7. NIKOLAI
Chapter seven
I circled around the back of the building. This place was a total dump—cracked brick, busted vents, a fire escape that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades.
I paused beside a stack of wooden pallets, scanning the shadows. I wanted to get a better look at her living situation. I was also curious to see how she would react to my little chase.
Stepping onto the pallets, I jumped to the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder and hauled myself up, the sleeves of the jacket stretching taut against my straining biceps and back.
The fire escape was uncomfortably narrow, with a landing on every floor and a folding ladder between the floors. The rusted metal groaned under my boots. I moved up the ladders quickly, keeping my elbows in and placing my feet with care to avoid any weak spots.
It was dark back here in the alley. No lights, no cameras, no nosy neighbors sticking their heads out. Perfect.
I hit the top platform without a sound.
The fire escape landings stretched nearly all the way across the building’s back side, giving me access to 4B’s kitchen window on the left and a bedroom window on the right.
The kitchen window was cracked open just enough for me to hear what was going on inside. I crouched low, steadying myself, and watched.
Lyla opened the front door of the apartment, stepping directly into the living room.
Although she was a bit flushed from the run, she seemed surprisingly calm. She set her grocery bags on the Formica counter. The kitchen was the size of a prison cell, and it had the rundown vibe of one with yellow paint, dented fridge, and half-broken blinds. No curtains. But it was clean and tidy.
She didn’t notice me peering through the window—too busy putting away her groceries. Most went into the nearly empty fridge and small pantry, but she left out a package of ramen noodles, some crackers, and an apple.
No one should live like this—not even a reckless little brat who taunted predators. She didn’t have a clue how close she’d come to actually getting hurt by the monsters who’d been leering at her as she walked home.
After putting away her meager groceries, she filled a saucepan from the tap and fired up a burner on the stove. Then she turned toward the window. I didn’t move, and she walked right by. She still had no idea I was out here.
I stayed crouched in the shadows, barely breathing, my gaze locked on her as she bustled about in the tiny kitchen.
She was calm. Collected. Like she hadn’t just been chased half a block by a man who could snap her neck without breaking a sweat.
It should’ve rattled her. But she stood there now, pouring dry noodles into the water like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
While the ramen cooked, she rinsed and sliced the apple, and a few minutes later, she drained the pot, poured the noodles into a bowl, and perched on the counter to eat. There was no table in sight.
Then she turned to her backpack, which was sitting on the corner of the counter, and pulled out the book. Once again, she began to devour it as she ate.
Wide eyes, soft little lip bites.
Her thighs shifted. I became absorbed in her subtle, unconscious reactions to the book, loving how exposed she was to me from this angle. I caught every blush, every smile, every shift of her hips. I studied her lips as she took a sip of water and went back to reading, lost in the words.
The front door opened.
She startled, scrambling to return the book to her backpack.
A female voice called out, “Lyyyyyla! I’m dying. I had the worst day ever!” The woman, a tall brunette wearing all black, sniffed. “Hmm, did we ever find out if our stove’s possessed? Because it never works for me.”
I knew immediately who she was: Nat DeSoto. Lyla’s Roommate. Bartender. Tattoos over most of her skin. Born and raised in the Bronx.
“I made ramen,” Lyla said, hopping down from the counter. “But the stove didn’t hiss at me, so I’m guessing the demon’s asleep.”
Nat dropped her bag near the couch and kicked off her boots. “I’d sell my soul for chicken tikka right now.”
“Do it. Summon DoorDash.”
“I think I will. You want anything?”
“Nah, the noodles hit the spot. Plus, I had a big lunch.”
Nat drifted toward the kitchen, and I shifted slightly, angling for a better line of sight.
Lyla set her bowl in the sink and turned toward her roommate. “Boy, do I have a story for you,” she said, resting her hands on the counter and leaning toward Nat, who now stood across from her. “You’re not gonna believe what happened to me today.”
Finally, I might get a little insight into my girl.
“I’m listening,” Nat said, leaning one hip against the counter, her phone in hand. “Please distract me while I wait for my food.”
Lyla hopped back up on the counter, swinging her legs slightly. The movement was casual, but her eyes kept flicking toward the window. Her instincts were firing. If only she would learn to listen to them.
“So, yesterday,” she began, “this guy walks into Cipher. Big, Russian maybe? Black suit, no smile, full murdery glare. Gorgeous, but in that terrifying, I’ve-killed-people-and-would-do-it-again kind of way.”
Nat’s eyes widened. “Please tell me this ends in sex.”
“Not even close,” Lyla said, scoffing. “He didn’t even speak at first, just stared at me like I was gum on his shoe. Then, when I asked for his order, he gave me this look like I’d insulted his bloodline.”
I smirked. She wasn’t wrong.
“Then he had the audacity to command, ‘ Coffee. Black. To go. Hold the bullshit .’”
Nat’s head shot up from her phone. “No fucking way!”
“And you know me,” Lyla continued. “I don’t take that crap. So when I brought him his coffee, I oh-so-politely set it down and told him, ‘Here’s your cup of silence.’ Well, maybe not those exact words, but that was the gist.”
Nat whistled. “And?”
“He got all icy. Like, bone-chilling. He didn’t even lower his newspaper, and he shooed me away with his fingers like the biggest drama queen on Broadway.
You know I’ve waited on some rude New Yorkers, but this man was so over the top, he actually stunned me for a second, and I just stood there gaping at him.
I mean, honestly, what kind of person can be so arrogant? ”
Nat shook her head in disbelief.
“Oh, just wait. It gets so much worse,” Lyla said, crossing her arms and screwing up her face like she was about to explode.
“I guess he got annoyed that I didn’t just run away because he dropped the corner of his paper and—I kid you not—slow as hell gave me some condescending once-over.
And then he said”—she mimicked my Russian accent—“‘ Do all the girls from whatever backwoods shithole you crawled out of flap their mouths this much?’ ”
“No!”
“Yes.” Lyla flung a hand toward the ceiling. “Followed it up with a Possum Hollow Charm School reference,” she said, making air quotes. “I nearly climbed across the table.”
“What the actual—”
“So I let him have it. Told him he sounded like he had barbed wire caught in his throat and that he looked like a desperate Johnny Cash wannabe KGB reject with a murder fetish. I asked him if demeaning women was a cultural pastime where he came from.”
Nat clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling. “You did not .”
“Swear to God. I even called him Boris.”
“Okay, wait, this guy had to have been fuming .”
“Oh, he was. He told me I talk a lot for someone so ‘breakable .’
“Charming.” Nat blinked. “Like a damn movie villain.”
“Right? And then, cherry on top? He tells me I should be… fucked face-down until my mouth learns to stay busy and silent. ”
“WHAT?!” Nat gaped. “Oh my God, Lyla, that’s not just creepy, that’s straight-up assault vibes.”
“Tell me about it. I was ready to throw hands. But before I could, Carmine came storming out like I was the problem and sent me to the back. Didn’t even yell at him—just apologized like the guy was royalty.”
“So unbelievable,” Nat muttered.
“Yep. And then Mr. I-Think-I’m-Such-a-Badass came back this morning and sat in the back corner booth for nearly two hours.
Didn’t say a word to me. Just sat there drinking his coffee, eating his food, and hammering away on his computer like he owned the place.
I wasn’t allowed to talk to him—Carmine made sure I understood to stay clear of him—but I swear, I felt him watching me the entire time. Like a damn hawk.”
“What a fucking weirdo.”
Lyla paused and glanced at the window. Her body shuddered, and Nat frowned in concern.
“So, what happened next?”
“Well, this was when strange turned to bizarre,” Lyla said, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.
“After my shift, I had a bunch of errands to run, and I knew—I just knew —I was being followed. I had this constant prickle across my skin, like a sixth sense, screaming that someone was tracking my every step. I’d turn every so often, but no one was there. ”
Nat straightened. “Like…you think someone was really following you? Or was it just your anxiety playing tricks?”
Lyla shook her head. “No. Not just my anxiety. This was different. It was like…I don’t know, like he was hiding, waiting for the perfect moment to scare the hell out of me.
And then, right as I turned onto 47th, bam—he jumped out of the shadows and slammed his boot into a trash can like he was announcing my death.
Flicked a cigarette at my feet and grinned like the devil himself. ”
My lips twitched. I liked knowing I’d rattled her and left my mark without laying a finger on her.
Nat’s face paled. “God, Lyla, you’ve gotta report that shit. Was he high? That sounds psycho.”
“I don’t know,” Lyla said softly. “He looked…clean, I guess. Not like some drug addict. Just…intense. Like some kind of hit man. He was calm. Calculated. And definitely enjoying himself.”
“Then what happened?”
“I ran. Like full-on hauled ass —grocery bags and all. And I think I surprised him, because I’m pretty fast.”