32. Ivan

32

IVAN

I n the aftermath, I can't help but wonder if I made it all worse.

When I came out to find Charlotte gone, I lost my mind a little. I followed her, determined to get her back for running off, determined to make her stop running from everything . And I got what I needed.

I think we both did. But I can tell that she's still struggling to accept it.

She's quiet when we get back to the motel. For the first time, we shower together, squeezing into the small space, and I want to joke about how much more space there would have been for this back at the Wynn. But I don't, because I'm not sure if that kind of joke is a good idea right now.

Instead, I help her clean up, trying to show her by the way I touch her, the way I look at her, how I feel. That I meant everything I said. I don't make up a bed on the floor—instead, I slide in next to her, resting my hand gently on her hip over the blankets. Charlotte doesn't push it away—but she also doesn't say anything.

She's overwhelmed. I can empathize with that. But when we get in the cab the next morning to head to the meeting with my contact, she's still only said a handful of words to me. And my chest feels tight, wondering if, by the end of the day, she'll be gone.

Loving her doesn't entitle me to have her. I know that. But I'd hoped that confession would change something. I'd hoped that what we did in the house of mirrors would be catharsis for the past, enough to open up the possibility of a future.

I'm not sure that's going to be the case.

We meet my contact in a residential house, on the far side of the older Vegas district. We're right on time, and I knock twice, sharply, Charlotte standing silently right behind me. I'm not sure what she expected, but I hear her quick intake of breath when the door opens, and a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair, dressed very much like an accountant, opens the door.

"I go by Dave," he says, as he steps back and lets us in. "At least right now. You can call me that."

"I'm—" Charlotte starts to say, and Dave shakes his head, holding up a hand.

"You're here to get new identities. Don't tell me your old one. I know Ivan here because I've known him for years. But you—don't tell me anything I don't need to know."

"Of course." Charlotte blushes, clearly embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry, either. Come on."

Dave leads us back into an office, near the back of the house. He sits down at a wooden desk, pulling out two folders. "Here." He slides them across the desk to us, one in front of each. Charlotte reaches for hers, her hands visibly trembling.

She opens it, and I see her lips press together. I glance at mine, making sure everything is in order, and then push the cash across the desk to Dave. Charlotte glances at the rolls of bills, and her eyes widen, but she doesn't say anything.

"It's all there," Dave says, before he takes the money. "New passports, social security, birth certificates, everything you could need to start a new life wherever. All as official as you please."

Charlotte swallows hard, and nods, clearly speechless. I stand up, taking the documents, and slip them into my pocket, handing him back the now-empty envelope. "Thanks." I give him a tight smile. "Probably the last you'll hear from me for a while. If not for good."

"Shame." Dave stands, too, and Charlotte slowly rises as well. "It was nice knowing you. Nice to meet you too," he adds to Charlotte. "Briefly."

She nods, stepping away from the desk. I start to walk towards the door, and halfway there, I hear her footsteps pause, and the sound of Dave speaking quietly.

"I dunno what you two have going on, or what's planned after this," he murmurs. "But he's a good guy. Or he tries to be, anyway."

"I don't know about that," Charlotte says quietly, and Dave chuckles.

"Girl, only a man who wants to be better than he is now works against the Bratva for the FBI. I don't think you know what they'd've done to him if they caught him, but it sure wouldn't have been good. There's a lot of ways to keep a man alive with very little skin on him, if you know what I mean."

"I don't?—"

"Good. All I'm saying is—Ivan there has tried hard to make up for what they made him. If you wanna be a part of that, you shouldn't feel bad about it. That's all."

I hear the creak of him settling back in his chair, and Charlotte's footsteps quickly catching up to me. She doesn't say anything until we're outside and a good distance from the house, and then she glances over at me, blowing out a sharp breath between pursed lips.

"So—that's it." She looks uncertain, and I can tell that she has no idea what comes next.

"What name is on your new identification?" I look at her curiously, and Charlotte blinks, the uncertainty on her face growing.

"Should I tell you that? I mean?—"

That sharp pain, one that I've become more accustomed to than I ever thought I would, jabs at my chest again. If she doesn't want to tell me, then that means that nothing has changed about her leaving. She's still going to walk away from me. And there's nothing I can do about it.

"No. You probably shouldn't."

The words come out sharper than I mean for them to, and I see Charlotte flinch a little. I don't want to hurt her, but the thought that after everything, nothing has changed, cuts like a knife.

"Charlotte—"

My voice is lost in the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot, and a hot, searing pain lances through my shoulder. Charlotte screams, and I duck forward, grabbing her as I start to run despite the pain.

"What's happening?—"

"I don't know! Just run!"

Charlotte clings to my arm, both of us bolting down the street. I hear another bullet ping against the sidewalk, another striking the side of a building far too close to us, but I don't dare stop. I don't dare look back to see if it's Lev, or the FBI, or someone else who my father has sent, even as I hear the sound of boots hitting the concrete behind us. They sound close, but there's no time to find out for sure Further off, I hear the sound of a car engine revving, and my gut clenches, wondering if there's shortly going to be even more on us.

Another hot slice rips across my side, and I cry out, feeling my arm and my side start to grow wet with blood. I'm not sure how badly I'm bleeding, or if a bullet has lodged in me, or how badly I'm injured. But I know we need to get out of here.

"Get a cab," I tell Charlotte, and my voice sounds hoarse and wheezy, alarmingly so. "Get?—"

Another bullet pings nearby, and Charlotte screams, her arm still locked around me as she looks around wildly. A cab is coming around the corner, and she waves at it, both of us moving down the sidewalk to meet it. The driver's eyes widen as he sees us, and he starts to turn, but Charlotte bolts out in front of the taxi, forcing him to slam on the brakes.

"We'll pay you whatever you want," she gasps out. "Whatever. Just get us out of here."

"Five thousand," the driver spits out, looking wild-eyed at something behind us. "Cash."

He's putting out what he thinks is an impossible number, I know that. Expecting us to gape at him so he can veer off and drive away, leaving us to our fate. But I nod, gasping as I lean against the door. "Done," I rasp, and the driver's eyes widen even further.

"Fine. Get in."

The sound of footsteps are closer as Charlotte yanks open the door, jumping into the taxi. She twists around, helping me in as more bullets pepper the sidewalk, and the driver slams on the gas, jolting forward as Charlotte yanks me into the car. She reaches over, hauling the door closed, and I feel the world tilting around me as the driver speeds down the road.

"Where to?" he snaps. "Give me the money, now!"

"In my—pocket." Speaking seems to be harder. I know that's not good, but I push away the thought, trying to focus on the here and now. On keeping Charlotte safe.

That's all I've wanted, all this time.

Charlotte reaches into my pocket, pulling out a roll of cash. She flips through it, tossing it into the passenger's seat before pulling out another, and throwing it to join the first. "There," she snaps. "Five grand." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that the money is bloody, but the driver doesn't seem to be complaining about that, at least.

Somewhere in the back of my slowly fading consciousness, I'm immeasurably proud of her. She's tougher than even I ever gave her credit for, and even in this terrifying moment, she's holding it together.

She didn't leave me, either. Even though she could have.

The driver shouts again, asking where we're going. I open my mouth, trying to give him a place, but I can't speak. The pain is overwhelming, and I can feel the blood soaking my clothes. Dizziness washes over me, and I look up at Charlotte, her face swimming in front of my eyes.

"I—love you," I manage hoarsely. "I'm—sorry. You made me—happy. But I dragged you—into—this. You were never—meant for—it. I'm—sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she says softly, so dimly that I wonder if I actually heard it at all. There's a roaring in my ears, and I feel her hand on my face, but I'm going numb at the same time, and my vision narrows.

The cab lurches around a corner, and everything goes dark.