19. Nik

19

I made a grave mistake.

I was wrong.

I was so fucking wrong.

When Kat left me—not even bothering to glance back at me as she sauntered away, happily stomping my heart into a billion broken pieces—I was initially stunned and devastated.

Then, my distress gave way to anger. And my anger burned hot, boiling over and scorching everything in its warpath.

For so long, I held back, striving, for some reason, to be better than my baser nature. I denied myself the simple pleasure of surrendering to my instincts instead of worrying about pleasing a self-absorbed, untrustworthy woman. So if Kat wanted to leave me, that was fine with me. I had one less problem to worry about.

If she thought she was better than me, that was her mistake. I certainly didn't intend to mope around the place, suffering for a woman who didn't seem to give a fuck about what she was giving up on. Someone who couldn't be trusted to provide you the day of the week, let alone anything of actual significance.

If Kat wanted to end things, it was my pleasure to show her the door. Her loss would be my gain, I was sure—eventually.

Good riddance, I had thought to myself.

But then, night came.

Inevitably, as the hustling and bustling around the penthouse slowed down as my house staff ended their shifts and my men left to attend to theirs, I grew restless. Even worse, when the lights were dimmed, and all the noise went away, I grew lonely. I became painfully aware of all that I was lacking. Of my neediness. Not just for any company—which could too easily be arranged, especially of the female kind. No, my need was specific and unmistakable. Unavoidable and irresistible, too. With big, blue eyes and legs that go on for miles.

Big fucking deal, I told myself then. It wasn't the first time in my life that I craved or needed something I couldn't have. It probably wouldn't be the last.

So I didn't feel as good as I thought I should after this whole break-up nonsense. Who cares? It didn't have to mean anything unless I let it mean something.

So I turned on the news for background noise and listened to music once the TV's cacophony started to annoy me. After that, I exercised. Then, I worked. Long story short, I handled it—as I always do.

But then, the night grew late, and invariably, I had to try to sleep, which traditionally involves going to bed. As in, the bed I shared with Kat, where every morning I watched her sleep until she woke up and offered me her lazy—and seductive—smile. It was the bed where Kat and I fucked and made love to each other. On that bed, after, we held each other, whispering inside jokes and never-before-told secrets.

And that, as it turned out, was more than I could handle.

Still, I persevered. There were, after all, other bedrooms in this cavernous penthouse. And if none of them did the trick, there were always hotels or other houses and apartments.

Never—not even for a moment—did I entertain the idea of simply getting rid of the damn piece of furniture.

Shamefully, if the housekeepers hadn't replaced the covers before I could stop them, I'd have probably ordered that the sheets be left undisturbed. After all, Kat's scent would soon fade away forever.

Unthinkably, soon, it would be as if Kat had never been in my life.

To my great embarrassment, I eventually succumbed to the urge to cling to the remaining traces of Kat's presence in my world. It didn't take long for me to sink back under the covers that had once caressed her skin. After that, there was no point in stopping myself from doing what I craved, so I gorged myself on the breathtaking, luxurious fragrance her presence had left in my bed.

I didn't even dare move anything that Kat had left behind. Her makeup, her clothes, even her fucking toothbrush… Painstakingly, I ensured it all remained just as she had left it. God forbid I inconvenience her by misplacing her belongings—as if she might return at any moment.

It—I—was pathetic, and I knew it. Others knew it, too. Dmitri, in particular, seemed remarkably worried. It didn't matter. I didn't even care enough to pretend it did. Kat was gone, likely forever, and I couldn't give less of a fuck about anything except thoroughly enjoying the remnants of our time together—no matter how fleeting.

Soon after that, I stopped even bothering to leave my room. On my worst days, I barely got out of bed.

Because that's what they are now—my bed and my room. Not ours. Not anymore.

Now, instead of wasting my time and energy doing things I don't care about with people who don't matter, I spend the long days and nights with my memories of Kat. Over and over again, I fondly recall the first night we met and how impossibly mesmerizing she was in that velvet dress.

Repeatedly, I remember the night she desperately clung to me as I did my best to comfort her through her nightmare. I never even learned what it was about.

I can never forget that day on Yuri's plane, when he took us on that aerobatic flight. The way Kat giggled as we became weightless is forever branded on my brain… Just like the earthshaking way she kissed me after.

Of course, there's one thing I wish I could forget in its entirety: the stupidly reckless, heartbreakingly brave woman who retrieved my diamond from Giuseppe Salvatore himself.

Try as I might, I struggle to accept that the incredible person starring in these precious memories is one and the same with the one who deliberately misled me and lied to me. But I know it's the truth.

I guess I should feel thankful for the opportunity to escape this messy situation relatively unharmed. Instead, I can only think about how I'll never again feel Kat's soft skin under my fingertips or breathe in the scent of her freshly washed hair. I won't ever get to sink deep into the deep blue ocean of her eyes again, or hear the breathy, throaty way she gasps my name right before she climaxes.

Hurricane Kat and the devastating emotional turmoil she evokes in me might be a thing of the past. She might never be in my life again. Without a doubt, it would mean that happiness would always and forever remain out of reach for me.

Forget about living a happy life—I'm not sure I'd have it in me to go on at all if that's how the rest of my life will be. I fail to see a reason to if Kat won't be in it. The bratva, Dmitri… None of it could be enough. The prospect of living out the rest of my days without the slightest possibility of Kat being in them is bleak and unthinkable.

There must be another way. Somehow.

The alternative is just inconceivable.

I have more money and power than I could ever have dreamed of, and yet, what I truly need is just out of reach. I can't go back in time and stop myself from breaking Kat's trust. She relied on me to keep her safe and care for her, as I promised her I would. And I failed her so thoroughly.

In the end, I was the one who didn't keep his word, the one who didn't deserve to be trusted. The irony of that isn't lost on me.

All along, Kat was true. Through it all, she only cared about was protecting others, including me. She constantly put me and those she loves above her interests, and I repaid her selflessness with betrayal and selfishness.

At the slightest hint of uncertainty, I transformed into Kat's worst nightmare: a possessive, controlling, and unreasonable tyrant. I let my past and my fears block my ability to trust. Despite everything Kat did for me and all I learned about her heart, I couldn't stop myself.

Even if I'm unlucky enough to live to a hundred years old, I will never forgive myself for what I did to her. It would be a miserable, unbearable existence, and it would still be less than what I deserve.

Unfortunately, even though I know with absolute certainty that I will never, ever be worthy of Kat's forgiveness, I'm too much of a selfish bastard to stop trying to get it. The only other thing I know for sure is that I can't waste more time than I already have. I've lost so much already. I can't lose her, too.

So I call her. Repeatedly. All along, I worry that my damned epiphany may have come a little too late. The incredible feat of winning her back might be impossible at this point. But I will try anyway, for as long as it takes. Even if Kat never takes me back, I'll still keep trying. I will never give up on us—not as long as there is anything left in me.

Around the time I reach over fifty unanswered calls, it becomes obvious to me that Kat'll never pick up the phone or call me back.

Naturally, that was when I decided to track her phone's location, thinking it might be time for us to speak in person. Admittedly, it feels a bit stalker-ish, but I don't let this bother me for too long. Compared to all the horrible things I've done, this one barely registers. It doesn't even break the top one hundred. Very mild, indeed.

For the first time in days, I'm eager to get out of bed. After quickly showering and dressing, I race downstairs to my car. Then I race to her, frustrated beyond measure by the daytime traffic. I knew I should've taken the chopper, but I didn't want to wait for it to be readied.

I rush to get to her, driving as fast as possible. But someone else beat me there. The door to Kat's apartment is wide open. As I stand outside, I hear somebody ruffling through her belongings.

Intrigued, I step inside the apartment, carefully avoiding announcing my presence to the mysterious individual by making too much noise.

Usually, nothing would have delighted me more than thoroughly examining Kat's place and the things that make it her home. But as I observe the ransacked state of the living room and the strange woman inside it, snooping around is the last thing on my mind.

The woman has her back turned to me, so I can see nothing but her light-colored sweater and jeans, plus the back of her blonde head. She turns around and gasps, startled by seeing me.

"Who the fuck are you?" she asks, breathlessly clutching her chest.

"Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you? Where's Kat?"

She huffs indignantly. "That's what I would like to know, too." While narrowing her brown eyes at me, she says, "And, unlike you, I am a concerned party with the keys to this place and a right to be here. I will only ask you one more time, mister. Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?"

I'm tempted to call her bluff, but I let go of the idea. The last thing I need is to antagonize this woman. In fact, getting her on my side would be an impressive coup in my current circumstances.

"You must be A.J.," I say under my breath. I hold my hand out to her. "My name is Nikolai Stefanovich. I'm looking for Kat."

A.J. raises her eyebrows so high I'm mildly surprised they don't disappear behind her bangs. With a scowl, she shakes my hand. "Oh, I bet you are, Nikolai."

Her tone surprises me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I think you know. I've heard all about you."

I laugh humorlessly. "I sure hope not."

"Obviously. And I don't blame you. If I were you, I'd be embarrassed, too."

I spot a cell phone on the floor, just outside the kitchen. Wordlessly, I walk towards it and pick it up. "No wonder Kat didn't answer my calls," I say.

A.J. gasps over my shoulder. "Shit."

I turn to look at her. "What is it? Tell me," I ask.

A.J. needs no further encouragement, talking a mile a minute. "The reason I came here in the first place is because I was on the phone with Kat—sharing some pretty spectacular news, by the way—when she just became unresponsive. The call dropped. I called back a bunch of times, but she never picked it up. She never called me back, either. That's not like her. I just had a bad feeling about it."

I have a bad feeling, too.

"Tell me everything you discussed with her," I say with urgency. A.J. hesitates, and I ask, "Is this about Salvatore?"

Eyes wide, she gasps before scanning me from head to toe. "You know about the stronzo?" she asks, sounding surprised.

I frown, puzzled. "Who?"

"Giuseppe Salvatore. The Italian family boss. Kat and I call him the stronzo. It means asshole in Italian. Did she tell you about him?"

I nod. "Yes. I know about the fucker. Were you two discussing him?"

A.J. shrugs. "In a way. Earlier today, I finally got my hands on the motherlode—a couple of boxes of records concerning his dirty little secret. As I'm sure you're aware, the stronzo is only the boss of the Italian family by the grace of his good wife, Gianna. If her father hadn't passed the mantle to his daughter's worthless husband before dying, maybe we'd never have the displeasure of dealing with him. You'd think that would keep him from straying, right? But it didn't. Rumors have always run amok, but until recently, they were just that—rumors. Until today. I'm proud to say that I now have hard proof of his misstep. And I'm not afraid to use it, trust me. As soon as I find Kat, my next move will be to let Gianna Salvatore know all about her husband's love child, this guy named Dmitri Ivashkov."

My heart screeches to a halt inside my chest, painfully contracting. "What did you just say?" I ask, holding my breath.

"I said I have to find Kat ASAP so I can pay Gianna a call. Then maybe Kat and I will go to Ibiza. You're not invited, of course, and?—"

"No, the son's name. What did you say it was?"

"Oh," A.J. says, blinking. "It's Dmitri Ivashkov. Why? Do you know him? I didn't want to be rude and ask you outright. I didn't want to imply that all Russians know each other or anything like that."

"You must've heard it wrong," I say. "The name. That's not him. It can't be."

A.J. shakes her head. "Nope. I'm sure of it. Dmitri Ivashkov. Early twenties, super hot in a himbo kind of way. His mother was one Elena Ivashkov. The stronzo unfailingly sent them money every month for over eighteen years. I have tons of other stuff, too. Trust me, it's him. I can back it up. Here, take a look."

A.J. hands me her cell phone, and, to my horror, I verify she is right. She opens file after file, photo after photo, and the documentation is undeniable. Dmitri is the son of Giuseppe Salvatore, the Italian family's hateful boss.

After handing the phone back to A.J., I stare blankly ahead, unseeing. I can't believe this, and yet…

I pick up my phone and call Dmitri, the man I love like a brother. To my dismay, he doesn't answer. I call Vladmir then. Maybe there's an explanation for this whole madness…

Vladmir picks up at the first ring. "Nikolai," he says.

Not wasting time with pleasantries, I ask, "Is Dmitri with you?"

After a brief pause, Vladmir says, "No. I've been wondering where he is. He was supposed to meet me an hour ago, but he hasn't shown up and isn't picking up his phone. No one's seen or heard from him since early this morning."

No, Dmitri. Not you. Anybody but you.

"Okay. If you see or hear from him, call me immediately. In the meantime, I need you to stop whatever you're doing and find him for me. Text me his phone's last known location as soon as possible."

After Vladmir acknowledges my orders, I hang up.

I turn to A.J. "Is there somewhere safe you could go to?" I ask. "If not, I'll drop you off at my home. You can wait there until I bring Kat back. You'll be completely safe."

She scowls. "What are you talking about? What's going on here? If you know Kat's whereabouts, you must tell me right now. And you're not dropping me off anywhere. Not a chance. If you're going to search for her, then I'm coming with you."

The last thing I need right now is someone else to worry about, but I don't have time to argue with her. So, with a sigh, I relent. I shut my eyes for a moment, steeling myself for what will follow next.

I finally understand it now. It all makes sense. At last.

Once again, Kat was right. As always.

McGuire never had anything to do with Maxim's untimely demise. He didn't kill my best friend.

Dmitri did.