a different posture, my hair is slightly different, and I’m wearing a different shirt, but I always have a cigarette.

Has she been watching me?

Lifting the book, I carry it to the window and stare out at the street as if she’ll be there now. My brow is furrowed when I turn the page because this time, it can’t be an image she’s seen. It’s me in bed with a woman. We’re sleeping, her head on my chest, my arm around her. The woman’s tight curly hair lays over her shoulder, a barrette pinning it back so I see her face. And when I look closer, I recognize it.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, staring at an escort I slept with months ago.

I turn the page to see myself with another escort, only this time we aren’t sleeping. She’s riding me, our faces twisted with pleasure, and the only way I know Olive doesn’t have a camera in my bedroom is because she got the woman’s tits wrong. Her nipples were unusually large. This woman’s are perfect.

When I flip a few more pages, I find one with Olive and myself in her apartment, on her couch, my head between her legs. There’s a drawing of me posing fully nude for her, and I find myself trying to recall having a photo of this somewhere. I don’t. This is imagined. I can see her inaccuracies, the exaggerated hair on my chest, a tattoo on my hip that doesn’t exist. But it looks so … real.

The next page is of us together, and my cock hardens the instant my eyes land on her perky breasts, the same ones she gave inaccurately to the other woman. Only this time, I imagine she got it right. She worked from an image, a memory, a mirror .

My eyes gaze along her slender form like she’s right in front of me. Like I can come up behind her as I have in the photo, kiss her lips, arch my hips into her. Her shaved pussy makes my cock strain against my pants, and I have to remind myself this is a drawing.

Blinking, I rip the paper from the book, knowing I’ll want it later.

I hungrily rake my eyes over the next page. She wasn’t horny when she drew this one. It’s of me on the sidewalk, walking with my hands in my pockets and my eyes forward.

After thirty more pages, it finally stops. She used half a sketchbook on me.

It must’ve taken her months. At least several because that first escort was… Jesus, five months ago?

I shuffle through the last pages to make sure that’s the end of the book. When I spot a splash of red, I open the page.

My brows lift.

It’s our frizzy-haired super again… Dead.

She’s laying in a pool of her own blood leaking from her slit throat. Her lifeless eyes stare at a phone that’s just out of reach from her grasping hand.

… Okay.

The next few pages are more of the same. The neighbor with the purple lipstick and our super seem to be the main victims, but in the last photo, they’re laying among a crowd of dead people, all with their intestines pulled from their abdomens.

The next drawing is of Purple Lips holding her own head in her manicured hand, her pointed nails the same color as the blood smearing her blonde hair.

“Jesus Christ.”

I close the book and set it on my countertop. Her panicked face appears in my mind from when she burst through the church doors looking for the thief who took this, and now I understand the panic.

Olive Solace is a little bit crazy.