Chapter 3
KIR
She’s like a paper doll in my arms as I carry her to the Aston Martin.
“ My…bag… ”
I pause mid-step, surprised when I hear her voice against my chest. Barely there. Hardly a whisper.
“Don’t worry about that,” I growl as I quicken my step. “I’m going to help you.”
“ Bag… ” she croaks again. “ Pearl…needs me. ”
My brow furrows. I have no idea who Pearl is. But clearly, she’s important to her, and the bag is somehow part of it.
So fuck it.
I make a slight detour, backtracking to where her bag is still lying in the middle of the street behind The Mirage.
I easily hold her with one arm as I reach down to pick the tattered old thing up.
For one horrible second, I wonder if Pearl is a fucking pet that she had in there.
But a quick glance puts that idea to rest.
At the car, I gently get her settled in the passenger seat and buckle her in, her precious bag at her feet. She’s unconscious again, her face still too matted with blood and hair for me to see it clearly. But I let my gaze drag over the rest of her.
Then I shrug off my jacket and cover her nudity.
Not that she doesn’t have exquisite tits. But this is hardly the time or place.
My brows knit as I skim my eyes over her again.
Sneakers. Slightly punk skirt. A plain white scoop neck t-shirt, now mostly ripped off her.
No stilettos, G-string, or fishnets. She’s obviously not one of the girls who works at The Mirage. Which begs the question, what the fuck was she doing hanging around out back of the place, where wastes of oxygen like those four motherfuckers could find her and try to hurt her like that?
My jaw tightens when my gaze drifts back over her raw knees, scraped palms, and bloodied face.
Not try .
They did hurt her.
The cut on her forehead is superficial, but heads bleed a lot. In any case, she needs to be seen by someone. So without any more overthinking on my part, I shut her door, walk around to my side, then slide in and start the engine.
The Aston Martin rumbles like a stealth fighter as I pull out into the night and start tapping NYU Langone Medical into the dashboard GPS.
The girl mumbles something, her mouth barely moving as her head lolls.
“Just relax, babygirl.” I glance at her, then back to the road. “I’m taking you to the hospital. They’ll get you fixed up, and then you can talk to the police about?—”
“ No …”
The word tumbles out of her mouth just as her shoulders slump back against the seat, like it took the last of her strength to push it over her lips.
“ No…police. ”
I shouldn’t have gotten involved. And it’s not that I regret it now that I have , but this is quickly becoming something I wasn’t expecting or prepared for.
“It’s okay,” I growl, glancing at her again. “You won’t have to face the guys who attacked you. But the police can put together some composite sketches, and call that club back there to check security footage?—”
“ No police… ” Her head loosely flops side to side, her eyes still closed. “ Please… ”
My jaw ticks. A piece of the puzzle slides into place, tugging at me as I glance over at her again, her small frame illuminated by the glow of the dashboard.
I’ve been where she is. Before the power, and the money, I’ve been there : hurt, broken, beaten down, and knowing that the police weren’t an option.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m getting into with this. But for whatever reason, she doesn’t want the scrutiny that will come with going to the cops. And if she goes to hospital looking like this?
They will get involved.
I take a slow, deep breath.
Fuck it .
I tap the map on my touchscreen again, switching destinations. I stomp on the brakes and pull a U-turn in the middle of the street before I roar off in a different direction.
She needs help.
I’m going to give it to her.
The gates to my sweeping estate in the Bronx swing open before I even come to a stop. I glide up the long, white gravel driveway, and then head around to the back of the main house.
“Something you’d like to tell me, boss?”
Isaak’s voice rumbles from behind me as I lean into the passenger side and gather the girl in my arms. I lift her easily and turn to face my number two. His brow arches eloquently as his gaze drops to the unconscious girl in my arms.
“Nope.”
His gaze drags back up to mine.
“You’re…sure.”
“ Quite ,” I grunt. “But if you could bring a medical kit to the guest room, that’d be great.”
“Which guest room?”
Fair question. It’s a ten-bedroom home.
“Second floor, first at the top of the stairs.”
Isaak nods, glances at the girl again, then heads inside. I follow, but where he veers toward the storage room off the main kitchen, I head for the stairs. She’s still totally out of it as I climb them, holding her frame in my arms carefully, like I might break her if I walk too fast.
Inside the guest room, I lay her gently down on the bed, my jacket still covering her. I’m wetting a washcloth in the adjacent bathroom when there’s a knock at the bedroom door. Isaak steps in holding the medical kit and glances at me as he sets it down on the bedside table.
“I have to ask?—”
“No, you don’t.”
He frowns. “Kir?—”
“I stepped into something I probably shouldn’t have,” I growl. “And now I’m following through. That’ll be all, Isaak.”
He glares at me. “I’m not your butler,” he grumbles.
“Then you can stop standing around like you’re waiting to take my drink order.”
Isaak rolls his eyes. “For the record…” He glances down at the girl. “I think this—whatever it is—is a bad idea.”
“Noted. Good night , Isaak.”
When he’s gone, I sit on the edge of the bed and gently bring the washcloth to her forehead. She barely stirs as I dab at the cut on her forehead. It’s not that bad. She won’t even need stitches. But again, head wounds bleed a lot .
Slowly, I start to clean the dried blood from her face, pulling her matted blonde hair free as I go.
She’s like a beautiful little broken doll.
I dab the washcloth against the last matted lock of hair, freeing it from the crusted blood before I gently push it aside, finally revealing her face.
Instantly, I go still.
Because I suddenly realize the broken doll has a name, and it’s Brooklyn Ellis.
I know her .
Not well or personally, that is. We’ve hardly ever even spoken before. But I do own the Mercury Theatre and the Zakharova Ballet, with whom she dances.
From what I’ve seen, she appears relatively normal. She’s definitely a fantastic dancer. And I know for sure she doesn’t come from a mafia family, unlike most of the girls she tends to hang out with at the Zakharova.
So why in God’s name was she in that part of town, loitering behind a fucking strip club, attracting that sort of attention? And why the fuck —and I can’t overstate this enough—was this completely normal girl, with no ties to any mafia families, so insistent on “no police”?
I purse my lips, scanning the swelling on her cheekbone, the split at the corner of her mouth, and the cut on her forehead, which has stopped bleeding by now, thank Christ.
Her hands are scraped raw. Her knees are bloody.
Whatever her reasons for both, she’s not going to be answering any questions while she’s out cold.
Time to get to work.
I’m more than well-versed in basic first aid: what I didn’t learn in Moscow, I got a crash course in during my stint at the penal camp when I was barely a teenager.
Knowing how to ice down bruises and stitch up basic cuts came in handy later on, when the boys at my private school realized I wasn’t like them and didn’t come from generational wealth that could be traced back hundreds of years.
I start with the cut on her forehead, cleaning it with antiseptic and then keeping it closed with a butterfly bandage, then putting some soft gauze on top of that. I get to work on her hands next, then her knees. Frowning, I pull my custom-tailored jacket off her body and set it on the bed.
The Moscow streets taught me pride and honor. Siberia taught me never to lose. Private school and then Oxford taught me that clothes do , in fact, make the man.
I take a pair of shears from the med kit and start cutting her ripped shirt from her body. Her bra is torn, so I cut that away too.
No, not to sneak a peek or cop a feel. I mean she’s, what, fucking twenty-one? Twenty-two?
Gorgeous, with a lean, toned, dancer’s body.
Pert, handful-sized breasts. Pink nipples. Soft skin.
My jaw tightens as I toss the shears away and use the washcloth to cover her chest a bit, reminding myself this isn’t a fucking peep show.
I unzip and pull her skirt off next, again , not so my eyes can roam all over her body, but to make sure there aren’t any other injuries I haven’t noticed.
Sure enough, I catch another cut on her shoulder and tape that up, as well as a scrape on her hip just above the waist of her black panties that’s quickly bruising.
My jaw stays locked as I tape that up, too, ignoring my proximity to her warm body, covered only by the washcloth and little black thong.
As I pull back from bandaging her hip, my brow furrows deeply. I finally allow my gaze to roam over her body as black fury begins to swell inside me.
The head, knees, hands, shoulder, and hip are from tonight.
The other bruises are older.
The one on her elbow, in the clear shape of a handprint. The ugly greenish-purple mark on her stomach, near her ribs.
The bruising at her temple looks fresh, but not so fresh that it’s from tonight.
A lethal coldness seeps into my veins as I pull my gaze back up to her sleeping face, her eyes fluttering slightly behind closed lids.
Who the fuck hurts you .
I don’t know. But with a flash, I realize finding out has just become my single most important mission in life.